Genre : dark romance, angst with happy ending, slow burn, mafia au, fbi au, suspense, eventual smut.
Pairing : mafialeader!mingi x fbiagent!reader
Synopsis : Her mission was simple: infiltrate his empire, earn his trust and kill him. But falling in love with the city's most dangerous mafia boss was never part of the plan.
The rhythmic drumming of the storm filled the fortified briefing room as silver rain washed down the panoramic windows, blurring the sprawling metropolis into a distorted canvas of fractured neon.
From the heights of FBI Headquarters, the city lost its illusion of greatness. Y/N stood motionless before the chilled glass, her hands buried deep inside the pockets of her dark cashmere coat. She had been summoned to the Directorâs office without a preliminary briefing, an anomaly that set her instincts on edge. Behind her, the reinforced mahogany door clicked open with deliberate precision.
"You came quickly." The voice carried the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.
She turned slowly, her expression settling into a carefully crafted mask of indifference. The Director entered with measured steps, his charcoal suit impeccably tailored. He stopped near the panoramic window, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.
"I have a job for you." His voice was calm, completely devoid of inflection. A heavy-stock manila file landed on the polished desk with a dull thud. Unlike every classified dossier she had ever seen, this one was completely unmarked, except for a single pitch-black chess king embossed into the center of the cover.
Y/N stepped forward, her fingertips grazing the raised emblem. "I have never seen this symbol before."
"You weren't supposed to." The Director's gaze lingered on the black chess piece. "We have been trying to eliminate him for a decade. Poison. Snipers. Deep-cover infiltration. Every operation has ended the same way, in failure."
She opened the file. A high-resolution surveillance photograph showed an impossibly tall, broad-shouldered man emerging from a black armored Maybach. His features were striking, but his dark, bottomless eyes were entirely predatory.
SONG MINGI
Chief Executive Officer
Billionaire
Philanthropist
The next page stripped away every illusion.
Organized crime
Covert arms trafficking
Contract killings
He was the undisputed leader of the city's most powerful Mafia syndicate, but legally, he remained an untouchable CEO.
"He is disciplined and patient." The Director watched her study the file. "His inner circle has never been breached."
"So what do you need me for?"
"For the first time in six years, he has fired his executive assistant." He reached inside his jacket, sliding a thicker folder across the desk.
Inside was the flawless blueprint of a fabricated life. A forged passport. An Ivy League diploma.
"Starting today, you stop being Agent Y/N." The Director stepped closer. "Your name is Evelyn Park. You will become the woman Song Mingi chooses to trust. You will manage his schedule, pour his coffee and stand beside him until your presence becomes second nature. You will embed yourself so deeply into his life that he will no longer remember what it was like before you."
The rain hammered relentlessly against the windows.
"If earning his trust requires deception, then deceive him. If it requires seduction, then seduce him." He commanded without hesitation. "And when the moment comes..." His gaze hardened into steel. "You kill him."
***
Morning arrived with deceptive tranquility. The storm that had swallowed the city had vanished without a trace, leaving clear skies and gleaming skyscrapers that reflected the early sunlight like polished mirrors. From a distance, the financial district looked pristine, but Y/N knew better.
She stood across the street from Song Industries, her eyes traveling slowly over the towering glass façade. Forty-three floors. Three public entrances. Two underground parking levels. Eight visible security cameras surrounding the main entrance.
The hidden ones were the ones that mattered.
She adjusted the strap of her leather handbag, before glancing at her reflection in the tinted window of a parked black car. Gone was the FBI agent. Her dark hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders. A cream silk blouse disappeared beneath a tailored beige blazer. Minimal jewelry. Light makeup. Everything about Evelyn Park had been carefully engineered to be forgettable.
The revolving doors welcomed her into a lobby that radiated understated luxury. White marble stretched beneath her feet and an enormous crystal chandelier hung overhead. Employees hurried from one elevator to another, but no one looked at her twice.
The reception desk occupied the center of the lobby. A woman dressed in an immaculate navy suit offered her a polite smile.
"Good morning. How may I help you?" She asked.
"I am here for the executive assistant interview." Y/N replied.
"Your name?" The receptionist prompted.
"Evelyn Park." Y/N answered.
The receptionist typed for a few seconds, before nodding. "May I see your identification?" She requested.
Y/N handed over her forged driver's license without the slightest hesitation. Never move too quickly. Never move too slowly. People noticed both.
"Everything looks good. Please wear this visitor badge." The receptionist returned the card. "Thirty-seventh floor. Conference Room B."
As she turned toward the elevators, she became aware of the eyes. Two security guards stood near the entrance, pretending to converse, but they were discreetly watching every movement in the lobby. Security. Watching without appearing to watch.
Dark walnut panels lined the corridor, the atmosphere changing immediately. Downstairs had felt like a corporation, but up here felt like a fortress. A woman with silver-framed glasses approached the group.
"Good morning. My name is Ms. Han." She offered a practiced smile. "Mr. Song values punctuality above almost everything else. You are all early." Nobody answered. "Please, follow me." She gestured toward the conference room.
Eight candidates took their seats. Y/N chose somewhere in the middle. Forgettable. Exactly where Evelyn Park belonged. Ms. Han distributed identical folders across the table.
"The first assessment is simple." She announced.
Y/N opened hers, before her heartbeat slowed. Typing exercises. Scheduling conflicts. Executive correspondence. Nothing difficult, but one page caught her attention. A color-coded weekly calendar. It was exactly the same format the Bureau had shown her less than twenty-four hours earlier. It wasn't just a test of organization. It was the first glimpse into the life she intended to infiltrate.
Y/N lowered her eyes to the page. She couldn't afford to look like someone who had already memorized half of his schedule, so she did what Evelyn Park would do. She picked up her pen and made her first deliberate mistake.
The conference room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the quiet scratching of pens gliding across paper and the occasional turning of a page. Every candidate leaned over their assignment with varying degrees of confidence. Y/N resisted the instinct to finish first. She had already identified every scheduling conflict hidden within the exercise during the first thirty seconds. Instead, she deliberately slowed her pace. She cross-checked every appointment.
She occasionally paused long enough to appear uncertain, before continuing. Competent, but not exceptional. Capable, but not intimidating. She signed the last document and quietly placed her pen beside the folder.
Across the table, a nervous brunette released an audible sigh, before rubbing at her temples. The young man seated beside her had already begun bouncing his leg beneath the table, his fingers drumming impatiently against the polished wood.
Ms. Han glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. "You have five minutes remaining." She announced clearly.
The atmosphere shifted almost instantly. Several candidates hurried to review their answers, but Y/N remained perfectly still.
Then the conference room door opened.
No one had knocked. Conversation ceased before it had the chance to begin. Every head turned toward the entrance. A man stepped inside wearing a perfectly tailored black three-piece suit beneath a charcoal overcoat draped effortlessly across his shoulders. His presence alone seemed to alter the temperature of the room. He didn't speak, but he didn't have to.
An expensive watch disappeared beneath the cuff of his crisp white shirt as he adjusted it with absentminded precision. His dark hair had been styled neatly away from his forehead, exposing sharp features that looked almost sculpted beneath the morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The photographs had failed to capture him. They had documented his appearance, but they hadn't documented his absolute presence. There was something unnervingly composed about him.
Without hesitation, Ms. Han straightened. "Good morning, Mr. Song." She greeted him with deep respect.
The other employees standing near the wall immediately lowered their heads. Every candidate followed a heartbeat later. Y/N did the same. Not too quickly. Not too slowly. Exactly as everyone else had.
Song Mingi acknowledged them with the faintest inclination of his head, before allowing his gaze to drift across the room. His expression revealed nothing. His eyes swept from one candidate to the next with clinical indifference, lingering on each person for no longer than a second.
Until they reached her.
Y/N felt it before she saw it. His gaze stopped, only for an instant. Barely long enough for anyone else to notice, before it moved on. Her heartbeat remained perfectly steady, but inside, every instinct sharpened. He observed people the same way predators observed unfamiliar territory. Silently. Patiently. Searching for something out of place.
Mingi walked toward the head of the table.
"I wasn't planning on sitting in." His voice was deep and remarkably calm, carrying through the room without ever needing to rise. "But apparently the hiring process has become entertaining." He rested a hand against the back of the empty chair. "I have one question." He stated. "Why do you want this position?"
Several candidates exchanged uncertain glances, before they offered rehearsed answers.
"It would be an incredible opportunity for my career." One candidate said eagerly.
"I have admired your company for years." Another added quickly.
Each response sounded polished and utterly forgettable. Mingi listened without interruption, but offered no visible reaction. Finally, his gaze returned to Y/N.
"And you?" He asked.
The room suddenly felt much smaller. Y/N lifted her head calmly, meeting his dark gaze for the first time. There was an unsettling intelligence behind his eyes, one that seemed to dissect every expression, before deciding whether it deserved another glance.
"I don't believe people become indispensable by chasing impressive job titles." She offered a polite smile.
A flicker of interest crossed his face so quickly it might have been imagined.
"I believe they become indispensable by making someone else's life easier." She continued without breaking eye contact. "If I do my job properly, you will never have to think about whether your schedule is accurate, whether your meetings are prepared or whether your time is being wasted. My success would be measured by how little you notice I am doing my job."
Silence settled over the conference room once again. For the first time since entering, Mingi's expression changed. The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. "Interesting." He murmured.
He straightened slowly.
"You claim your success would be measured by how little I notice your work." His voice was calm enough to be mistaken for polite. "So let's see how observant you really are. I walked into this room less than two minutes ago. Tell me everything you noticed."
Several candidates visibly stiffened, but Y/N remained perfectly composed. She allowed herself a brief pause.
"You entered exactly one minute and forty-three seconds after Ms. Han announced there were five minutes remaining." She began. "You didn't bring your phone and your watch is running twenty-three seconds fast." Mingi remained completely expressionless. "The knot of your tie has a faint crease where you loosened it before tightening it again." She continued smoothly. "And the folder you are carrying hasn't been opened. The corners are perfectly aligned."
The room had become unnaturally quiet. Mingi finally spoke.
"You have done your homework." He observed.
"I prepare for interviews." She lied flawlessly.
Without warning, he removed an expensive fountain pen from his inside pocket, before placing it on the table.
"What brand is it?" He challenged.
"I don't know." She answered simply. Mingi folded his arms.
"Most people would have guessed." He pointed out.
"If I start inventing details when I don't know the answer, eventually I will invent one in a situation where it actually matters." She met his dark gaze evenly.
For the first time, genuine interest flickered behind his eyes. Not because she had answered correctly, but because she hadn't played his game. He reached into his pocket, before placing a sleek silver keycard on the table.
"The position is yours." He declared softly. "You start now."
***
By two in the afternoon, the executive floor had settled into a deceptive quiet. Then, the private elevator chimed.
A man stepped out onto the marble floor. His suit was expensive, but it lacked the tailored discipline of Mingi's attire. He carried himself with an arrogant swagger that instantly set Y/N's instincts on edge. He was not corporate. He was cartel. He walked straight toward the CEO's office, before Y/N stood up from her desk.
"Excuse me." She spoke clearly, stepping directly into his path.
"Move aside, sweetheart." He sneered. "I have a meeting with Mingi."
"Mr. Song is currently on a confidential call and you do not have an appointment." She replied, her tone perfectly even.
"I don't need one." He took another step forward, but Y/N did not retreat a single inch.
She held her ground, before raising a hand to block his path. "No one enters without an appointment." She stated firmly.
He scoffed, reaching out to roughly grab her arm.
Years of lethal combat training screamed at her to snap his wrist, to drive her heel into his knee, but Evelyn Park was just an assistant.
She forced herself to freeze, preparing to play the victim, before the heavy oak doors behind them suddenly swung open.
The temperature in the corridor seemed to plummet instantly. Mingi stood in the doorway, his expression completely devoid of visible anger, but the suffocating stillness radiating from him was far more terrifying than any raised voice.
"Remove your hand." His voice was barely a whisper, echoing through the silent corridor with the precision of a scalpel.
The man scoffed, but the arrogant swagger in his posture faltered immediately. "Mingi, your new guard dog was getting in my way." He attempted a familiar smile, dropping Y/N's arm roughly, before trying to take a step forward.
"Who gave you permission to put your hands on my assistant?" Mingi stepped out of his office.
The visitor swallowed hard. "She wouldn't move." He defended himself, but his voice lacked its previous confidence. "It was just a warning."
"A warning..." Mingi repeated smoothly. "Let me make something exceptionally clear to you. You bypassed my lobby security, approached my private office and laid your hands on my employee. If you ever touch her again, I will have your hands removed." Mingi stated the threat with casual indifference. "Leave, before I decide you have wasted enough of my time."
The cartel boss practically sprinted toward the elevator, before the metal doors slid shut. Mingi watched the indicator light drop, before finally turning his attention back to Y/N.
"Are you hurt?" He asked, looking at the faint red mark blooming against her wrist.
"No." She replied evenly. "I was handling it."
"Come inside." He instructed, before walking back into his office.
Y/N followed him, closing the heavy oak doors. Mingi poured amber liquid from a crystal decanter into a heavy glass, before offering it to her.
"Drink it." He said. "It helps with the adrenaline."
"I do not have any adrenaline, Mr. Song." She answered, but accepted the glass anyway to avoid arousing suspicion.
Mingi stepped back, leaning against the edge of his desk. "The man who just left is named Kang." He began, his voice dropping into a strictly professional register. "He controls the shipping routes in the south. You need to know the difference between a corporate rival and a man who will slit your throat in a parking garage." He pulled a thick, unmarked ledger from his drawer, before sliding it across the desk toward her. "I need you to audit these accounts before tomorrow morning." He added.
Y/N picked up the heavy book. It was hand-written, filled with encrypted abbreviations and massive numerical transfers. It was exactly the kind of evidence the FBI had spent a decade trying to find. "If I find discrepancies?" She asked.
"You bring them directly to me." He leaned forward. "Do you understand?"
"Perfectly." She closed the ledger.
That night, the fabricated apartment of Evelyn Park felt colder than usual. Y/N set the heavy ledger on her kitchen island, before dialing the Director's direct line on her encrypted satellite phone.
"I have his financial records." She reported. "They are written entirely in code."
"It's a test, Y/N. He expects you to steal the information, but you are going to bring every discrepancy directly to him." The Director noted.
"Exactly." She agreed. "He expects me to fail, but I am going to prove my absolute loyalty."
"Do not photograph a single page." He ordered. "Do not attempt to transmit any of the data, but memorize as much of the cipher as you can."
Y/N lowered the phone, before picking up a pen. She forced herself to focus, hunting for patterns in the chaos. She found three discrepancies before the clock struck four in the morning. Two of them were obvious bait. Small, deliberate math errors hidden deep within the offshore routing columns. The third mistake was different. It was a massive diversion of funds from the southern ports, buried beneath a layered shell company. It wasn't a test. It was theft. Someone was siphoning millions from Mingi's distribution network and based on the dates, the thief was Kang.
***
Song Industries was already buzzing with quiet energy, before she stepped out of the private elevator at eight in the morning. At exactly eight-thirty, Song Mingi walked onto the floor. His presence instantly silenced the surrounding chatter.
"Good morning, Mr. Song." She greeted him calmly, before standing up from her chair.
"Bring it inside." He acknowledged her with a slight nod, his gaze drifting toward the heavy ledger.
She followed him into the expansive office, before placing the ledger precisely in the center of his desk. "I audited the accounts." She stated smoothly. "There are three discrepancies."
"Show me." He commanded.
"The first two are administrative errors." She pointed to the offshore routing columns. "They look like intentional stress tests for a new accountant."
A dangerous, satisfied gleam sparked in Mingi's dark eyes. "And the third?" He murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
"The third is not an error." She met his gaze directly, but her expression remained perfectly neutral. "It is a hemorrhage. A shell company registered under the southern distribution network has been over-reporting operational costs. Someone is stealing from you, Mr. Song and they are using the southern ports to do it."
The silence that filled the office was absolutely lethal. Mingi stared at the numbers, his jaw ticking faintly, before he slowly lifted his head to look at her. "Kang." He stated the name like it was a death sentence. "The dates align with his operational oversight."
Y/N confirmed, before stepping back slightly.
"You found this in one night." He noted, his voice dangerously soft. "My previous accountants reviewed these records for a week, but they found nothing."
"Your previous accountants were either incompetent or they were paid to look the other way." She replied evenly. "I am neither."
A slow, dark smile finally spread across Mingi's lips. It was a smile that promised absolute violence for Kang, but offered something entirely different for her.
"No." He agreed quietly, stepping around the desk until he was standing just inches away from her. "You are certainly not."
He reached out, his long fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the ledger, but his eyes never left hers.
"You have just saved this company millions of dollars, Evelyn." He said softly. "And you have just signed Kang's death warrant."
Y/N held her breath, before offering a polite nod. "I am just doing my job, Mr. Song." She replied.
"Your job is about to become significantly more complicated." He stepped back, picking up his phone to dial a private number. "Cancel all of my meetings for the morning, then call my head of security. Tell him to assemble the cleanup crew."
"Understood."
***
Two weeks passed, but the air on the executive floor never lost its heavy, electric charge.
Y/N became a permanent fixture in the shadow of Mingi. She managed his empire with flawless precision, anticipating his needs before he even had to voice them. She learned the subtle shifts in his mood. A tightened jaw meant a hostile takeover. A tap of his expensive pen meant someone was lying.
They fell into a quiet, dangerous rhythm. Late evenings in the office blurred into silent negotiations of space. Y/N would bring him his black coffee, placing the porcelain cup on the edge of his desk.
Sometimes, his fingers would brush against hers. Just a fraction of a second, but the heat of his skin would linger on her hand long after she retreated to her desk.
He watched her. She felt his bottomless eyes tracking her movements, heavy and calculating. He didn't look at her like an employer analyzing an assistant, but like a predator studying a puzzle he desperately wanted to solve.
One evening, the rain lashed against the panoramic windows, leaving them isolated in the towering fortress. Y/N stepped into his office to deliver the final quarterly reports, before turning to leave.
"Evelyn." His deep voice stopped her near the heavy oak doors.
"Yes, Mr. Song." She turned slowly, her posture perfectly straight.
Mingi leaned back in his leather chair, the dim light casting sharp shadows across his features.
"You have been here for exactly eighteen days, but you haven't made a single mistake." He observed quietly. "You do not panic. You do not ask unnecessary questions. You simply execute."
"I told you I was efficient." She met his gaze, her heart beating a fraction faster, before she forced her pulse to steady.
"You are an anomaly." He murmured, standing up from his desk.
He closed the distance between them with slow, measured steps, stopping just close enough that she could smell the expensive cedar and scotch clinging to him. He reached out, his hand hovering near her face, before his knuckles lightly grazed a stray lock of dark hair resting on her shoulder.
"An anomaly I intend to keep." He promised softly.
Y/N held her breath, the FBI operative inside her screaming to step back, but the woman beneath the disguise remained completely rooted to the floor.
The next morning, a sleek black garment box appeared on Y/N's desk.
She stared at the velvet lid, before glancing toward the heavy oak doors of the CEO's office. The executive floor was completely empty, but the air felt impossibly heavy. She opened the box. Inside lay a midnight-blue silk gown and a diamond necklace that cost more than a federal agent made in a lifetime.
"Put it on." Mingi's voice broke the silence.
He stood in the doorway, his usual charcoal suit traded for a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. He looked like corporate royalty, but he radiated pure, unadulterated danger.
"There is a charity gala tonight." He stepped out of his office, his polished shoes making no sound against the floorboards. "But the public event is merely a front. The real meeting takes place underground."
"Am I taking notes, Mr. Song?" She asked smoothly, keeping her hands neatly folded.
"No." He walked closer, his dark eyes trailing over the silk gown, before meeting her gaze. "Tonight, you are not my assistant, Evelyn. You are my partner. The men in that room are vultures. If they believe you are just an employee, they will try to use you. If they know you belong to me, they will not dare to look twice."
Y/N held his intense gaze, before offering a slow nod. "I understand." She replied.
An hour later, Y/N stepped out of the executive washroom. The dark gown clung to her curves like a second skin and the diamonds rested cold against her collarbone. She looked like a woman born into unimaginable wealth, but she was a weapon wrapped in silk.
Mingi waited near the private elevator. When he saw her, his breath hitched for a fraction of a second. It was the first time she had seen his iron composure slip, but he recovered instantly.
"You look acceptable." He murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerously low register.
"Thank you, Mr. Song." She replied.
"Call me Mingi." He instructed, before pressing the elevator button. "And stay close to me."
The armored Maybach carried them through the rain-slicked streets, before descending into a highly secured subterranean parking facility beneath a luxury hotel. Armed guards stood at every concrete pillar, their eyes scanning the shadows, but they lowered their weapons the moment Mingi stepped out of the vehicle.
He walked around the car, before offering his hand to Y/N. She hesitated for a split second, before placing her palm against his. His grip was warm, firm and entirely possessive.
They entered a cavernous ballroom hidden far beneath the city. Crystal chandeliers cast a dim, golden glow over the room, reflecting off polished marble floors. There was no press and there were no cameras. It was a gathering of the most ruthless syndicate leaders in the country, but they all fell silent when Song Mingi walked through the gilded doors.
Y/N kept her posture perfectly straight. Mingi released her hand, but he immediately placed his palm flush against her bare lower back. The heat of his touch burned through the thin silk of her gown. It was a clear, territorial claim meant for everyone in the room to see.
"Smile, Evelyn." He whispered against her ear, his breath sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "They are watching us."
"I am always smiling." She murmured back, before turning her head slightly toward him.
A man with silver hair and cold, calculating eyes approached them from the crowd. He held a glass of champagne, but his gaze was fixed entirely on Y/N.
"Mingi." The man greeted smoothly. "I heard you cleaned house in the south. Kang was a loud dog, but he was useful."
"He forgot his place." Mingi replied calmly, his hand tightening slightly on Y/N's waist. "I simply reminded him."
"And who is this beautiful creature?" The silver-haired man smiled, before stepping uncomfortably close. "I did not know you were taking on new pets."
Y/N felt the immediate shift in Mingi's posture. The relaxed confidence vanished, before absolute lethality took its place.
"Evelyn is not a pet." Mingi's voice was deadly soft, cutting through the ambient noise of the ballroom. "She is the reason Kang is dead. I suggest you address her with the respect she deserves, before I decide to clean house in the north as well."
The man paled instantly, before offering a stiff, hurried bow. "My apologies, Ms. Evelyn." He muttered, retreating quickly into the crowd.
Y/N watched him leave, her pulse racing beneath the heavy diamonds on her neck. Mingi had just elevated her status from an assistant to a highly dangerous player in his empire. He was integrating her into his inner circle, but he was also placing a massive target on her back. She was no longer just the woman pouring his coffee. She was the woman dismantling his enemies.
"Was that necessary?" She asked quietly, leaning closer to him so the surrounding cartel bosses could not hear their conversation.
"It was essential." He answered, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. He handed one to her, his fingers brushing against hers. "If they think you are weak, they will try to break you to get to me. I will not allow that to happen."
Y/N looked up into his eyes.
The FBI Director's voice echoed loudly in her mind. "Earn his confidence. If it requires seduction, then seduce him."
She was supposed to be playing a calculated role, but the protective intensity in Mingi's gaze felt terrifyingly real.
"I do not break easily, Mingi." She took a slow sip of the champagne, maintaining direct eye contact.
"I know." He stepped closer, eliminating the remaining space between them until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "That is exactly what makes you so dangerous."
The music swelled around them, drowning out the murmurs of the syndicate leaders. Mingi guided her through the room, his hand never leaving her waist. Every introduction was a test and every conversation was a battlefield, but they moved together with flawless precision.
For the first time since her mission began, Y/N realized she was no longer just infiltrating his world. She was becoming a part of it and the line between Agent Y/N and Evelyn Park was blurring into something she could no longer control.
***
The heavy steel doors of the subterranean garage closed behind the armored Maybach, sealing the echoes of the underworld gala away in the dark. The luxury vehicle ascended onto the slick streets of the financial district. The city above was drowning in another relentless downpour.
Inside the spacious cabin, the silence was thick, but it was no longer cold. Mingi sat beside her, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, the stark white of his dress shirt catching the fleeting glow of the streetlamps. The space between them on the soft leather seat was minimal, closing entirely with every sharp turn of the heavy vehicle.
Y/N stared out the tinted window, watching the blurred neon lights streak past the wet glass, but her senses were entirely anchored to the man beside her. The faint scent of expensive cedar, aged scotch and the lingering, metallic trace of gunpowder filled the confined space, wrapping around her like a physical weight.
The heat radiating from his body was a terrifying distraction. Every time the Maybach swayed, his shoulder brushed against hers, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight through her meticulously built defenses. The heavy diamond necklace rested against her collarbone, feeling less like a prop for Evelyn Park and more like a permanent brand marking her as his.
She felt a sudden, suffocating wave of panic. It had absolutely nothing to do with the cartel bosses they had just left behind and everything to do with the fact that she felt completely safe in the dark with him. The FBI operative was supposed to be hunting a monster, but the woman sitting in the quiet cabin realized she was dropping her guard entirely.
"You played your part perfectly." He said softly, his deep voice breaking the quiet rhythm of the tires humming against the asphalt.
Y/N swallowed hard, forcing her racing pulse to steady, before she turned her head to look at him. "It wasn't a difficult role, Mingi." She replied, desperately trying to keep her tone even. "Everyone in that room was too busy fearing you to question me."
"They should fear you too." He observed quietly.
He shifted closer, the leather sighing under his weight. His dark eyes studied the sharp profile of her face in the dim light, tracing the line of her jaw with an intensity that made it genuinely difficult to breathe.
"You stood in a room full of wolves, but did not flinch once." He continued, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register.
Y/N finally met his gaze. The remaining air in the cabin seemed to evaporate instantly. "I am just an assistant." She stated calmly, though the lie felt impossibly heavy on her tongue.
"We both know that is a lie." He leaned closer, eliminating the last fraction of space between them. The heavy, electric tension was absolute, pulling her completely into his orbit. "You are far more dangerous than anyone I employ."
Before she could answer, before she could surrender to the magnetic pull of his gaze, the world outside the Maybach erupted into blinding white light. A deafening shockwave slammed into the passenger side, violently throwing the heavy vehicle off its course.
The blast was absolute chaos. The Maybach skidded across the rain-slicked asphalt, spinning wildly out of control, before slamming into a reinforced concrete barrier with a bone-shattering crunch. Metal screeched in agony and shattered glass rained down inside the cabin. The reinforced windows held their shape, but the immense impact left Y/N's ears ringing with a high-pitched, disorienting whine.
"Get down." Mingi commanded, his voice slicing through the ringing in her ears with absolute authority.
He grabbed her shoulder, forcing her lower against the leather seat, just as a hail of heavy caliber gunfire ripped into the reinforced glass.
The bullets spider-webbed the windows instantly, leaving brutal white scars across the tint, but they did not penetrate the armor. Outside, the two black SUVs escorting them were already engulfed in towering flames. Men dressed in tactical black body armor swarmed the flooded street, moving with the coordinated precision of a highly trained hit squad. This was not a random cartel dispute, but a heavily funded, militarized assassination attempt.
"Northern syndicate." Mingi stated coldly, reaching beneath his seat, before pulling a sleek, matte-black semiautomatic weapon from a hidden compartment. "They brought mercenaries."
The driver of the Maybach slumped against the steering wheel, a dark, expanding pool of blood soaking through his crisp white collar. The armor-piercing rounds had finally found the structural weak point in the windshield. They were trapped inside a stationary metal coffin and the integrity of the ballistic glass was failing rapidly under the relentless barrage.
"We cannot stay here." Y/N said, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
"The glass has thirty seconds before it shatters completely." Mingi checked his loaded magazine, his face a flawless mask of absolute, lethal focus. "When I open this door, you run for the alleyway where the shadows are deep. Do not stop and do not look back."
"I am not leaving you." She refused instantly, her voice steady despite the terrifying chaos surrounding them.
Mingi turned to look at her, his dark eyes flashing with genuine, unbridled anger. "Evelyn, this is not a negotiation." He warned fiercely.
"I know." She shot back, her civilian persona slipping just a fraction, revealing the hardened operative beneath the silk gown.
Before he could force her out of the vehicle, the heavy, wet thud of combat boots landed squarely on the hood of the ruined Maybach. A masked mercenary aimed a high-powered assault rifle directly at the fractured glass beside Mingi's head. Time seemed to drag into a suffocating crawl. Y/N saw the mercenary's finger tighten against the trigger. Her FBI training screamed at her to draw her concealed weapon, to drop the man with a single, flawless shot to the cranium, but she could not blow her deep cover. Evelyn Park did not know how to kill a man with tactical precision. Evelyn Park was just a civilian trapped in a war zone.
Instead of drawing her weapon, she relied on pure, reckless adrenaline. "Mingi!" She screamed, throwing her entire body across the center console.
She slammed heavily into his chest, knocking him backward against his door just as the ballistic window finally gave way. A deafening spray of shattered glass and lethal, high-velocity bullets tore through the exact space, where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier. The terrifying roar of gunfire filled the confined cabin, mixing with the smell of burning rubber and copper.
Y/N felt a sudden, sharp burn tear across her upper arm, but she ignored the searing pain, refusing to let him take the hit. Mingi did not hesitate for a microsecond. He raised his weapon over her trembling shoulder, firing three rapid, deafening shots through the broken window. The mercenary on the hood collapsed instantly, his blood washing down the ruined windshield in the heavy rain.
"Move." Mingi roared, kicking his heavy armored door open into the violent storm. He grabbed Y/N by the waist, pulling her out of the ruined vehicle and into the freezing downpour.
The street was an absolute war zone. Gunfire echoed violently off the towering concrete buildings, mixing with the crack of thunder overhead. Mingi fired with lethal, terrifying accuracy, dropping two more mercenaries in the street before they could flank their position.
Y/N scrambled beside him, keeping her head down, acting the part of a terrified civilian, but her sharp eyes tracked every shooter, every tactical angle and every available exit.
"Into the alley." He ordered, pushing her behind the solid cover of a brick wall, just as another volley of bullets chipped the wet masonry inches from her face.
She forced herself to stumble forward, letting him drag her into the suffocating darkness of the narrow passageway. They ran through the labyrinth of alleys, slipping on the wet, uneven pavement, putting desperate distance between themselves and the burning wreckage of the convoy.
Her lungs burned with the physical exertion, but she did not slow her pace. Sirens began to wail in the far distance, cutting through the drumming rain, signaling the impending arrival of law enforcement.
Mingi finally stopped behind a rusted industrial dumpster, pulling her deep into the pitch-black shadows. His chest heaved as he scanned the perimeter, his weapon raised and ready. His pristine tuxedo was ruined and his hands were stained with blood, but he was alive. The immediate threat had passed, leaving them alone in the freezing, torrential rain.
He turned to Y/N, his dark eyes wide with a frantic, protective intensity she had never seen him display before tonight. He dropped his weapon to his side, his hands immediately gripping her bare shoulders, frantically checking her for fatal wounds.
"Are you hit?" He demanded, his voice rough and breathless.
"I am fine." She lied, gasping for air, clutching her injured arm tightly against her side to hide the evidence.
"You are bleeding." He countered, his sharp gaze dropping to the dark, torn silk of her midnight-blue gown. A deep, jagged graze marred her upper arm. The blood was mixing with the cold rain, running rapidly down her pale skin in dark crimson rivulets. Mingi's expression darkened into something entirely terrifying. It was not the cold, calculated anger of a mafia boss, but the raw, unhinged fury of a man who had almost lost something irreplaceable. The impenetrable mask of the untouchable CEO had shattered completely.
"I am fine, Mingi." She repeated softly, trying to step back, but his iron grip on her shoulders remained unyielding.
He ignored her words entirely. He stripped off his ruined tuxedo jacket, wrapping the heavy fabric tightly around her shivering shoulders to shield her from the freezing rain. His hands lingered on the silk lapels, his bruised knuckles brushing gently against her bare throat.
The proximity between them was suffocating, charged with a heavy, dangerous electricity that had nothing to do with the residual adrenaline of the firefight.
"You saved my life." He whispered, his face hovering mere inches from hers, the heavy rain plastering his dark hair against his forehead.
"You would have done the same." She breathed out, trapped entirely in the magnetic pull of his intense gaze, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
"No." He corrected her, his voice dropping into a lethal, heavy vow that vibrated in the narrow space between them. "I would have burned the entire city to the ground before I let them touch you."
***
The safe house was hidden deep within the industrial district, concealed behind the rusted steel doors of an abandoned warehouse. Inside, it was a fortress of polished concrete, dark leather and state-of-the-art security monitors.
The storm battered the reinforced skylights, drumming a relentless rhythm above them. Mingi locked the heavy deadbolt, the metallic clack echoing through the silent room. He discarded his ruined suit jacket over a chair, his white dress shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, completely soaked with freezing rain and blood.
Y/N stood near the center of the room, shivering slightly as the adrenaline finally began to drain from her veins. Her midnight-blue silk gown was ruined, torn at the shoulder and stained with dark crimson. The heavy diamond necklace felt like a collar of ice against her skin.
"Sit down." He ordered, pointing toward the heavy leather sofa in the center of the room.
She obeyed, sinking into the dark upholstery, her eyes tracking his every movement. Mingi disappeared into the adjoining room, returning a moment later with a black medical kit. He knelt on the floor directly in front of her, where the sterile white lights above cast sharp, unforgiving shadows across his bruised features.
"Take off the dress." He commanded quietly.
Y/N hesitated, her pulse spiking for an entirely different reason.
"The silk is fused to the wound, Evelyn." He elaborated, his dark eyes meeting hers with unwavering intensity. "I need to clean it, before the infection sets in."
She swallowed hard, reaching for the hidden zipper at the side of her gown. She slipped the ruined silk off her shoulders, letting it pool around her waist. The cold air hit her bare skin, but the heat radiating from Mingi was absolutely suffocating.
He moved closer, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he opened the medical kit. He soaked a sterile gauze pad in antiseptic. Y/N watched him, her breath catching in her throat. These were the hands of a ruthless mafia boss. Hands that authorized executions, dismantled rival empires and controlled the dark underbelly of the entire city. Yet, as he reached for her, his touch was agonizingly slow and meticulous, as if she were made of fragile glass.
He pressed the damp gauze carefully against the jagged graze on her upper arm. Y/N hissed in pain, her muscles pulling taut, but she did not pull away. His bruised knuckles brushed against her bare shoulder, sending a devastating shockwave of heat straight to her core. Her internal monologue was screaming at her in absolute panic.
'This is the target. This is the monster you are sworn to destroy. Pull away.'
But she couldn't move. She was completely paralyzed by the overwhelming tenderness in his dark eyes. The silence in the concrete room stretched until it became almost unbearable.
Mingi paused, his hand hovering over her pale skin, before his gaze slowly lifted from her bleeding arm to meet her eyes. The proximity was intoxicating. Neither of them breathed. The air was so thick with unspoken desire and fatal secrets that it felt like standing on the edge of a sheer cliff.
He was looking at her with a raw, terrifying vulnerability that made her chest ache with absolute, crushing guilt. He didn't see an undercover federal agent. He saw a woman who had just willingly taken a bullet for him.
Finally, Y/N forced herself to look away, breaking the magnetic hold of his stare before the treacherous tears burning in her eyes could betray her. She shifted slightly, putting a desperate, agonizing inch of space between them.
"You were reckless." He murmured, his voice noticeably rougher than before as he forced his attention back to the torn flesh. "You threw yourself in front of a high-velocity rifle. You could have been killed."
"You were the primary target." She replied, her voice barely above a whisper, trying to rebuild the walls he had effortlessly shattered. "I was doing my job."
Mingi stopped cleaning the wound immediately. He lifted his head slowly, his bottomless eyes locking onto hers once again. "Your job is to manage my schedule and pour my coffee." He stated dangerously. "Your job is not to bleed for me."
"I kept you alive, Mingi." She countered, refusing to back down from his piercing stare.
"And you almost died doing it." He leaned closer, the space she had desperately tried to create vanishing entirely as his warm breath ghosted across her collarbone. "Never do it again. I will not watch you bleed because of my enemies. Do you understand me?"
The raw desperation in his voice shattered the final remnants of his corporate facade. He was not a ruthless CEO reprimanding his assistant. He was a man terrified of losing the woman sitting in front of him. The line between their professional facade and their dangerous reality had completely dissolved.
"I understand." She breathed out softly.
He finished bandaging the wound in heavy silence, his knuckles brushing against her bare skin with lingering, agonizing slowness. Every touch felt like a brand, burning through her deep cover and exposing the chaotic emotions she was desperately trying to suppress.
Mingi stood up, closing the medical kit with a definitive snap. "I need to make a secure call to my lieutenants." He said, his voice returning to its measured, icy tone. "There is a bedroom down the hall, where you will find clean clothes in the closet. Clean yourself up and try to rest."
He walked into the adjacent office, closing the heavy steel door behind him. Y/N was finally alone. She stood up, her legs trembling slightly, before making her way into the dimly lit bedroom. She found a heavy, oversized black sweater in the closet, pulling it over her head to ward off the lingering chill. She sat on the edge of the mattress, pulling the encrypted satellite phone from the hidden lining of her clutch.
It powered on silently. She dialed the Director, the line connecting after a single ring. "Report." The icy voice crackled through the secure connection.
"We were ambushed." She kept her voice low, her eyes fixed on the closed door. "A heavily armed hit squad attacked the convoy. Northern syndicate mercenaries. Kang's allies are retaliating."
"Is the target eliminated?" The Director asked sharply.
"No." She closed her eyes, the guilt twisting painfully in her chest. "He survived. We are at a secure location."
A long, suffocating silence stretched across the line.
"My intelligence indicates that his vehicle was immobilized and pinned down by heavy fire." The Director noted, his tone devoid of any empathy. "He should be dead, Agent Y/N. How did he escape a synchronized kill zone?"
Y/N gripped the phone tighter, her knuckles turning white. "I intervened." She admitted quietly. "I disrupted the sniper's line of sight before he could take the fatal shot."
"You intervened..." The Director repeated the words slowly, turning them into a lethal accusation. "Your mission is to execute Song Mingi. You are not his bodyguard. Why did you protect a marked mafia leader before the Bureau could finalize its own tactical strike?"
"If he died tonight, the entire syndicate would fracture into a violent turf war." She lied smoothly, relying on her operational training to mask the truth. "I needed to maintain his trust, so I can dismantle the organization from the top down."
"You are losing your objectivity." He warned coldly. "You are blurring the lines between the operative and the alias. Do not forget who you are and do not forget what that man does in the shadows."
"I know exactly who he is." She stated firmly, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
"Then finish the job." The Director ordered. "Before he drags you down into the dark with him."
The line went dead.
Y/N lowered the phone, staring blankly at the dark screen. The Director was absolutely right. She was losing her grip on reality, falling for the very monster she was sworn to destroy.
She buried her face in her hands, the rhythmic drumming of the rain against the window sounding like a ticking clock, counting down the seconds until her inevitable betrayal.
***
The storm raged on, battering the reinforced skylights of the safe house with a deafening, violent intensity. Y/N sat perfectly still on the edge of the mattress, the encrypted satellite phone feeling like a lead weight in her pocket.
The Director's cold ultimatum echoed relentlessly in her mind.
"Finish the job, before he drags you down into the dark with him."
She stared at the long, fractured shadows stretching across the polished concrete floor. She had spent years perfecting the art of emotional detachment, building impenetrable walls to survive the brutal psychological warfare of undercover operations, but Song Mingi had effortlessly dismantled her defenses in a matter of weeks. She was supposed to be the predator in this operation, but she felt entirely like the prey.
The heavy steel door of the bedroom pushed open with a quiet groan. Mingi stepped inside, bringing the faint scent of rain, gunpowder and deep exhaustion with him. He had stripped off his ruined dress shirt, wearing only a plain black undershirt that clung tightly to the rigid, muscular lines of his torso. The severe bruising along his ribs formed a dark, violent tapestry, a physical testament to the brutal, unforgiving world he ruled.
He didn't speak immediately. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, his dark, bottomless eyes fixed entirely on her. The impenetrable mask of the untouchable CEO was completely gone, leaving behind a man who looked dangerously weary and dangerously human.
"Are you in pain?" He asked quietly, his gaze dropping to the white bandage on her arm.
"No." She replied, pulling the oversized black sweater tighter around her trembling frame. "I am fine, Mingi."
He pushed off the doorframe, walking slowly toward the bed. Every step he took felt deliberate, heavy and completely inescapable. He stopped just inches away from her knees, towering over her in the dim, flickering light of the bedroom.
"You lied to me." He stated softly.
Y/N's breath caught sharply in her throat, her heart slamming violently against her ribs. Did he know? Did he hear the encrypted call? Did he trace the signal?
"When did I lie?" She asked, forcing her voice to remain steady, before she looked up into his face.
"You told me you were just an assistant." He reached out, his bruised knuckles brushing gently against her uninjured arm. "You told me you were simply doing your job, but no corporate assistant jumps in front of armor-piercing rounds. No civilian looks at a cartel hit squad without blinking. You did not even flinch, Evelyn."
He knelt on the concrete floor directly in front of her, forcing her to look down into his dark, predatory eyes. They were completely stripped of their usual cold calculation. They were filled with raw, terrifying vulnerability.
"Who are you, Evelyn?" He whispered, searching her face for an answer she could never, ever give him.
"I am exactly who you hired." She lied, the fabricated words tasting like bitter ash on her tongue.
Mingi slowly shook his head, his large hand sliding up her arm, before coming to rest against the side of her neck. His thumb traced the erratic, racing pulse beating rapidly beneath her pale skin.
"You are a ghost." He murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, velvet register that vibrated through her bones. "You walked into my fortress, you dismantled my defenses and you made yourself absolutely indispensable. I have spent my entire life building iron walls to keep the world out, but you bypassed every single one of them without even trying."
Y/N closed her eyes, leaning helplessly into the scorching warmth of his palm. It was a fatal mistake to seek comfort from the target, but she could no longer stop herself. The FBI operative was suffocating and only the woman remained.
"You should fire me, Mingi." She breathed out, opening her eyes to meet his intense, burning gaze. "You should let me walk away, before I ruin everything you have built."
"I cannot do that." He confessed, the admission sounding like a physical surrender, as if the words themselves cost him everything. "I tried to keep you at a professional distance. I brought you to the gala to prove to myself that you were just another pawn on the board, but the moment I saw Kang's man touch you, the moment I saw that mercenary aim his weapon at you, I realized the terrifying truth."
"What truth?" She asked, her voice trembling, before she could hide her fear.
"That I would gladly watch my entire empire burn to ash before I let anyone take you from me." He answered smoothly, his thumb brushing across her lower lip.
The confession hung in the quiet room, feeling infinitely heavier than the storm outside. A ruthless mafia boss was handing her his heart, placing the most lethal weapon in the city entirely at her mercy. The FBI Director wanted her to pull the trigger, but looking at Mingi now, Y/N knew she was utterly incapable of destroying him.
"Mingi, my life is dangerous." She warned him desperately, trying to give him one last chance to step away before the lies drowned them both in blood. "There are things about me you do not know and things you would absolutely hate if you ever found out."
"I do not care about your past." He stated fiercely, his grip tightening slightly, but possessively on her neck. "I do not care what dark secrets you are hiding, but I care about the woman who bled for me tonight. I care about the woman who looks at me without an ounce of fear in her eyes."
He stood up, pulling her gently to her feet until they were standing chest to chest. The physical proximity was absolutely intoxicating.
"Leave the company." He commanded softly, his hands sliding down to wrap firmly around her waist. "Walk out of those glass doors tomorrow, disappear into the city and never look back. Because if you stay here with me tonight, Evelyn, I will never let you go."
It was an ultimatum. It was the only escape hatch he would ever offer her. She could walk away right now, report back to the Bureau and vanish into the witness protection program forever, but the thought of living in a world without him felt infinitely worse than death.
She looked up at his bruised, strikingly handsome features. He was a monster to the rest of the civilized world, but he was the only man who made her feel entirely alive.
"I am not leaving you." She whispered, raising her trembling hands to rest flat against the hard muscle of his chest.
"Are you certain?" He asked, his voice rough, shaking with restrained desperation.
"I have never been more certain of anything before this moment." She answered, sealing her own fate.
Mingi did not ask again. He crushed his mouth against hers, the impact violent, consuming and utterly desperate. It was not a gentle kiss. It was a chaotic collision of two people who had been dancing on the edge of a razor blade for weeks.
He tasted like expensive scotch, rain and absolute ruin, intoxicating her senses and completely destroying her for anyone else.
Y/N gasped against his lips, her hands tangling desperately in his dark hair. She pulled him closer, kissing him back with a frantic urgency that terrified her. The FBI operative officially died in that exact moment and only the woman hopelessly in love with her mafia boss remained.
He backed her against the cold concrete wall, his heavy body pressing flush against hers. His hands were everywhere, exploring the soft curves of her waist beneath the oversized sweater, mapping the frantic beating of her heart. Every touch was fiercely possessive, a silent, unyielding claim that she belonged to him, and him alone.
He groaned against her neck, his lips trailing hot, burning kisses along her jawline.
She tilted her head back, granting him unrestricted access, just as an overwhelming wave of guilt crashed into her conscience. She was betraying her sworn oath. She was sleeping with the undisputed leader of the city's most powerful Mafia syndicate. She was supposed to kill him, but instead, she was anchoring herself permanently to his soul.
He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping tightly around his narrow waist as he carried her toward the center of the room. They tumbled onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and desperate, breathless kisses. Mingi pulled the heavy black sweater over her head, discarding it onto the floor, before pausing to look down at her.
His dark gaze swept over her pale skin, his eyes darkening with absolute, undeniable reverence. He traced the edge of the white bandage on her arm, his expression softening into profound regret, before he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss against the gauze.
"I will protect you." He vowed quietly, his dark eyes burning with absolute, unwavering sincerity. "No matter what happens, no matter who comes for us, I will always protect you."
The beautiful words felt like a jagged dagger twisting violently in her chest. He was promising to protect her from the outside world, but he didn't know that she was the greatest threat in the room. She was the loaded weapon aimed directly at his heart.
"I know." She whispered, pulling his face down against hers, desperate to silence her screaming conscience.
Mingi rested his forehead against hers, gazing down at Y/N adoringly, drinking in every inch of her exposed skin like a man starved. His calloused fingertips traced the delicate line of her collarbone, dipping into the hollow of her throat.
He peppered feather-light kisses along her shoulder, worshipping her with his lips. Slowly, teasingly, he peeled away the lace of her bra, freeing her breasts to his hungry gaze.
Mingi slowly trailed his fingertips up Y/N's sides, savoring the smoothness of her skin. He cupped her breasts gently, thumbs circling her nipples until they pebbled beneath his touch. Leaning down, he captured one rosy bud between his lips, suckling softly as his hand continued its sensual exploration of her curves.
Y/N arched into his caress, a breathy moan escaping her as pleasure coursed through her veins. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he lavished attention on her sensitive peaks. Each pull of his mouth, each brush of his fingers stoked the fire building low in her belly.
He kissed a path down her sternum, dipping his tongue into her navel, before continuing lower.
"Mingi..."
Mingi paused, looking up at Y/N with smoldering dark eyes filled with desire and tenderness. "Shh..." His voice was a low, intimate rumble.
He settled between her thighs, his broad shoulders nudging them further apart as he gazed at her with open adoration. Slowly, reverently, he pressed a tender kiss to her inner thigh, his lips making her skin tingle.
"You're so beautiful." He murmured against her flesh, his warm breath ghosting over panties. "I want to worship every inch of you."
Mingi began trailing open-mouthed kisses along her thigh, alternating between soft presses of his lips and teasing nips. He took his time, savoring her taste and scent, determined to bring her to the heights of ecstasy with his mouth alone.
With deliberate slowness, Mingi hooked his fingers into the waistband of Y/N's lacy panties. He dragged the delicate fabric down her legs, his calloused hands caressing her skin as he went.
Tossing the panties aside, he settled back between her spread thighs. He started at her knee, placing a soft kiss there before trailing his lips higher, mapping the crease where her thigh met her hip. As he neared her glistening folds, Mingi looked up at Y/N, his dark eyes smoldering with promise.
Y/N trembled with anticipation, her chest rising and falling rapidly as Mingi's heated gaze raked over her exposed core. She could feel the intensity of his stare, sending tingles across her sensitized skin.
"Don't tease." She breathed, her voice husky with need. She needed him to do something before she could get lost in her own head again.
A throaty chuckle rumbled from Mingi's chest. "Patience." He murmured. "I intend to take my time savoring you."
He leaned in, his breath hot against her slick folds. Mingi parted her with his thumbs, revealing her swollen, aching clit. Without warning, he sealed his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucked gently.
Y/N gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily as electric pleasure zipped up her spine at the intense sensation. "F-fuck..."
Mingi hummed against her core, the vibrations intensifying the exquisite sensations. He lapped at her slowly, deliberately, coating his tongue in her essence. Each stroke was calculated to drive her wild with lust.
"That's it." He purred, his deep voice muffled against her intimate flesh. "Let me hear those pretty sounds."
Y/N fisted the sheets beneath her, her breath getting heavier as Mingi worked her skillfully with his mouth.
"If it requires seduction, then seduce him." The The FBI Director's cold directive played on a relentless loop in her mind, each repetition twisting the knife of her guilt a little deeper. She was trapped in a web of double betrayal, forsaking the badge she had sworn to uphold, while deceiving the very man she had been sent to eliminate.
"Mingi... Wait..."
Mingi paused, lifting his head to meet Y/N's conflicted gaze. "Shh, it's alright." He soothed, pressing a tender kiss to her inner thigh, totally oblivious of her inner battles.
He dipped his tongue inside her entrance, stroking along her walls in long, languid licks. At the same time, he reached up to cup her breast, kneading the soft mound and rolling her nipple between his fingers.
"I've got you." He coaxed, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur, before pulling away reluctantly to unbutton his pants.
Accepting the defeat, Y/N watched through hooded eyes as Mingi stood and quickly shed his remaining clothes. His muscular torso was a work of art, defined abs leading down to a sharp V line disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. As he pushed those off too, his impressive length sprang free, already hard and leaking at the tip.
Crawling back over Y/N, he caged her in with his arms, his body hovering above hers. He peppered kisses along her jaw and down her neck, occasionally nipping at her pulse point. One hand skimmed down her side to her hip, squeezing the soft flesh possessively.
He leaned his forehead against hers, the thick head of his cock nudging insistently at her slick entrance. Y/N gazed up at Mingi, her eyes dark with desire and a flicker of uncertainty. She knew she should push him away, end this dangerous liaison before it went too far. But her traitorous body ached for his touch, craving the completion only he could provide.
"Mingi..." She breathed, her voice trembling slightly. "Please..."
The plea seemed to shatter the last of Mingi's restraint. With a low groan, he surged forward, sheathing himself to the hilt inside her tight heat in one smooth thrust.
"Fuck, Evelyn." He grunted, his eyes fluttering shut. "You feel so good."
He held still for a moment, allowing them both to adjust to the intimate connection, then began to move slowly. He set a steady, deep rhythm, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside Y/N that made stars explode behind her eyelids. He kept his weight braced on his forearms, never letting their bodies separate fully. The new angle allowed him to grind against her clit with every roll of his hips.
"Take it, sweetheart." He panted, his voice strained with pleasure. "Take all of me."
Y/N wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper as they lost themselves in the deep shadows of the safe house, the raging storm outside completely forgotten. Mingi touched her with a worshipful, terrifying intensity, learning every inch of her body, completely unaware that he was surrendering his entire empire to a federal undercover agent.
Y/N gave herself to him entirely, letting the overwhelming pleasure and the heat of his touch drown out the ticking clock of her inevitable, devastating betrayal.
***
The morning light was a cold, unforgiving gray. It filtered through the reinforced skylights of the safe house, painting the concrete walls in pale, hollow tones.
Mingi slept beside her, his breathing steady and deep. His heavy arm was thrown across her waist, pulling her flush against his side, pinning her to the mattress in a fiercely protective hold.
In sleep, the ruthless mafia boss was entirely gone. The sharp, calculating tension that usually lined his jaw had completely vanished, leaving behind a man who looked dangerously peaceful.
Y/N lay perfectly still, turning her head slightly on the pillow to watch him. She studied the dark, violent bruises mottling his ribs, the faint shadows beneath his long eyelashes and the relaxed, steady rise and fall of his bare chest.
The warmth of his skin against hers was absolutely intoxicating. For a few fleeting, stolen hours in the dark, she had allowed herself to forget the Bureau, the mission and the lies. She had allowed herself to just be a woman hopelessly in love with the man who had sworn to burn the world down to keep her safe.
She reached out, her trembling fingertips hovering just a millimeter above his cheek, desperately wanting to trace the line of his jaw one last time. But she pulled her hand back, burying her fingers deep into the sheets.
She had finally achieved exactly what she wanted. She had completely infiltrated the impenetrable fortress of Song Mingi and she had successfully claimed his heart. But the crushing, suffocating weight of reality was rapidly closing in, poisoning the fragile peace of the morning. She had crossed the absolute point of no return. She had surrendered to the target, compromised a six-year federal operation and committed high treason against the government.
The beautiful illusion was over. The sun was up and she was an FBI agent trapped in a bed with a marked syndicate leader. She had to destroy him or the Bureau would inevitably destroy them both. A single, silent tear slipped down her pale cheek, soaking quietly into the cotton pillowcase.
Then, the silence shattered. A low, rhythmic vibration hummed from the pocket of her discarded blazer across the room. It was the encrypted satellite phone.
Y/N froze, her heart stalling in her chest. She carefully lifted Mingi's heavy arm, sliding out from beneath the sheets with agonizing slowness. She pulled on his discarded dress shirt, the fabric hanging loosely past her thighs, before crossing the cold concrete floor.
She retrieved the phone, stepping into the adjacent bathroom and closed the heavy steel door until it clicked shut. She pressed the encrypted button to accept the call.
"Report." The Director's voice was a flat expanse of ice.
"The target is secure." She whispered, staring at her pale reflection in the mirror.
"You have been radio silent for twelve hours, Agent Y/N." The Director stated coldly. "We tracked the mercenary communication chatter from the ambush. Kang's loyalists failed, but they provided us with exactly what we needed. They exposed his defensive perimeter."
A cold knot formed in the pit of her stomach. "What are you saying?" She asked.
"The Department of Justice has authorized a full tactical breach." He replied. "We have the location of the safe house, where you are currently holding position. Three tactical units are mobilizing as we speak. They will breach the perimeter in exactly twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes." She repeated, her voice dropping into a breathless panic. "Sir, the building is fortified. If you breach, he will fight and it will be a bloodbath."
"That is exactly why I am calling you before the teams arrive." The Director's voice dropped into a lethal, uncompromising register. "You have unhindered access to him right now. Your orders are no longer to gather intelligence. Your orders are to execute the target immediately."
The words echoed in the cramped bathroom, ringing in her ears with absolute finality. "You want me to kill him while he sleeps." She said softly, her hands trembling violently.
"I want you to finish the mission." He commanded. "Put a bullet in his head before the strike teams breach the doors. If he is alive when they enter, they will open fire and they will not hesitate to shoot through you to get to him. Do it now."
"He trusts me." She argued, a desperate tear escaping her eye. "I can bring him in quietly, but you have to give me more time."
"He is a mafia leader, not a witness." The Director snapped, his patience entirely exhausted. "He does not get to come in quietly. Execute Song Mingi or you will be treated as an enemy combatant when my men break down those doors. Do I make myself clear?"
Y/N looked at her reflection. She saw the dark bruises on her skin, the tangled hair and the lingering flush of his touch. She was no longer Agent Y/N. That woman had died in the rain last night.
"Perfectly clear." She answered, crushing the satellite phone beneath her heel.
The plastic shattered with a sharp crack, terminating the secure connection forever. She turned around, pushing the heavy steel door open. She walked back into the bedroom, her eyes landing on Mingi's matte-black semiautomatic weapon resting on the nightstand. She picked it up, feeling the heavy, cold metal in her palm. It was fully loaded. She could end it right now. One shot and she could walk away as a decorated federal hero.
She walked to the edge of the bed, gripping the weapon tightly. Mingi shifted, his dark eyes slowly fluttering open. He looked up at her, his gaze sweeping over his oversized shirt hanging from her shoulders, before landing on the loaded gun in her hands. He did not flinch and he did not reach for a secondary weapon. He simply looked at her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were filled with absolute, devastating clarity.
"You are awake." She whispered, her voice breaking.
"I have been awake since the phone rang." He replied smoothly, sitting up against the headboard, completely ignoring the barrel pointed in his general direction.
He had heard everything. He knew exactly who she was and he knew exactly what she was ordered to do. Y/N's hands shook uncontrollably, the heavy weapon feeling like an anchor dragging her into the abyss. She was an FBI operative, trained to kill without hesitation, but looking at the man who had laid his entire empire at her feet, she knew she could never pull the trigger.
With a broken sob, she lowered the gun, dropping it onto the mattress between them. "They are coming." She choked out, tears spilling down her cheeks. "The FBI is breaching this building in less than fifteen minutes, Mingi. We have to leave."
The heavy semiautomatic weapon lay perfectly still on the mattress between them. Mingi did not reach for it. He stood up from the bed, his bare chest catching the pale, gray light filtering through the reinforced skylights. He moved with a terrifying, deliberate calmness that made the blood freeze in Y/N's veins.
He did not look angry, but he did not look forgiving either. He looked completely and utterly hollowed out.
"Fifteen minutes." He stated quietly, walking toward the far wall of the bedroom. "That is not a lot of time before the tactical units arrive."
He pressed his palm against a seamless panel in the concrete. A biometric scanner hummed to life, before a heavy section of the wall slid open, revealing a meticulously stocked armory.
Assault rifles, tactical vests, spare magazines and high-explosive charges lined the hidden compartment. It was enough firepower to hold off a small army.
"Mingi-" She choked out, stepping toward him, her hands still trembling from the weight of her devastating betrayal.
"Do not." He commanded sharply.
The words were a physical blow. He did not raise his voice, but the absolute coldness in his tone stopped her dead in her tracks. He pulled a black Kevlar vest from the rack, before tossing it onto the floor at her feet.
"Put that on." He instructed, his back turned to her as he loaded a fresh magazine into an assault rifle. "You are going to need it before your colleagues start shooting."
Y/N stared at the heavy tactical gear. The reality of the situation was crashing down around her in suffocating waves. She had lied to him, she had slept with him and she had ultimately brought the full, devastating force of the federal government directly to his doorstep.
"I never wanted this to happen." She whispered, tears blurring her vision, before she reached down to pick up the vest. "I tried to stop them."
"You tried to stop them." He repeated smoothly, finally turning to face her. "You called your Director on an encrypted federal line, you reported my exact location and you tried to negotiate my surrender. You did not try to stop them. You just ran out of time before you could finish the job."
He walked slowly back toward the center of the room. He stopped just inches away from her, his dark, bottomless eyes dissecting every single detail of her face. He was looking at her as if she were a complete stranger and in many ways, she was.
"Evelyn Park does not exist." He observed, his voice completely devoid of inflection. "The Ivy League diploma. The flawless employment record. The perfectly timed entrance into my company. It was all a meticulously crafted illusion."
"Yes." She admitted softly, the single word feeling like shattered glass in her throat.
"The way you handled Kang's man in the corridor." He continued, his gaze narrowing slightly. "The way you audited my encrypted ledgers in a single night. The way you threw yourself into the line of fire before the mercenary could pull the trigger. No civilian possesses that kind of tactical awareness. You did not even flinch, but I convinced myself it was simply bravery. I should have seen it, but I chose to be blind."
He reached out, his long fingers grazing the collar of his own dress shirt that she was still wearing. He did not pull her closer, but he did not pull away either.
"What is your real name?" He asked quietly.
"Y/N." She answered, the truth finally slipping past her lips for the first time since she had walked into Song Industries. "I am Agent Y/N. I have been deep undercover for the Bureau for six years."
Mingi absorbed the information without a single flicker of visible emotion. He dropped his hand, stepping back to put a suffocating distance between them.
"And your mission was to assassinate me." He stated the fact with clinical precision.
"My mission was to earn your trust, get close enough and eliminate you." She confessed, the agonizing weight of her sins dragging her down. "I was supposed to kill you last night, but I couldn't do it."
"Why?" He challenged, his eyes hardening into unforgiving steel. "You are a trained operative. You lied flawlessly for weeks. You manipulated my schedule, you analyzed my vulnerabilities and you infiltrated my inner circle. You had the weapon in your hands, Y/N. Why did you drop it?"
"Because I fell in love with you." She cried out, the desperate confession tearing out of her chest. "I compromised everything before I even realized what was happening. I betrayed my oath, I betrayed my Director and I betrayed myself, because I cannot imagine a world where you do not exist."
Silence fell over the fortified room. It was a heavy, suffocating silence that seemed to swallow the distant rumble of thunder.
Mingi stared at her, his jaw ticking faintly as he processed the chaotic, devastating truth. He had built an empire on ruthlessness and absolute control, but the woman standing in front of him had completely destroyed his foundation.
"You fell in love with me." He repeated softly, the words laced with a dark, bitter edge. "Or did your Director order you to sleep with the target before you pulled the trigger?"
The accusation felt like a physical slap across the face. Y/N flinched, her eyes wide with absolute horror.
"No." She gasped, shaking her head frantically. "Mingi, no. Last night was real. Every single touch, every single word, it was all real. I swear to you."
"You swore your loyalty to the Bureau." He countered coldly, stepping toward the armory to retrieve a second assault rifle. "You are a professional liar, Y/N. Your entire existence in my life is a fabricated federal operation. How am I supposed to believe that your feelings are the only genuine thing in this room?"
"Because I am standing here!" She yelled, her voice echoing violently off the concrete walls. "Because I crushed that satellite phone before I let them use me to kill you. I could have walked out that door, I could have left you to die, but I chose to stay. I chose you."
She closed the distance between them, grabbing his arm with desperate, trembling hands. He froze, his muscles locking into solid granite beneath her touch. He looked down at her hands, before slowly raising his eyes to meet hers.
"If we walk out of this room together, there is no going back." He warned, his voice dropping into a lethal, heavy register. "The FBI will hunt you for the rest of your life. You will be branded a traitor, a fugitive and an enemy of the state. You will lose everything you have ever known before the sun sets today."
"I already lost everything when I took this assignment." She replied fiercely, her civilian facade completely gone, replaced by the hardened, lethal operative beneath. "I do not care about the Bureau. I only care about getting you out of this building alive."
Mingi searched her eyes for a long, agonizing moment. He was looking for a trace of deception, a flicker of hesitation, but he found absolutely nothing except fierce, unyielding devotion.
The bitter tension in his jaw finally relaxed. The cold calculation in his eyes melted away, replaced by the intense, terrifying possessiveness that she had fallen entirely in love with. He dropped the heavy rifle onto the floor, before wrapping his arms violently around her waist.
He pulled her flush against his chest, crushing his mouth against hers in a desperate, bruising kiss. It was a chaotic collision of anger, betrayal and absolute surrender. He kissed her like she was the only oxygen left in the burning world. Y/N clung to him, her fingers tangling tightly in his hair, kissing him back with every ounce of her shattered soul.
He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, both of them gasping for air. "If you betray me again, Y/N..." He whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "I will not let the Bureau kill you. I will do it myself."
"I will never betray you." She vowed softly, her heart hammering frantically against his chest.
The distant, high-pitched wail of police sirens pierced through the sound of the storm outside. The tactical units were closing in. They had less than five minutes before the front doors were breached.
Mingi pulled away, the ruthless mafia boss taking complete control once more. "Get dressed." He commanded, picking up the heavy tactical vest from the floor before handing it to her. "Put the armor on. We are going to have to fight our way out of the subterranean garage."
Y/N nodded quickly. She shed his oversized dress shirt, before pulling on a dark tactical long-sleeve shirt and matching cargo pants she found in his hidden supply cache. She strapped the heavy Kevlar vest over her chest, the familiar weight of the combat gear grounding her chaotic emotions. She was no longer Evelyn Park, the forgettable assistant. She was Agent Y/N and she was about to go to war against her own people.
Mingi watched her gear up with a dark, appreciative gleam in his eyes. He strapped a dual shoulder holster over his black shirt, before loading two high-capacity handguns.
"I always knew you looked too dangerous in a silk gown." He noted quietly, tossing a sleek, compact submachine gun across the room toward her.
Y/N caught the weapon effortlessly out of the air. She checked the magazine, chambered a round with a sharp, metallic clack and clicked the safety off. Her movements were smooth, precise and entirely lethal.
"I am much more dangerous in Kevlar, Mingi." She replied, a cold, predatory smile finally touching her lips.
"Good." He walked toward the heavy steel door, a duffel bag of untraceable currency and encrypted hard drives slung over his shoulder. "Stay behind me. If anyone wearing a federal badge steps into the corridor, you do not hesitate."
"I won't." She promised, falling into tactical formation perfectly in sync with his movements.
The sirens outside grew deafeningly loud, accompanied by the heavy, ominous screech of armored transport vehicles skidding to a halt on the wet pavement. Heavy combat boots hit the ground and authoritative voices began shouting tactical commands through bullhorns. The FBI strike teams were officially on the premises.
Mingi placed his hand on the heavy iron handle of the safe house door. He looked back at her one last time, the ghost of a dark, thrilling smile touching the corner of his mouth.
"Let's go break some federal laws, Agent Y/N." He murmured.
"Lead the way, Mr. Song." She answered.
The corridor outside the safe house was bathed in the eerie, pulsing glow of red emergency lights. The main power had already been severed, leaving the sprawling industrial complex shrouded in deep, suffocating shadows.
Y/N moved with lethal silence, her combat boots making absolutely no sound against the concrete. She swept the muzzle of her submachine gun across the intersecting hallways, covering their rear, while Mingi took the vanguard. He moved like a ghost, his tall, broad frame blending perfectly into the darkness.
There was no hesitation in his steps. He knew the architectural layout of the warehouse better than the federal agents currently swarming its perimeter.
"Two at the end of the hall." Mingi whispered, pressing his back against the damp brick wall.
Y/N leaned out just a fraction of an inch, her sharp eyes cutting through the gloom. Two FBI tactical operatives were advancing slowly, their assault rifles raised and the red beams of their laser sights sweeping the floorboards. They were highly trained, but they were not expecting the prey to become the predators.
"I will take the left." She breathed out, raising her weapon to her shoulder.
"On three." He murmured, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "One. Two. Three."
They swung out from the cover of the brick wall simultaneously. Mingi fired two suppressed rounds, dropping the agent on the right instantly.
Y/N pulled her trigger a microsecond later, her submachine gun coughing quietly as the agent on the left collapsed onto the concrete. It was flawless, synchronized violence. They moved past the incapacitated men without a second glance, pushing deeper into the cavernous warehouse.
They reached the elevated steel catwalk that overlooked the primary loading floor. Below them, the massive rolling doors had been breached. The cavernous space was swarming with tactical units, armored vehicles and sweeping searchlights that cut through the lingering dust like physical blades.
Y/N crouched low against the steel railing, her heart hammering against her ribs. There were too many of them. They could not shoot their way through a fully mobilized federal strike force, but retreating was no longer an option.
Suddenly, the blinding glare of a mounted halogen spotlight hit the catwalk, flooding their position in harsh, inescapable white light.
"Hold your fire." A voice echoed over the tactical megaphone, carrying a cold, familiar authority that made the blood freeze in Y/N's veins.
The Director stepped out from behind a heavily armored transport vehicle. He stood on the ground floor, his pristine trench coat completely untouched by the rain and the grime of the warehouse. He looked up at the catwalk, his expression as unreadable as polished granite.
He had come personally to oversee the execution, to ensure that his rogue operative and his white whale were both permanently erased.
"Agent Y/N." The Director's voice amplified across the silent, tense warehouse. "You are surrounded. There is no tactical advantage and there is no escape. Step away from the target, lower your weapon and you will be allowed to face a military tribunal, where you might survive."
Y/N slowly stood up, stepping into the blinding beam of the spotlight. She kept her submachine gun raised, the barrel pointed directly at the man who had ordered her to pull the trigger while the man she loved was sleeping.
"I am no longer your agent." She shouted back, her voice carrying absolute, unwavering defiance.
Mingi rose beside her, his tall frame shielding half of her body. He did not aim his rifle at the tactical operatives surrounding them. He aimed it directly at the Director.
"Is this the man who ordered you to kill me?" Mingi asked quietly, his voice dangerously soft despite the chaos below.
"Yes." She replied, never taking her eyes off her former boss.
The Director adjusted the collar of his coat, completely unfazed by the weapons aimed at his chest.
"You have disappointed me, Y/N." The Director projected his voice again. "You were the finest operative in the Bureau, but you allowed a mafia leader to manipulate your judgment. You forgot your oath. You forgot what this man does in the dark."
"I know exactly what he does." She yelled down, her grip tightening on the heavy weapon. "But I also know what you do. You do not care about justice, you only care about control. You wanted him dead because he refused to be bought by your political allies."
A ripple of uneasy silence washed over the tactical teams below. They were highly disciplined, but they were not accustomed to hearing their commanding officer accused of federal corruption in the middle of a raid.
"She has been compromised." The Director stated coldly, addressing his strike teams. "The target has subjected her to extreme psychological conditioning. She is no longer acting of her own free will."
"I have never thought more clearly in my entire life." Y/N countered fiercely.
Mingi shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing intimately against hers. "He is trying to buy time." Mingi warned her under his breath. "The perimeter snipers are positioning themselves on the roof, where they have a clear line of sight. We have exactly ten seconds before they fire."
"I am giving you one final chance, Agent Y/N." The Director called out, his hand raising slightly to signal the hidden snipers. "Execute the target and walk away."
Y/N looked at the Director, before turning her head to look at Mingi. His bruised, handsome face was bathed in the harsh white light, but his eyes were filled with an unyielding, protective warmth that completely defied the violent setting. He had offered her an empire, he had forgiven her devastating betrayal and he was standing beside her, completely ready to die for her.
"I will never hurt him." She declared, her voice ringing out like a gunshot in the silent warehouse.
She reached out, grabbing Mingi's hand and lacing her fingers tightly through his. She held their joined hands up, showing the Director and the entire federal strike force, exactly where her loyalties now resided.
The Director's expression finally cracked, hardening into a mask of pure, unforgiving hatred. He had lost his weapon and he had lost his war.
"Kill them both." The Director ordered ruthlessly, dropping his hand to signal the strike.
"Hold your breath." Mingi commanded instantly, before he pulled a highly concentrated flashbang grenade from his tactical vest and hurled it over the railing.
The canister detonated in mid-air, unleashing a blinding, magnesium-white explosion that completely overwhelmed the warehouse. The tactical operatives screamed, clutching their eyes as the concussive shockwave shattered the halogen spotlights, plunging the cavernous building back into absolute, chaotic darkness.
"Run." Mingi yelled, his hand tightening like a vice around hers. Gunfire erupted from every direction, the heavy caliber rounds tearing through the steel catwalk, but they were already moving. Y/N fired a suppressive burst of rounds into the dark, covering their desperate sprint toward the secondary maintenance tunnels, where the federal agents could not follow. They plunged into the suffocating abyss together, leaving the shattered illusion of Evelyn Park and the ghost of Agent Y/N, to burn in the ashes behind them.
***
The maintenance tunnels were a labyrinth of rusted pipes and dripping water, descending deep beneath the industrial district. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and decay, but it offered the only sanctuary from the federal strike force above.
Y/N ran close behind Mingi, her boots splashing through shallow puddles of stagnant water. The distant, muffled shouts of the tactical units echoed down the concrete shafts, but the sounds were rapidly fading. Mingi navigated the pitch-black corridors with flawless precision, turning down branching pathways without a single second of hesitation.
"How far does this go?" She asked, her breath echoing loudly in the narrow space.
"Far enough." He answered without slowing his pace. "It connects to the old storm drains and empties directly into the harbor."
They reached a heavy iron grate blocking the tunnel. Mingi gripped the rusted bars, his muscles straining as he hauled the heavy metal out of their path. Y/N slipped through the opening, her submachine gun raised to cover their rear. She could hear the heavy thud of combat boots dropping into the tunnels far behind them. The FBI was not going to let them disappear, but they were running out of time.
"They have breached the sub-level." She warned, her eyes scanning the impenetrable darkness. "They are using thermal imaging, Mingi. We cannot outrun them in a straight line."
"We are not going to outrun them." He stepped past the iron grate, before pulling a small, rectangular detonator from his tactical vest. "We are going to bury them."
He pressed a sequence of buttons on the device, a tiny red light blinking to life in the darkness.
"What is that?" She asked, her gaze dropping to the blinking light.
"A dead man's switch." He explained smoothly. "I wired the structural supports of the upper warehouse with military-grade incendiary charges before the gala. If the perimeter was ever breached, I wanted to ensure that my enemies burned with my empire." He looked at the detonator, before looking back at her. "If we trigger it now, the explosion will collapse the entire warehouse and incinerate the tunnels beneath it." He stated coldly. "The FBI will find nothing but ash and crushed concrete. They will conclude that we were trapped in the blast."
Y/N realized exactly what he was proposing. It was the perfect illusion. A fiery death to erase the untouchable CEO and the rogue agent. They would be completely free, but the cost was the absolute destruction of everything they had known.
"Do it." She commanded without a fraction of hesitation.
"We need to leave a physical anchor." He noted, unbuckling his dual shoulder holster. "Something that proves we were standing at the epicenter of the collapse."
He dropped the leather holster onto the damp concrete, before unfastening his expensive, custom-engraved silver watch. He tossed it onto the ground beside the weapons.
Y/N understood immediately. She unclipped her FBI credentials from her belt, the silver badge gleaming faintly in the darkness, before dropping it next to his watch. She unstrapped her heavy Kevlar vest, discarding the tactical gear onto the pile. The fire would melt the metal, but the serial numbers would survive just enough to confirm their identities to the forensic teams.
"Are you ready?" He asked softly, his thumb resting heavily over the ignition switch.
"I am ready." She answered, lacing her fingers tightly through his free hand.
"Hold your breath, Y/N." He whispered. He pressed the button. A split second later, the world tore itself apart.
The shockwave hit them first, a brutal, invisible wall of force that threw them violently down the tunnel. The deafening roar of the explosion followed, drowning out every other sound in existence. Above them, thousands of tons of concrete, steel and machinery collapsed in a catastrophic cascade of absolute ruin. The ceiling of the tunnel behind them caved in instantly, unleashing a terrifying wave of scorching heat and suffocating dust that rolled through the narrow corridor like a tidal wave.
Mingi pulled her to the ground, shielding her body with his own as the debris rained down around them. The tunnel shook violently, the walls cracking and groaning under the immense pressure, but the ancient storm drains held their structural integrity. The incendiary fire roared in the collapsed section behind them, sealing the pathway permanently, and creating an impenetrable wall of burning rubble.
The federal strike force was cut off entirely, and their physical evidence was buried beneath a mountain of burning concrete. They lay on the damp floor for several minutes, coughing through the thick, acrid smoke. The deafening collapse slowly settled into a low, terrifying rumble, before finally fading into an eerie, ringing silence.
Mingi pushed himself off the ground, his face covered in soot and dust, but his dark eyes were shining with a triumphant, predatory gleam.
"It is done." He breathed out, reaching down to pull her to her feet.
Y/N stood up, her muscles aching from the brutal impact, but an overwhelming wave of relief washed over her. She looked at the collapsed tunnel behind them. Agent Y/N was officially dead, buried in the ashes of the underworld, but the woman standing beside Song Mingi was entirely alive.
"Let's get out of here." She murmured, leaning heavily into his side.
They navigated the remaining stretch of the storm drain in absolute silence. The air grew colder, and the distinct smell of salt and harbor water replaced the heavy scent of smoke. They finally reached the end of the tunnel, stepping out onto a secluded, rocky embankment overlooking the dark, turbulent waters of the harbor.
The rain was still falling, washing the soot and blood from their skin. Hidden beneath the shadows of a dilapidated pier, a sleek, unmarked speedboat bobbed gently against the dark waves. It was fueled, fully stocked and waiting for them. It was his final contingency plan, hidden away for a day he had hoped would never come.
Mingi climbed into the vessel first, turning to offer her his hand. Y/N hesitated for just a moment. She looked back at the city skyline one last time. In the far distance, a massive pillar of black smoke rose into the storm clouds, marking the grave of his criminal empire and the end of her federal career. She felt no regret, no fear and no hesitation. She turned away from the burning city, before placing her hand firmly in his.
He pulled her onto the boat, his arms wrapping securely around her waist as the engine roared to life. The vessel cut through the black water, disappearing effortlessly into the raging storm, and leaving no trace behind them.
***
Six months later, the rhythmic drumming of the rain had been replaced by the gentle, endless crash of the Mediterranean Sea.
Y/N stood on the sun-drenched terrace of a secluded white villa, her hands resting lightly against the warm stone balustrade. A warm coastal breeze swept off the sapphire water, tangling in her loose, dark hair. From the cliffside, the world looked infinitely vast and completely untouched by the violence they had left behind.
Gone were the towering skyscrapers, the fractured neon and the suffocating shadows of the financial district. She wore a simple white linen sundress, her feet bare against the sun-baked tiles. The heavy Kevlar, the concealed weapons and the crushing weight of the federal badge were nothing more than a fading nightmare.
She was free, truly free, for the very first time in her life. Behind her, the heavy glass doors slid open with a quiet hum.
"You are up early." His voice carried the same deep, velvet authority, but the dangerous edge had melted away into absolute peace.
She turned slowly, a genuine smile touching her lips. Mingi walked out onto the terrace. He had traded his impeccably tailored charcoal suits for loose white linen pants and a partially unbuttoned shirt. His hair caught the golden morning light, softening the sharp, sculpted lines of his features. The untouchable CEO and the ruthless mafia boss had burned in the ashes of the city, leaving behind a man who finally knew how to breathe.
He stepped behind her, wrapping his strong arms securely around her waist, before pressing a soft kiss against her bare shoulder.
"I was watching the sunrise." She leaned back into the solid, comforting warmth of his chest, her hands resting over his.
"I received a message from our contact in the city." He murmured, his chin resting near her temple as he looked out at the horizon, where the water met the sky. "The federal investigation has been officially closed. The forensic teams matched the serial numbers on the melted badge and the engraved watch. They declared us casualties of the structural collapse."
"So it is finally over." She whispered, the last lingering trace of anxiety washing away with the tide.
"Agent Y/N is dead and Song Mingi burned with his empire." He agreed quietly, turning her in his arms until she was facing him. "There is no one left to hunt us, but we still have a problem."
Y/N frowned slightly, looking up into his bottomless, dark eyes. "What problem?" She asked.
"You still do not have a name." He pointed out, a slow, breathtaking smile spreading across his handsome face. "Evelyn Park belonged to my assistant and your old name belonged to the Bureau. Who are you now?"
Y/N reached up, her fingers threading gently into the dark hair at the nape of his neck. She looked at the man who had laid his entire world in ruins, just to keep her safe. "I am yours." She answered simply.
Mingi's eyes darkened with absolute, unwavering devotion, before he leaned down to capture her lips. The kiss was slow, deep and filled with the promise of a lifetime they had stolen from the ashes.
The war was over, the shadows were gone and the predator had finally found his peace.
i also cannot stop thinking about the man thats making everyone gay
bf!san x f!reader
content: morning intimacy, clingy!san, munch!san, san loves talking to his girl(not you 1% of the time), oral, fingering, strong armsmsm...
wc: 1.5k
thinking about san...
you hated to be one of those girls, but your boyfriend was heaven.
he feels like his bones were made to accommodate the slope of your hands along his neck and along his mountainous shoulders. you liked stirring swirls with the tips of your acrylics into his messy black hair in the morning.
the sun streams through the half-broken blinds of your apartment, blanketing san in a patterned ray of light. his gentle eyes closed sleepily, practically purring at the feel of your hands and your body warmth beneath him. you lie with your back against the headrest, pillows stuffed beneath your lower back, whilst san lounges comfortably with his head in your lap.
his big, soft hands hold your thighs together like a pillow he fears will iceberg beneath his ear. the comforter is thrown haphazardly over your bed, the fitted sheet lifting off the corners of the mattress. proof of a⊠busy night.
every time you all but shift beneath him, he grumbles and holds your thighs together. âmove again, and iâll lock your legs together.â
tempting, but you did not need to rile him up this early in the morning. san was much like a cat. cute, fickle. particular.
you wont sit still? he'll do something to help you to relax.
the fingers on your thighs splay wider as if to grab more of your flesh, and he turns his head and begins dusting the tops of your thighs with kisses.
âmy sweet, pretty girl.â san murmurs against your skin, a teasing, pouty tone to it. this is how it starts. with buttering you up.
he moves the blanket so his broad shoulders are exposed to the gold morning light, the grey tanktop doing little to hide the proof of his hard work. he can almost feel the way your eyes laser in on his back, and he can't help but smile as his wandering hands move to slip your panties down your legs smoothly. his warm kisses never cease, sensual and promising.
your hands slip away from his hair in surprise, and he nearly throws a fit as he grumbles and grabs your wrists and brings them back to the top of his head. his hands are back on your body in no time, holding both sides of your waist as you might melt through his fingers and massaging your hips with that perfect amount of pressure.
the feeling evokes a content sight out of you, and you find your upper body stretching subconsciously.
âthere we go, big stretch, babydoll. good morning to you too,â san teases you with that stomach-flipping grin, and you narrow your eyes to tease him back. he, however, drags his worked, big hands down your waist, along the curve of your hips, back down to your thighs, where he wastes no time in spreading your legs in a way that can only be described as greedily.
âi wanna say good morning to her tooâŠâ he growls very quietly under his breath, hastily pushing your thighs back and up against your stomach. âshe's always so happy to see me.â
the evidence of âher excitementâ is clear: strings of arousal that cling to your lips, spread nice and pretty from the way san holds your legs open. his hands travel along your outer thighs, up your sides, all the while his head lowers between your thighs, eager.
âyou were excited first,â you attempt to retort, to resume some semblance of control. you knew you had none; you were so weak for him. and when his heated tongue lay flat against your cunt, and his thumbs pressed into your lower stomach, you had only been proven right.
he squeezed your body like a stress toy, the muscles in his back twitching with every register of your taste. he moaned, so prettily. his mouth moved slowly and deliberately. leisurely, open-mouth kisses. deep, wide licks and hungry swallows. anyone he could tell he was doing it 100% for you would know he was lying if they saw and heard the way san was making out with your pussy.
your head falls back against the headboard, the bones in your legs liquefying as your boyfriend eats breakfast.
âhello, beautiful,â he purrs into a suckling kiss against your clit, and you feel an overwhelming mix of emotions come over you. you grip his hair harder, and he bites his bottom lip with a grin and a laugh as he spits between your pussy lips.
shame, embarrassment, arousal that burned too bright, it ached low in your stomach. you hated it when he talked to your cunt. but the way your stomach tightened in response spoke volumes every time.
when he starts kneading your lower stomach, deep and slow like he was working knots out of you, and gently kitten licking right under your clit, you pull his hair so hard he hisses in pain.
âaww, baby, youâre making this so hard for me.â san pouts and one of his hands lightly smacks your stomach. âi'm tryna keep you clean, but you won't stop dripping all over the sheets, always so messy!â
you sniffle and moan, one of his hands falling away from your waist and slithering between your legs, gathering the stickiness he's pulled out of you all over his middle fingers.
your body twitches at the new touch, and san moans long and low around your clit as he slides his fingers knuckle deep inside you, quick to scrape against that spot, and stars were bursting at the back of your skull.
âd-oh fuck⊠s-san, mmmâŠâ your words dissolved into mindless, blissful pleasure. a horny smile spreads across your lips as san pushes his fingers deeper into your cunt.
âmy gorgeous, sloppy girl.â san slurs against your pussy, his eyebrows furrowing as he eats you like he was imagining it was your lips. his eyes close and his hand squeezes tighter, his thumb presses deeper. his fingers curl harder inside of you, his tongue turns merciless against your clit, and his moans drag feelings out of you that should be illegal.
for some reason, you just could not take it this morning; it all felt so intense for some unknown reason. your hips bucked against his mouth, his fingers repeatedly caught on the ridge inside of you, and your legs began to shake.
san pouts and clicks his tongue out of pity, moving his fingers in deep, wavelike strokes that made your throat feel like somebody was trying to pull it out of you through your stomach. âaww, babydoll, youâre shuddering. it feels so wrong when you cum without me kissing you.â
this is true. he loves to drink your noises when you cum, feel the warmth of your teeth as you shatter on his dick, fingers, abs⊠etc. he would normally abandon the meal and just finger you until you snap, but, god. he couldn't stay away from your pussy.
warm and sweet and wet. your plush thighs hugging his ears like muffs. your nails against his scalp like a reminder of how he makes you feel. he frowns, like some innocent, wronged cat whose tail youâve stepped on. but the way his fingers curl and the way he kisses your clit tell different stories.
the hand still holding your waist, and effortlessly your body against the bed, lands another slap against your stomach, and your limbs jerk.
âcâmon, let go, sweet girl. cum. it'll feel so good if you do, and itâll make me sooo happy,â and he really couldnât help himself at this point. his lips suction to your clit one last time, pulling away with a wet pop, wasting no time and lifting himself and swallowing your parted lips in a heavy kiss.
his fingers fucked you faster, his thumb moving up to circle your slick clit in place of his unfair mouth. he nibbles your bottom lip with a grin and kisses you so deep with a desire to take you canât find your breath.
âdon't you wanna make me happy, babydoll?â he practically begs into your mouth, and everything inside of you screams to make your heaven of a boyfriend happy. you cum so hard you wouldâve thought he was fucking you.
then again, that's how it is with san every single time, and you still haven't gotten tired of it. he just knows what to do, so assertive, so caring, such a man.
coming down from your high, your grip onto his tanktop and bury your face into his neck, huffing and puffing, whining softly as his fingers slowly circle inside of you, working it out as he whispers praises in your ear.
you breathe in the smell of his cologne from the day before, and it makes your stomach tingle. vanilla, whiskey, patchouli, something so intoxicating it's hypnotic. the sun paints his tanned skin a radiant gold, and suddenly you get overwhelmed with the urge to bite him.
you do. he complains with a return bite to your shoulder, and you moan in response. he pauses and licks the bite and smiles, squeezing your waist with anticipation.
youâve riled him up again.
btw the fragrance im refrencing is nightclubbing by celine. he mentioned he wore it in an interview one time and im a huge fragrance nerd and the notes are so sexy
⥠synopsis: you always listened to your friend, mingi, talk about the dnd campaign he was running with such excitement that you couldn't help but to be interested. he was instantly down with adding you in even though the party was already a few sessions deep. in the whirlwind of learning how the game even worked, the fantasy world you'd become apart of started to change your real world as well.
⥠content: mingi falls first but yunho falls harder, FLUFF, love triangle in full swing, crushing, miscommunication central, only a lil angsty, crumbling yungi :(
⥠wc: 9.2k
⥠warnings: cursing, suggestive content
⥠song rec: liar (it takes one to know one) ~ taking back sunday
â°ââ.àłàż*:
kingming: the lobby door code is 5379
11am, Saturday. Mingi had invited you over a couple hours earlier than the rest of the guys with the promise of a calming little painting session. It sounded like the perfect balm to soothe your still aching heart.
With a couple hesitant taps of the keys, the lobby door clicked, and you pushed the heavy glass door open with both hands. The smell of the dusty space as you ascended the stairs stirred up some kind of sweet nostalgia, even if that seemed silly considering it had only been exactly seven days since you were last there.
You soon found yourself at his door, a metal plated number '8' stuck in the middle just above the peep-hole. Too shy to actually knock, afraid the tiny sound would alert every other person living in that building to your presence (as if they'd care), you tugged your phone out from the comfy cloth pants you'd worn.
It was a significantly lower effort outfit in comparison to when you were last there. Tank top, lace of your bra peeking out under spaghetti straps, comfy pants, bangs pinned back out of your bare face with two little heart-shaped clips. The shiniest thing about you in that moment was the sheen of your lip-gloss, but you didn't feel the need to care with Mingi like you did with other people.
epicfael: I'm outside!
The second you sent the message, it was read, and you could hear the approaching thumps of the heavy man's footsteps on the other side, making you smile. He yanked the door open and you smiled sweetly up at him before having that smile knocked away by the look of him.
Glasses on for once, hair damp like he'd just showered, large white shirt hanging on his broad shoulders, and grey sweats. Strangely, unfamiliarly, you felt a little warmth on the back of your neck and a stir in your gut.
"Hey, you." You smiled again, and his own lips followed suit, most of his form leaning on the door frame.
"Sorry, I-," he huffed, his own cheeks pinkening, "I just got out of the shower."
You giggled and he moved aside to let you in, and you could've sworn you heard him take a huge breath in and out behind you as he shut the door.
"Sorryyy, I'm a bit early."
"No, no!" He rushed up next to you like a magnet as you kicked your slides off in the same place against the wall, smile permanent on his mouth. "I slept in."
You wiggled your sock-clad toes against the hardwood before meeting his eyes. "Up late?"
He nodded with a sigh, leaning against the wall, wet bangs falling across his eyes charmingly. "Planning for today."
Your smile widened with excitement for the coming session, but slowly faded again as you remembered just who you'd have to see.
"Makes sense." You forced a wry smile back on before turning away and walking down the hall to the main part of his home with a sigh.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
Mingi had been absolutely taken by you the moment he opened that door. Seeing you for the first time without any make-up, no elaborate outfit or uniform apron. Just...you. And if he truly let his mind wander, he knew it'd fixate on that pretty pink lace showing just above the top of your tank and around the edges of the straps, the way the tank itself held to your body, showing how your hips flared out to the brown cotton draped down your legs. He found you so unfairly sexy in that moment that he literally had to stop and take a physical breath.
As he watched you walk in, he stared up at the stained ceiling, not trusting his own eyes to go where he knew they shouldn't. Not like it mattered since the single glimpse he got was enough to give his slightly perverted brain a field day.
But when he saw the way your smile fell at the mention of the session, the sudden dissipation of excitement that was definitely there, followed by you drifting away from him and down the hall like a sad little deflated balloon, he immediately put those thoughts on the back burner in favour of finding out whatever had you drooping and doing whatever it took to keep your mind off of it.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
You sat comfortably at the wooden table you'd gotten to know as Mingi fluttered around, bringing you a drink, and then gathering his paints and freshly printed mini-figures. You offered your assistance, but he was weirdly pushy about doing everything himself. You sighed, your bruised little heart feeling softened being around this sweet, adorable big man.
When he finally settled into the seat next to you with a huff and that usual cute smile of his, you were starting to forget about everything else. You steeled yourself and decided you wouldn't think about it anymore, not with such a lovely man sitting with you, showing you with excitement all the different fantasy mini figures he had so you could decide on one to paint.
You chose a cute little frog mage with a staff and cape, while he settled on a much larger and more disturbing creature; a long limbed thing with a hanging jaw.
"Yuckkk, what even is that?" You stuck your tongue out at it, the shape of it unsettling enough even being unpainted.
He picked it up between two long fingers. "It's a Sorrowsworn. Scary, huh?" His deep voice was tender and quiet, his body leant close to yours as he showed it to you. You could see the passion for these fantasy creatures in his eyes, even behind the lenses you weren't quite used to seeing on him yet. You smiled and nodded, and he brought the thing closer to your face, shaking it at you.
"Grrraaarrghh..!" He let out a playful and exaggerated monster growl like he was speaking for the creature as he waved it in your face, making you burst out in a fit of giggles. You shut your eyes, pushing at his hands with your own. He pulled the figure away again, his eyes shamelessly adoring at the sight of your joy - joy he created. He set the thing down on the table again with a sigh.
"Careful with these," he started, "they're super fragile. But also I have super glue if anything snaps off."
You hummed and nodded with a smile. "Aye aye!"
He connected his phone to a speaker over on the coffee table and started playing some quiet music as the two of you got stuck into painting, sharing an already paint-ridden paper plate as a pallet, as well as a water glass, and paintbrushes. You mixed up a muted green for the skin of your frog while Mingi mixed up a deep red to paint in the gummy flesh of the monster, the two colours looking awfully festive side by side.
You made idle conversation for all of 10 minutes before becoming completely absorbed in your individual projects, only the sound of gentle acoustic songs playing from across the room and each other's focused breathing carrying through the air between you. He was close, chair scooted closer than you thought it was meant to be in comparison to the chairs on the other side of the table, and, as you painted in the frog's tiny features, the memory of his eyes and his touch re-emerged in your mind again. The warmth of his fingers against you face - not unlike the warmth of him next to you in that moment, making the air around you where he wasn't present feel even colder in contrast. You forced yourself to focus on painting rather than the warmth of your face or the flutter in your belly, but you were weak. So weak.
Your eyes failed to stay trained on the mini in front of you, wandering instead to the man beside you. His big hand held the tiny plastic so delicately as the other came in steadily with the brush to so gently graze little grey markings onto the skull of the creature, making it look like bone. He was frowning hard, not with anger but simply concentration, his jaw clenched in a way that sharpened his already deadly jawline and you could only assume his tongue was pressed firm to the roof of his mouth. His glasses sat low on his nose and he peeked over them rather than through them. You followed the arm of the specs to his ears and then down, where you noticed something for the first time: a beauty mark in the corner of his jaw.
That tiny brush of his fingers when he tucked your hair behind your ear that day completely changed the way you viewed him. He was handsome, dangerously so. Or maybe it was because it was your first time seeing him with such seriousness set in his features as opposed to that adorkable gummy grin. Either way, you found yourself experiencing a new kind of spiral all of a sudden, unable to tear your gaze from that charming little freckle on his perfect skin. '...Have I always been this much of a hoe?'
"Um..."
You snapped back to reality, eyes pulled to where he was looking at you sheepishly, his whole face splotched with red. Caught. The tint of your skin quickly matched his and your motor-mouth moved before the synapses in your brain could.
"Delicious- I-I mean, I'm hungry! I...yeah...sorry..." Your voice got progressively quieter until it was just a squeaked apology, and his cheeks only became a more gorgeously vibrant red.
"Oh, uhhh...," he put his materials down and stood, one hand pushing his glasses up and the other rubbing the back of his neck - which was somehow a darker red than his face, "I can make us some sandwiches...I think?" He looked over at the kitchen and back at you with a shy, sideways smile. You dropped your hands in your lap and nodded, lips pressed in a line.
"Yeah...yes please."
He nodded and moved away, his warmth finally leaving your bubble and giving you a desperately needed second to breathe. Your stomach felt tight, pulse racing, and you wondered where in the world such sudden and electric tension between you and Mingi possibly came from.
'He's so obviously heart eyes for you...'
Those words from your boss bubbled up in your memory and you looked back at Mingi in the kitchen, his broad back to you as he rummaged in the fridge. Was he...? Was that why the tension felt so different and intense? Because, in that moment, it was mutual?
Just the idea sent a thrill through you. You couldn't lie and say you heart didn't react at all at the thought of seeing Mingi in a more romantic way, the thought of maybe just giving a little more flirtiness into how you interacted with him to see what happened. Maybe it was exactly what you needed to get out of your own head and steal your heart back from a man that didn't want it.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
Unfortunately, telling yourself that you're going to act flirty with someone that did kind of make your heart race was much easier said than done. You tried softening your eyes and voice as he handed you the sandwich he'd made, but it came out odd and strained and just made you feel more embarrased than anything else as he settled into the seat beside you again.
As you both tucked in, your phone on the table buzzed for attention. You set your meal back down on the plate, still chewing up a bite as you picked it up and unlocked the screen with your thumb. You were instantly faced with your discord direct messages since you never closed the app earlier after texting Mingi to let you in, and the cause of the buzz sat right there on that screen.
yuniverse: need a ride to mingis tonight?
Just seeing it made your chest feel heavy and tight, the ache from the previous night - of being forced to confront that the man you had developed an annoyingly fast crush on was off the market - rearing its head once more. Reluctantly, you clicked in to your messages with him and just started at the words, the short message itself somehow radiating impatience. You don't know what came over you, but you suddenly leaned back into Mingi, who'd been scrolling on his own phone the whole time, and opened your camera up. He sat up, caught off guard with cheeks full of bread and lettuce, eyes wide as he found himself staring at you and him reflected on your screen.
"It's to Yunho!" You clarified, and he hummed in understanding. After setting down his own sandwich, wiping his lips of the few clinging crumbs, and leaning in, you were ready to snap the pic. You lifted your phone a bit, angling it higher, and he huffed a laugh right next to your ear.
"What for?"
"He asked me if I wanted a ride to yours so...showing I'm already here!" You said it so cheerfully, masking that half the reason for the picture was some sort of feeble attempt to make the man on the other end jealous. It was terrible, you knew that. Terrible and useless, trying to make a man who already had a girlfriend jealous.
"He did? Bitchass..."
That word, said with an audible pout, hit your ears, followed by the tingly warmth of his arm slipping over your shoulder and pulling you in. Mingi's cheek was practically pressed to the side of your head, the other side bracketed by his bicep which felt way more firm than you ever imagined it would even layered with the fabric of his shirt. A lovely blush bloomed across your cheeks as well as a sort of excitement in your heart at how much better the photo was going to be for your pitiful, delusional purposes.
You forced your shaking hand still and snapped the pic, your smile wide and purposefully smitten, his as narrow and alluring as his eyes. Immediately after, however, it seemed Mingi's boldness timer ran out again, just like it did back in the candle shop. He pulled back, face instantly exploding red.
"Um- That good?"
You bit down on your lip through a smile and nodded, eyes roaming over the image you just took happily before sending it off with a single, carefree message:
epicfael: no need :)
â°ââ.àłàż*:
Yunho's long form was laying across his bed, one hand holding his phone up and the other behind his head casually. He'd been mindlessly scrolling all day in attempt to rid his brain of the memory of the previous night that'd been continuously bouncing around his head for reasons he didn't understand - or maybe just didn't want to face.
It'd been so easy to push the thought of you away on that first night after meeting you, especially after telling himself that you were someone his best friend wanted. So the fact that he no longer could because of one single fun night with you set a spark of fear off deep in his gut, a feeling he wasn't used to.
'I should just avoid interacting with her outside of dnd'. The thought was there. He'd had it. The thought was had. But, like the day before when he knew full well he should've just gone straight home after work, he seemed unable to inject any kind of self-control or responsibility into himself when it involved you. He flicked a message to you, an inquiry he crafted perfectly to come across as a casual offer of a favour, a lift, only to be met with the slap of an image response which was immediately followed by the slap of his heavy phone landing directly on his face.
He groaned, retrieving the offending device, and sitting up, free hand pinching his aching nose-bridge. He looked down at the screen again with taut brows to see that his phone had sent a nonsense keyboard smash message in the time it spent mingling with his big nose, but he couldn't even try to care about it when the message directly above it made that strange feeling of annoyance and anger come back.
'When the hell did they get so cozy?' was his first, immediate thought, his second one actually slipping out of his lips and into the silent air around him.
"What is wrong with me..?"
He should've been celebrating, sending a flurry of texts to Mingi about how great he was doing and how you'd be falling into his arms in no time. His best friend since middle school, the only guy Yunho would say with conidence that he loved, was finally making moves on a girl he'd expressed a liking for, and she was seemingly reciprocating. So he absolutely couldn't acknowledge the way the muscles in his jaw ticked from how tight they were wound, the way the backs of his eyes stung, and the way he felt actual frustration at a man he had never considered feeling genuinely angry at, all because he suddenly knew what the feeling was. Gross, green, ugly jealousy.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
yuniverse: agshsjsk
You blinked at the keyboard smash message, trying to decipher what exactly that reaction possibly meant, especially coming from him.
"Can you send me that photo?" Mingi inquired, leaning a bit over your shoulder. Steeling yourself and placing your phone face down on the table, you decided once more to focus instead on the man actually giving you attention rather than the one that couldn't even be bothered typing out a coherent response. You smiled at Mingi, revelling in the way his cheeks pinkened and he leaned back a bit, as if suddenly aware of his proximity to you. It was all suddenly so obvious to you.
"Definitely."
And then came that gummy smile that hid his eyes, the one you felt like you could look at all day. You giggled and leaned into him a bit to re-close up that distance he made, adoring the way he tensed a bit because of it. 'This is okay.' You thought. 'This is better for me.'
â°ââ.àłàż*:
Yunho sat outside the apartment complex Seonghwa lived in, having decided to give his other car-less friend a lift after facing hard rejection from you. His hands gripped the steering wheel, veins popping in his arms, posture slumped in the seat.
The door popped open and Seonghwa slid in with a smile and the smell of fresh linen clinging to his pretty form.
"Can we stop at the store? I wanna buy snacks again."
Yunho let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "Just don't go overboard like last week."
The store was a quick drive around the corner and the two strolled in, Yunho shadowing Seonghwa as he fluttered from aisle to aisle, indecisive. "Y'know what? I'm just gonna get everyone's favourites." He stated, gathering chips and candy he knew would go down well with the guys. But, as he gazed across an overwhelming assortment of sweet treats, he realised something. "What does y/n like?"
Seonghwa looked over at Yunho next to him expectantly, who was looking down at his phone, frowning at the lack notifications.
"Yunho."
"Huh? What?" He shoved his phone away in the back pocket of his jeans.
"What does y/n like?" He asked it so confidently, like it was an absolute fact Yunho knew.
It flustered Yunho somehow, when being flustered wasn't really something the man was even familiar with.
"Why would I know that, man?" He huffed, turning his head away and pushing his glasses up with a finger.
Seonghwa sighed and pulled out his own phone. "I'll ask her." But just as he started typing-
"I mean...she likes guava monster."
With a toothy smile, Seonghwa deleted his half-written message, slipped his phone away into his hand bag, and walked past Yunho with a quick pinch to the taller one's cheek.
"I'll get her one of those then."
Yunho groaned and pushed his hand away before trailing his friend over to the fridges.
Seonghwa carefully slipped the carbonated can into his basket with the rest of his haul.
"I just thought you meant...snacks." Yunho started, feeling the strange need to defend himself.
"And I honestly thought you'd know her favourite snacks." The older man responded, turning to Yunho with sure eyes.
"What? Why? You should technically know her better than I do. You knew her before me!"
"Barely," Seonghwa huffed with a sideways smile. "I knew her only from the new years party Mingi threw last year. Y'know, the one you missed."
Yunho groaned exaggeratedly and followed as Seonghwa began the trek over to the self-checkouts.
"I had work the next day, man. Not my fault my boss is crazy and wanted the store open on new years day."
"Okay, but still," Seonghwa placed the full basket down at the checkout, gesturing for Yunho to grab him a paper bag, which he then unfolded and situated in the bagging section, "you've spent way more time with her now than I have."
"No I haven't." He denied instantly, crossing his arms defiantly even as Seonghwa side-eyed him over his shoulder.
"Oh yeah? I'd consider spending hours at the arcade last night to be 'way more time'." As the words came out, Seonghwa's tone became increasingly more eager and excited, clearly enjoying the call-out.
A rush ran through Yunho, tangling in his stomach as heat prickled at his neck.
"How do you know that??"
Seonghwa giggled, the sound punctuated by the rhythmic beep of the scanner as he made his way through the items on his right.
"Well...lucky for me, I went out with that hot co-worker of yours last night!" He exclaimed with pride, cheeks pink.
"Hongjoong!? I knew you had a thing for him!" Yunho leaned over Seonghwa, the shorter one smirking happily.
"Mhmm. And he has a thing for me. So...naturally I asked him if he wanted to see a movie with me last night after he closed the shop. He said yes, and who do we see giggling together at the arcade on the way over to the cinema?" Seonghwa aimed his 'gotcha' gaze directly at the taller man, who simply adjusted his posture and pressed his lips into a thin line instead of responding. Seonghwa continued.
"But that's fine because you guys are friends so it was whatever. You were hanging out. So what? But imagine my surprise when me and hottie-joong are walking out of the cinema two hours later and you're still there. With her."
"We lost track of time." Yunho finally unzipped his lips to defend himself, even if the short excuse was all he had ready in his arsenal. Seonghwa finished scanning everything and whipped his phone out to pay.
"Yunho, I don't actually care, y'know? You're single, she's single, it's not exactly scandalous."
If only he knew the extent of how scandalous it really was.
"It's not like that!" His voice came out snappier than he intended, and he immediately shut his mouth and stepped back, taking a breath in and out before daring to continue. "We're just friends. It's not..." He turned his face away, feeling heat spreading up from his neck to his cheeks for the first time in a long time.
Seonghwa sighed and grabbed his bag of goodies before silently leading Yunho out of the shop and back to the car. The two tumbled in, Seonghwa placing the bag between his feet in the foot-well. They sat for a couple seconds, silence hanging awkwardly.
"Hwa, listen..." Yunho started, voice intentionally soft, "sorry for, like, kind of raising my voice at you..."
"It's okay," Seonghwa reassured, his sweet voice as gentle as usual. But then the silence overtook once more.
"I'm kind of surprised," Seonghwa started, making Yunho look over at him for the first time in a couple minutes, "that you're driving me to Mingi's at all. You're usually there before the rest of us. And what happened to no longer driving around bums like me?"
The slight joke cracked the tension between them and Yunho smiled a bit, if even for a few seconds. He looked back down into his lap and pulled his phone out again to gaze at the lack of notifications once more, brow scrunching.
"Mingi...already has someone over." He didn't specify it was you, as if afraid that just saying it out loud would physically hurt.
"Oh. Ohhhh." Seonghwa turned in his seat to better face Yunho. "That's why you've been so grumpy today. You're jealous!" Seonghwa's smile was wide and excited.
"What?? No, I'm- no!" Yunho immediately denied, glasses slipping down his nose in his fluster. 'I didn't even say her name!?'
Seonghwa placed a hand on the other man's shoulder with a gentle mother-ness.
"Yunho, my bi-curious friend. It's okay. I always knew there was something special between you and Mingi. Don't fret, I literally went out with a man last night; I know what I'm talking about."
Yunho stared at the man who was now looking at him completely seriously, his own eyes wide with absolute shock and awe. Then, he just laughed. Really laughed. For the first time in what felt like decades.
"Do you just ship me with everyone??" Yunho playfully pushed the man back before strapping his seatbelt on. Seonghwa shrugged with a smile and followed suit.
"You're hot and bisexual. It's easy."
"I am not bisexual."
"Your vintage shoulder bag and ripped jeans say otherwise, sweetheart."
â°ââ.àłàż*:
You and Mingi had just cleared up the table ready for the other boys to arrive when, right on cue, the buzzer rang. Mingi tapped you on the head with a smile.
"I'll get it. Just take a seat."
Your own smile widened, that sweet one that knocked him out every time without fail. He tucked some hair that had escaped from one of your clips just behind your ear, a move that seemed easier to now that he'd done it once before, but one that still made him go bright red and rush off before you could react.
Mingi hurried down the stairs, almost barrelling straight into Seonghwa coming up.
"Woah!"
Mingi planted his feet hard on the carpeted staircase, eyes wide and confused on how the man got in without his help. But it was wordlessly explained as soon as Mingi saw his best friend standing behind Seonghwa. His wide smile got bigger, contrasting Yunho's uncharacteristically flat face.
"Seonghwa got to the door first. He didn't know I have the code memorised." Yunho quickly explained.
"What's up, smiley?" Seonghwa giggled, only bringing Mingi to show more teeth and less of his eyes.
"So much. Everything is...amazing." Mingi pressed a hand to his chest dramatically, like a love-struck maiden. Seonghwa laughed, but Yunho almost scoffed, barely holding it in and turning his head to stare at a scuff on the wall, the jealousy in his mind at war with the love and appreciation for the joyous man before him.
"Yeah? I heard you had someone over."
"Y/n." Mingi spat it out excitedly like it was some kind of secret he needed to share, and Seonghwa gasped like a mother proud and excited for her son. "I think she...she kind of likes me, man."
Seonghwa's shot a look back at Yunho that said 'oh, I get it now...' before looking back at Mingi and letting his own grin split his face and he heartily smacked the taller one on the shoulder.
"Well, let's not leave her alone up there any longer."
Mingi's eyes widened as he nodded, and Seonghwa floated past him with his bag of snacks. Before following, he turned to Yunho with that wide smile again, expecting some kind of praise, encouragement, smile, anything, and not understanding when his best friend simply trailed Seonghwa up without even meeting his eyes. His smile fell, feeling a pang of sadness with a hint of irritation at being brushed off by the one guy he really cared for the opinion of.
Mingi bounced up the stairs after the two with a pout, tugging on the back of Yunho's light blue button-down like a little kid needing attention.
"Yunhooo..."
"Yeah?" It was a dry, flat, bare minimum response.
"Aren't you proud of me?"
"Yeah, man." Still no eye contact. Still no tone to his voice. Mingi tugged harder on his shirt just as they made it to Mingi's floor.
"Yunhooo!" The grown man whined.
"Cut it out, dude!" Before he realised, Yunho had turned around and swatted his best friend's hand away, his eyebrows set and jaw tense, a vein popping in his neck. After a breath, he turned and kept walking, a chunk of heavy guilt settling in his stomach as he separated himself from the two stunned men.
Mingi felt a clench in his heart. Mostly from hurt and anger, but also confusion. Confusion that his ride or die since middle school, someone he'd always been there for, was acting like such a dick when he should be happy for him. And swirling deep within all those negative emotions was a pool of concern. Something was wrong and Yunho wasn't telling him, instead walking away with his shoulders tense in the way they always got when he was trying - and failing - to keep something buried. If Yunho really thought he could hide like this from the man that knew him better than anyone else, then he really was an idiot.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
You sat shrank back in your seat, the rest of the table now fully occupied. The seating arrangement ended up completely different from the prior week with you at the corner closest to Mingi at the head, Yunho at the complete opposite corner to you, Jongho beside you and Seonghwa across from you. That last man started to dish out designated snacks to happy receivers such as the excitable man closest to you, but you barely noticed with your head down to avoid looking at the man that made you feel like your voice-box had been ripped out.
A cold touch to your forehead brought you back with a soft gasp and you raised your head to see the friendly smile of Seonghwa handing you your favourite monster flavour. You immediately smiled, cheeks warming a bit at the gesture.
"Oh...thank you." You muttered shyly as you took the can in both hands. "You're all trying to get me addicted to caffeine, I swear." You joked lightly, making Jongho chuckle. Before you could put the condensation-riddled can down, Mingi slid you a coaster that had been stacked in a pile in the centre of the table; a round foam panel with painted palm leaves and tropical flowers. You smiled at him silently and he reciprocated, eyes soft and leaving you with a fluttery feeling in your tummy.
Without warning, Yunho stood from his chair, wooden legs squeaking across the ground. He floated over to the kitchen, grabbed a glass and piled it with ice, before returning and wordlessly handing it to you. You blinked up at him, but he completely ignored your baffled gaze as he plopped back down into his seat with his head turned away from everyone else. Once again, Mingi stuck him with a glare not unlike the one he gave him the same time the previous week, except Yunho didn't even bother entertaining it like the last time, making Mingi's brows scrunch further in a way that didn't seem so much like best friend banter anymore.
The silence was so large and heavy that your ears naturally focused on the sounds of a flock of birds calling from outside the window behind you.
Jongho looked at you - with your head down once more - and then between the two boys on either opposite end of the table, brow raised, prompting Seonghwa to whip out his phone and nimbly type something out. With a soft ding Jongho retrieved his own phone and read the message assumedly sent by the man right across the table from him. His eyes widened, shocked by whatever he read, and he looked back and forth between the at-odds friends once more with a larger amount of disbelief yet understanding in his gaze.
"Are we gonna start?" Yunho violently broke the silence, and the two scheming ones quickly stashed their devices. Mingi cleared his throat.
"Jongho." He started, making the younger one perk up with a little 'hm?'. "Where did we leave off last session?"
"Uh...," Jongho straightened up a little awkwardly to address the table, a rare disposition for the one usually with a permanent shit-eating grin, "we finally ventured into the deep woods. It was really scary. We met Faelynn and she told us that we're now trapped there."
"Exactly. And now...," Mingi leaned over the table to position the four mini-figures on the map in a line, starting with the new Faelynn figure you loved, followed by the Sylvan figure, then the Cormac figure, and lastly the Zephyr figure bringing up the rear, "...now Faelynn is leading you all to her tribe."
âąâąâąâąâąâąâąâąâąâąâąâąâąâąâą
The group had fallen into silence after thirty minutes of walking through dark, threatening bush, trusting their leader as she wacked at the brush with her staff to make way. The loud crunching of leaves and various ominous chirps from unseen wildlife had the three grown adventurers behind Faelynn trembling - a sight she wasn't unfamiliar with after so many years of acting as a guardian for both lost travellers and the wood that had captured them, but it still shocked her a little that the place she called home could frighten people as strong as the one's now in her care.
With a slice of her staff to push a few shield sized leaves out of the path, the soft orange glow of flame was visible in the distance, making the three visibly relax. Sylvan's shoulders loosened up, Cormac unclenched his fists, and the spines on top of Zephyr's head that had been sticking up straight like an alert rodent flattened out.
"Is that...?" Sylvan asked, the sound of a voice feeling strangely foreign after so long in complete silence.
"The camp. Come on." Faelynn finished as she picked up her pace a bit, the rest of the party following suit.
The had reached what seemed like a fairly-used path as the shrubbery was squashed as if often trailed over, so the final stretch of the journey was quick. Rounding a large tree, the three lost adventurers hesitated for a second as their leader pushed her way through a hung cloth, the aura of that orange light and warmth radiating from the other side.
"Wait." Zephyr stepped forward and placed their spear lengthways in front of the other two like a barrier. "How much are we really trusting this? She could be a doppelganger."
"She's far too intelligent and...well-rounded for that, Zephyr. You know they aren't that smart." Sylvan argued, and the dragonborn's face tightened like they recognised but didn't like the logic being displayed to them.
"Skinny is right. Those freaks don't do all of...this." Cormac gestured to the obvious camp still waiting for their entry. Zephyr huffed and slowly lowered their spear with a sprinkle of reluctance.
Faelynn poked her head back out from behind the cloth, making the tall Sylvan, who had been standing closest, jump. "Are you guys coming?"
The three looked at each other with a few final hesitant glances. 'Just stay on guard.' Sylvan shot the message into the minds of the other two, and they responded with a slight nod each. With a swish of their tail, Zephyr took the first stride into the camp, followed by the rogue, with Sylvan close behind.
"Quit calling me 'skinny'." The elf murmured between tight lips and flicked the short human in front of him in the back of the head, earning an instant elbow to the gut just as he lifted the cloth out of their way.
A feeling of safety and warmth washed over the party as they took in the camp - much more developed that they ever anticipated. It was less of a 'camp' and more of a community, a large clearing in the dark forest full of small homes built from the very logs that kept them trapped and lit with carefully isolated flame torches that made everything feel homey and snug. A diverse range of races fluttered about with carts of meats, pottery, and other goods, a few in groups with jugs of what the three could only assume was an alochol of some kind. There was nothing about the settlement that gave away that it was a group of people that had been swallowed by an unforgiving curse.
"Come." Faelynn called as she walked directly towards one of the first buildings on the main path from the entrance of the settlement, an imposing wooden structure with intricate patterns carved into the logs that bracketed each corner. Sylvan was the first to obey and jog up behind her with the other two sauntering casually behind.
"This place is amazing." Sylvan commented as he continued to swivel his head around, observing the people that passed with genuine intrigue as he shadowed the smaller elf in front of him.
"Eh. It's all we have...all I've ever known." There was a hint of melancholy in that response that didn't go unnoticed by Sylvan, and he quietly pocketed that knowledge for later.
Faelynn pushed the heavy wooden door open, the strong, seedy scent of pine hitting the group. She stepped aside, using her form to hold the door for the still slightly cautious group. Zephyr lowered their spear to enter and Faelynn let the weighted door shut with a thump. It was a dimly lit, relatively plain room with a few stumps lined up on the left side of the room like seats, some carefully weaved flax ornaments looking like they were from a culture long gone hung on the walls, and a doorway with a curtain of the same flax on the right-most wall. The three surveyed the environment with curiosity as Faelynn broke away and stuck her head through the curtain.
"Father, I have some new ones." The words brought the little elf back to the party's attention, the blunt end of Zephyr's spear tapping against the ground as they brought their guard back up instinctively.
"How many?" A deep, gruff voice carried through the doorway, bringing a slight shudder to the adventurers with just the audible authority behind it. They didn't even have to see the man to know he was the leader of the tribe Faelynn mentioned being apart of.
"Three."
"Bring them to me."
Faelynn dropped the professional tone that she had been putting on while talking to her father and turned back to the tense trio behind her. "Come on." She smiled, as if recognising the hesitance in all of them and trying to dampen it. She held a hand out, really showing the green vine-like markings running around her fingers, hand, and up her arm, contrasted against her pale skin.
The wise dragonborn composed themself first, straightening up and stepping forward. The other two followed suit, the trust they had in Zephyr bolstering them to have some courage, especially in the uncertain situation they'd found themselves in.
The three pushed through the curtain and were instantly met with a face that matched the intimidating voice. Another elf sat behind a large, sturdy desk, hand around a quill that had, assumedly, been scratching at the parchment in front of him. He was older, Sylvan estimating the man of his race to be at least three to four hundred years old, and he gave off the aura to prove it. His dirty-blonde hair, slicked back, was streaked with grey, crows feet at his narrow eyes, forehead lined with wrinkles. His ears were sharp and lined with silver pieces of jewellery from the tips to the lobes. Matching silver chains hung around his neck, bracelets clung to each wrist, and rings wrapped around each thick finger. The same vine-like markings that branded Faelynn also wound up the man's arms to his surprisingly large biceps and broad shoulders, leading under the hem of a brown tunic that stretched across his robust chest, the fabric stuck with leaves and various other flora.
His eyes froze the three in place, gaze analysing the group as a whole before regarding each of them individually with a scrutiny that made their skin bloom with goosebumps. Then, without a single word directed to any them, he looked back down at the paperwork before him.
"There's an empty hut near the fields. It's meant for two but I'm sure they can make it work. Take them there, Fae."
"Of course, father."
"Wait." He had no idea where he got the fortitude, but Sylvan stepped up to the desk with a firmness that made the previously unbothered man actually acknowledge him with his gaze. "We're looking for someone."
The man looked over Sylvan once, narrow glare widening just a bit when his eyes landed on the younger elves pointed ears. He put his quill down and knotted his fingers as he laid his arms on the desk.
"Who? Someone you know?"
"No...a woman we're trying to return to her family."
The older man scoffed, an amused smirk on his lips.
"That's not happening." He said matter-of-factly. "You really walked into these cursed woods with the delusion of rescuing someone?" His tone was critical yet thoroughly entertained.
"We had no knowledge of the curse, sir." Zephyr responded, stepping forward to back up Sylvan against the pressure of the authoritative man before them.
"...Solas. Don't call me 'sir'." Solas' eyes had darted to the armoured dragonborn before floating back over to Sylvan with a raised brow. He looked the other elf over once more before sighing. "We don't often get elves in here...and they're always young children. But you...you're at least 100 years old, aren't you...?"
"Sylvan."
The ironic name pulled another huffed laugh from the older man.
"Sylvan. You're an elf...unaware of the curse on these woods?"
The question sent a ripple of confusion and tension through the group, Cormac and Zephyr now both staring at the elf they'd been travelling alongside with eyes swirling with distrust. Sylvan stood up straighter, unease and a spot of panic outlining his tall frame.
"I...I didn't..."
"Who raised you, son?" Solas stood, a bit of father-like empathy slipping through from the cracks in his intimidating exterior. Sylvan swallowed, eyes widening before drooping to stare at the cracks in the floor. His fingers curled in the fabric of his pants, and when he spoke again it was watery and reluctant.
"...No one...," he murmured quietly at first, "I did."
The doubt in his party-mates eyes instantly faded, replaced with a sort-of awkward yet soft and sympathetic gaze. Sylvan's shoulders were trembling and he bit down on his lip, eyes trained on his own feet below him. Solas hummed with understanding and sat back down, his demeanour softened.
"Fae, take them to the spare hut."
Faelynn nodded and moved towards the door, but Zephyr stepped up again with determination.
"The woman-"
"Go to the hut." Solas ordered, eyes hard on the cleric. "You three look exhausted. Rest. Come back to me in a few days." He left no room for argument. Zephyr tensed their jaw before nodding obediently.
With a heavy sigh, Cormac turned on his heel.
"Thank The Lord. I need a real bed." The brash rogue wandered out through the curtain first, arms stretched behind his head. It was one of his usual annoying, misplaced comments, but it was effective in breaking the somber tension in the room.
Sylvan was still stuck in place, shaking like a leaf. Zephyr stepped over and placed a gentle, clawed hand on the man's back, soothing just a bit of whatever storm was swirling inside and bringing him back to the moment. With a swish, he turned and pushed past Zephyr beside him and Faelynn at the door, steps as heavy as the cloud above his head. Faelynn watched his back before turning to the dragonborn with a wry smile.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
"This is it." Faelynn gestured to the small log-cabin type building, a square structure with two even smaller off-shoot rooms that the group assumed were the bedrooms. Cormac and Sylvan wasted no time in heading inside, leaving the more well-mannered Zephyr to thank her with a gentle claw to her shoulder before following the rest of their party inside.
The door shut heavily and the cozy living room had that same pungent pine smell as the tribe-chief's office, decorated similarly with the addition of seating weaved with what looked like the same flax they'd already seen, a wooden counter for preparing food, and a chest for storage.
"There's only two bedrooms," Zephyr started, "so we have to decide who gets a room to themself and who has to share."
That was the plan, but the heavy-footed elf had already made the decision, disappering into one of the rooms with a slam of the door. Cormac's face scrunched up in irritation and he was already moving to follow Sylvan.
"That asshole!"
"Cormac." Zephyr clapped a scaled palm onto the angry rogue's shoulder, stopping him. "Let's leave him."
Cormac glared up at the tall dragon, eyebrows and lips twitching like he was ready to argue. But, reluctantly, he kept his complaints down and pushed Zephyr's claw away before heading for the other room on the opposite side of the cabin, a string of frustrated mumbles escaping from between his lips.
âŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁâŁ
"I'll just rest up on the couch." Seonghwa stated with a smile.
"Alright. Zephyr sets their staff down and slumps onto the woven-flax couch with a sigh. And we'll leave it there for today." Mingi nodded, closing the heavy book he had open behind his privacy screen.
"Yunho! You have me so curious of your backstory now." Jongho said excitedly, leaning over the table towards the man on the other side. Yunho smiled, a bit loosened up after the session.
"Yeah? I'm pretty proud of Sylvan, actually. I can't lie." He replied, a little shy but that pride obviously slipping through.
"He's really cool, Yunho..." You mumbled with a shy little smile, making the man finally look at you for the first time since you damn near fell for him at the arcade. And, God, did his gaze still scramble your insides.
He smiled and looked down at the table, fingers gently tugging at the bracelet on his opposite wrist. "Faelynn is awesome too. And her father. Did you make him as well?"
You nodded eagerly as you leaned forward, feeling the fixation you'd developed for your characters surging. "Mhmm. I got a bit too into all the...character stuff."
Your cheeks were warm, that familiar flutter in your chest returning with a vengeance.
"There's no such thing as 'too into it'," Mingi cut in, your eyes naturally flickering over to him, and you didn't notice the way Yunho's barely-there smile fell completely because of it, "It's amazing."
His sweet words effortlessly softened your heart and your already warm face turned the temperature up even further. With a bashful giggle, you looked down at the table, giving Mingi's expression the opportunity to do a quick change just like his best friend, which he used to shoot the man himself another one of his signature playful warning glares.
It was a joke, or it was meant to be, but in that second Yunho's chair was shoved back as he stood, large hands flat on the table to push his weight up. He huffed and stalked away, disappearing down the hallway and leaving the four of you stunned and confused. Whatever light had come back to the usually energetic Yunho had been ripped away again.
"What is his issue...?" Jongho murmured annoyedly, leaning back in his chair with slouched shoulders.
"I don't know..." Mingi responded, eyes still locked to where Yunho had disappeared. His face was scrunched and tense with concern and frustration, teeth sunk into his bottom lip. With a hefty sigh, Seonghwa stood and followed the run-away.
"Let mom handle it." Jongho chuckled softly, digging into the bag of gummy worms Yunho and Seonghwa had brought in for him.
"Mom?" You questioned, hands knotted awkwardly in your lap.
"Yeah. Seonghwa kind of mothers the rest of us. So, he's like the group mom."
You nodded slowly, your own eyes now stuck to where the corner of the kitchen wall fell out into the hallway where the two men were presumedly talking it out.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
Yunho's shoulders were tense as leant his bodyweight on the vanity in Mingi's tiny bathroom, his head dropped like it weighed too much for his neck to sustain. He breathed hard, feeling grateful for the small space that sat just a few long strides down the hallway so it was easy to use for respite. But his moment alone and gripping the lightly yellowing porcelain didn't last long.
"Yunho." Seonghwa's gentle, caring, but stern tone entered his ears, the man standing in the doorway behind him. Yunho kept himself from responding, not quite trusing himself not to lash out on the friends he loved over something that he'd decided was stupid. Seonghwa took it upon himself to break the silence even without promp from the man he was addressing. "You are jealous."
Yunho huffed and tensed further, forearms tight, with the long vein that ran up both of them making an appearance. "Dude, me and Mingi aren't-"
"No." He cut off, "not because she is spending time with Mingi. But because your Mingi is spending time with her."
He usually would've lashed out, let something fly like a snappy 'fuck off'. Something easy and childish. But instead, long silence, followed by a whisper so soft it was as if Yunho was afraid of the words themselves.
"What is wrong with me, Hwa?" He started, sighing heavily as if the breath would release the tension within like a balloon releasing air. "I love Mingi. I really do...he's my best friend for life. And he really likes her, maybe loves..." He swallowed hard, those last couple words clearly taking a bit out of him to utter. "So why? It's not fair..."
He didn't finish the thought, but he didn't have to. Seonghwa knew. 'It's not fair that I want the girl that my best friend wants'. The older one stepped forward and placed a hand on Yunho's back, attempting to soothe him, if even just the tiniest amount.
"Have you talked to him?" Seonghwa asked gently, his hand moving in slow, circular motions on Yunho's taut back muscles. The taller man scoffed.
"Are you serious?" He finally looked up at Seonghwa like he'd just spoken some foreign language. "How would I tell my best friend that I have feelings for the girl that will probably be his girlfriend within the next week?" His deep voice cracked on the word 'feelings' and he let his head hang once more, the back of his neck turning red.
Seonghwa felt his heart clench hearing just how watery the man's voice sounded, a tone he'd rarely heard from him in the years they'd known each other. Honestly, he didn't know what to say, and as if a countdown had been reached, Yunho turned and pushed Seonghwa's hand away.
"I'll meet you in the car."
He was out of the door before Seonghwa's lips could form a response.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
You and Mingi heard the front door slam, followed by a heavy sigh from Seonghwa as he re-entered the living room.
"Any luck?" Mingi inquired, voice heavy with genuine concern. Seonghwa rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, eyes previously pointed down now lifted to gaze at the both of you with a wry smile.
"Uh, no...where's Jongho?" His eyes fell to the newly empty seat next to you.
Mingi had already packed up most of his things, still idly tucking carefully painted mini-figures into a box. "Said he had to go," the man shrugged, "probably his girlfriend."
"Yeah, well...," Seonghwa looked back at the door Yunho had fled through, "same with Yunho and he's my ride so...I'll see you guys next week?"
"That's the hope." You chimed in with a smile, Mingi's eyes lingering on you for a second with stars swirling within them. The two of you waved Seonghwa off until the contrastingly polite click of the door closing left you alone once again.
You looked back to Mingi, who was gazing at you dreamily with his chin in the palm of his hand. "You really hope so?"
Your cheeks prickled with warmth as your smile widened and you nodded. "Definitely. I'm loving this more than I thought."
That gummy smile of his made another guest appearance as if it didn't completely knock you out every single time. "Wanna...paint some more?"
He didn't even have to ask. The better part of that evening was spent painting again, playing music a little too loud, laughing when one of his neighbours banged on the wall, and eventually migrating to the couch after deciding to watch Violet Evergarden together. Hours flew by unnoticed. There was just something about him that felt calm and comfortable, a contrast to how your body felt around Yunho: heart-rate wild, stomach doing gymnastics inside you, knees weak and skin tingling. Mingi was just...safe.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
Mingi yawned into the mirror as he lazily washed his hands. He ran them through the towel hung up next to the bathroom door and flicked the light off before heading back into the living room. He smacked his lips a few times sleepily while running a hand through his hair.
"What episode are we on?" He asked as he plopped back down onto the couch, eyes on the paused screen where he got his answer instead of it coming from you.
With blurry eyes, his gaze fell to your form. Snuggled up into the corner of the couch, comfy pants rumpled, hair mussed, arms pulled up to your chest, and breathing slow. He leaned over a bit to see your eyes closed, lips slightly parted with gentle breaths, cheek squished just a bit into the cushioned armrest, and his heart absolutely melted.
Quietly, making sure his heavy steps were as soft as possible, he tip-toed into his bedroom and came back with a blanket that he draped carefully over your sleeping body. He kneeled down for just a moment, watching you with droopy, tired eyes of his own. After a moment of hesitation, he let his fingers brush some hair that had fallen over your forehead back and behind your ear, hoping to whatever God was out there that you didn't wake up; he wanted to watch you like that forever. But, he settled for only a couple more seconds before his heated cheeks and ears told him of the embarrassment that came from how he was acting.
With one last smitten sigh, he stood again, flicked the TV off, and parted into his own room to sleep for the night.
â°ââ.àłàż*:
⥠a/n: work has been brutal but here it is!!!! ill probably write something else in the meantime between this part and the next but im still loving this so stay tuned !!
part of the hockey!teez series â ateez masterlist
pairing: ice hockey player!mingi x reader
tags/genre: college au, ice hockey au, smut with plot, friends to lovers, forced proximity/forbidden love to some extent, dom!mingi
word count: 7.4k words
synopsis: on the ice, everyone loves mingi. the way he plays, even the way he fights. off the ice, his grades are slipping and he's at risk of getting benched if he doesn't get his act together. if only there were a highly qualified calculus tutor that could help him out, and if only there were a way he could return the favor ...
notes: 18+ content (mdni!), ok sorry i'm a lying liar who lies and work got busy BUT HERE SHE IS I HOPE U ENJOY IT
âletâs fucking go!â
the sound of fists on metal lockers echoes through the inner halls of the stadium, followed by the cheers of the winning voyagers as they barrel through. mingi grins as wide as possible as yunho throws his arm over his shoulders, squeezing him in praise of his performance on the ice tonight.
âbro, that last assist went crazy,â san calls out as he begins to tear off his pads. the others mutter in agreement between conversations of plans for their celebration back at the apartment and who was responsible for picking up the extra bottles of liquor.
âdude, their right defense was insane.â mingi shakes his head as he recounts the last few moments of the game when he was able to shuffle the puck back to seonghwa with seconds left on the clock.
âand you still fucking crushed it,â yunho hollers, earning a resounding cheer from the other boys as the coach saunters in. his own smile matches that of the boys, his knuckles tapping rhythmically against the screen of his tablet as they welcome him in a round of sweaty embraces.
âthatâs what i like to see out there.â the eldest man beams at them, nodding approvingly as the team settles onto the benches that curve through the locker room and look up at him expectantly. âyou keep playing like that, weâre a shoo-in for frozen four.â
âkeep up those last minute clinches,â he commends as he turns his attention to mingi, âwell-deserved mvp tonight.â
âthatâs fucking right,â wooyoung shouts, the boys laughing through their cheers as mingi shrugs in a feeble attempt to appear humble.
ânow, you want to tell me why your calc professor is emailing me?â
the energy in the room shifts instantly, the boys falling silent as they begin to mumble amongst themselves awkwardly. each of them becomes incredibly focused on removing their equipment and hitting the showers, leaving mingi slumped on the bench under the now-stern gaze of the coach as he crosses his arms expectantly.
âwhat do you mean?â mingi asks, although heâs fully aware of what the elder man is referring to.
âoh, you donât know?â a dry laugh escapes the coachâs lips as he unlocks his tablet to display a flurry of angry emails on the screen, each of them more exasperated than the last. mingi swallows, running a hand through his cropped black hair with his lips pressed in a thin line.
with the uptick in ice hockey season, mingi hadnât been the most ⊠exceptional student. it wasnât exactly because heâd been engrossed in late-night practices or running drills when he should be in class. he was naturally an incredible player as right defense. the issue was more of ⊠late nights celebrating wins in scrimmages and waking up next to girls whose names he wasnât quite able to remember when the alcohol wore off.
âitâs not my fault calc is at eight in the morning,â mingi grumbles, rubbing at his eyes for emphasis.
âit is when i know the reason youâre missing class is being blamed on ice hockey,â coach scoffs, âand i donât see you on the ice at six am after being out until god-knows-when. and it is when you canât maintain a passing grade.â
âokay, okay.â mingi stands, his tall stature matching the coachâs as he begins to fiddle with the straps on his gear. anything to avert the coachâs gaze. âiâll start showing up more.â
âno, youâre getting your shit together.â the coach sets aside his tablet and stares at mingi pointedly. âyou fail your midterm, youâre getting benched.â
âiâm what?â mingiâs jaw drops at the threat, ready to protest before the coach presses a finger to his torso to quell him. âweâre literally about to qualify.â
âiâm well aware of the risk of benching you. but if i keep you on the ice while your grades are slipping, iâm gonna have a lot of people to answer to. and itâs not fair for me to let you get away with it while the other guys are busting ass to maintain their grades.â
âfuck,â mingi groans, burying his face in his hands to stifle the sound.
âyou got, what, two weeks until midterms?â the coach grins at mingi, patting his shoulder as he moves to leave the locker room and head back to his office down the halls. âbetter start studying.â mingi watches as his figure disappears, another string of expletives leaving his lips as he slams a fist into his locker.
youâre sitting in the tutoring center the next day, your phone perched between your fingers as you absentmindedly scroll through social media. the university accounts are littered with posts commemorating the ice hockey teamâs recent win, the boys captured with mouths wide as they shout their cheers. you canât help but laugh through your nose at the sight. you werenât much of one to follow the campus athletes, but you knew enough from word-of-mouth that they were a rowdy bunch.
âwhy are you still here?â the senior supervisor for the tutoring center calls out to you from the doorframe, already on her way out as she narrows her eyes at you. with a groan, you set aside your phone and gesture to the clipboard in front of you with the dayâs schedule.
âiâm waiting for my last person before i can clock out,â you reply. âheâs pushed back our session today like, four times.â
âgirl, he should have just cancelled or rescheduled at this point,â she mutters, returning to you to glance at the name of your last student. her eyes widen as yours narrow in confusion at her surprise before a dry laugh escapes her. âoh, thatâs your student? good luck.â
âwhat do youââ
âtext me if you need anything,â she calls out, a smile lingering on her face as she waves goodbye and heads out.
âwhat the hell,â you mutter, shaking your head at her theatrics as you heave a sigh. maybe she was right; maybe you should just text your last student and tell him you were tired of waiting and that he needed toâ
just then, a tall figure emerges from the doorframe. he stares at you blankly, emotionless as he approaches the counter. you rise from your armchair, staring back at him as you watch his hands fidget while he searches for the words.Â
âhey, uhââ he glances around, as if the answer was lingering on the walls. âiâm here for tutoring.â
âwell, this is the tutoring center,â you tease lightly, crossing your arms. âname?â
âsong mingi.â he blinks at you, almost surprised by the fact that you even bothered asking. âdo you not know who i am?â
âshould i?â you arch a brow at him. you recognize him faintly from the ice hockey team, but you could imagine the kind of reputation he carried that you couldnât be bothered to dive into.
âuhâi guess not.â he buries his hands in his pockets, pursing his lips at your apparent lack of awe at the fact that you were tutoring the song mingi.
âokay.â you ignore the fact that he seems offended by you not fawning over him and direct him into one of the rooms at the end of the hall. you flip through his application briefly, your eyes scanning over his current grades and what he needed from you for calculus. he follows you wordlessly before settling into the chair across the table from you. the overhead fluorescents keep you awake with the clock quickly approaching a much-too-late hour.
you settle into the chair across from him, brushing your hair from your eyes as you watch him nudge the wire frame of his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. âso, just to confirm. youâre looking for calc tutoring and youâre specifically trying to improve your performance on midterms?â he nods and you inhale sharply, glancing back down at your notes on his file. âyou know, going to class is usually a good start.â
âspare me the lecture,â he huffs, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop as he narrows his eyes at you. âiâm here, arenât i?â
âyeah, after telling me youâll be late four times in a row in one day.â you match his gaze, watching as his expression shifts at the fact that you were willing to challenge him. he clearly seemed like someone that regularly got what he wanted and you were already dreading the coming weeks.
âalright, alright.â mingi throws up his hands in surrender. âi get it. this is the one class iâm fucking up in, i just need to make it through this class or iâm getting benched.â
â⊠then we better get to it.â
tutoring mingi is like pulling teeth.
his phone vibrates incessantly, he becomes mindlessly consumed by doodling in the margin of his notebooks. you genuinely believe you need to strap him to the chair in order to keep his attention. he struggles to grasp basic conceptsâconcepts that would have been a no-brainer if heâd just go to fucking class.
even worse, he schedules your sessions at the most ridiculous times. the ass-crack of dawn before his hockey practice, the middle of the night after hockey practice but before heâs able to go out for the night and everything he retains goes out the window. he was even so bold as to suggesting you come to his practice and tutor him there, in the bleachers. at this point, you wondered if it was worth the measly hourly rate that you were getting paid to keep this up.
itâs on a random thursday night when youâre in the middle of trying to explain derivatives to mingi that youâre just about ready to call it quits. he nods along until a call he âhas to takeâ turns into a back-and-forth between him and a girl that seemingly was expecting his company for the night.
âbaby, i promiseâno, iâm gonnaâcâmonââ
with an exasperated, guttural groan, you snatch his phone from his hand and press your thumb against the end call button. mingi gawks at you in disbelief, an expression you meet with pure rage as you slam your pen down and shove his notes back in his direction.
âdude, this is so not worth it,â you huff, shaking your head as you prepare to collect your things. âfind another tutor, fail, get benched. i donât give a fuck. this is way more hassle than itâs worth.â
âwhoa, whoa, whoa,â mingi stutters, reaching for your wrist and holding onto it to prevent you from making any other attempts to leave. âiâm sorry.â
âare you?â
mingi looks at you, really looks at you for the first time since youâd become his tutor. for once, he doesnât look like the cocky, overly adored star athlete that everyone fawns over. he looks nervous, biting down on his bottom lip as his eyes dart between yours. for the first time, youâre willing to believe him for whatever reason and set your bag down onto the nearby chair with a sigh.
âseriously, mingi,â you scold, rubbing a hand over your face before you glare at him. âi have a life outside of tutoring you. would be nice to get back to that.â
âa life, huh?â mingi chuckles under his breath and you roll your eyes at what you already know are his assumptions of you. a clean-cut, well-put-together bookworm that spends her free time holed away either in the library or at her job in the tutoring center. you shove him gently and he raises his hands in surrender, a sheepish expression washing over his face as he does. âi mean it, though. i donât want to be a dick. i really just feel like a little bit of a lost cause when it comes to this.â
âwell, if you focusââ you emphasize the last word, pressing a finger against the open textbook incessantly. âit wouldnât be so bad. youâre not stupid. you just donât give a fuck, but you should if youâre trying to stay off the bench.â
â⊠okay.â
the next several sessions are leagues better than before. as much as mingi struggles, you can tell that heâs trying. the phone stays in his bag, the doodles slow to a stop. on one occasion, he so much as shows up to your session before you do and youâre thoroughly convinced he was switched with a body double.
the morning of his exam, you make a mental note and shoot him a text for good luck.
you: youâre gonna kill it!! good luck
mingi: i donât need luck
you: oh brother
you: so youâre not nervous at all?
mingi: ofc not
mingi: i had the worldâs best calc tutor
you ignore the way your heart flutters, even just a little, at the response you receive and shove your phone back into your pocket with flushed cheeks before heading to your own exam.
midterms week crawls along, everyone exhausted and mentally spent by the end of it. you volunteer to pick up extra hours at the tutoring center, enough to cover the rest of your spring break expenses even though visitors slow down. a handful of folks preparing for make-up exams keep you busy to pass the time when you hear someone barreling into the center.
âone second,â you say to the freshman across from you with an apologetic smile in her direction before you hurry out to the lobby where mingi was waiting. he stood before you, hunched over as he swallowed down air to steady his breath. âwhat is happening?â
he doesnât answer, still breathless as he fishes for his phone and displays his class portal to you. confused, you squint at the screen to make sense of his sudden intrusion until you widen your eyes and your jaw falls slack. 78/100 is at the center in full display, well above what youâd projected for how mingi was doing from your tutoring.
âno fucking way!â you cry out, a broad smile etched across your features as mingi nods wildly. without thinking, he lifts you into his arms and you find yourself spun before he sets you down. even then, his hands linger on either side of your waist. you stare up at him for a second too long before clearing your throat and taking a step back. âthatâs insane. super proud of you.â
âitâs thanks to you,â mingi concedes, his eyes disappearing with his own grin before a string of notifications captures his attention. you watch him silently, ready to bid him farewell and return to your other student when he grabs your wrist. âhey, the guys are having a thing tonight at the house since exams are over. come out with us.â
âohââ you blink in surprise. you werenât one to hang out much with the hockey boys and their puck bunnies in the past, but you werenât entirely opposed. âi meanââ
âwhat, not your kind of vibe?â mingi teases, gesturing to the walls of the tutoring center around you. âyou rather stay out here tonight?â
âyâknow, i will come out, actually,â you reply, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you send him off to finish your final session and mentally begin to assemble an outfit in your mind. âjust text me the address.â
âbro, i canât believe you passed,â wooyoung slurs to mingi later that night. the two stand against the kitchen counter, the party in full swing around them as they pour another round of shots for the team. mingi shakes his head with a laugh under his breath, knocking back the rest of his drink before lowering his cup for a refill.
âiâm just glad my ass is not benched for the next game,â he mutters before he takes a sip of the mix wooyoung poured him.
âdidnât you say you invited your tutor tonight?â mingi nods. âis she hot?â
âsheâs âŠâ he trails off, thinking back to his sessions with you. the way you were so patient with him, the sound of your laugh when heâd try to make a hockey analogy to a calculus problem. truthfully, he hadnât given it much thought aside from the fact that you were ⊠well, nice. âi mean, sheâs chill. not my type.â
âhm.â wooyoung shrugs just as a knock at the door captures his attention. mingi watches as he goes to answer, nearly dropping his drink when he returns with the newest guest.
âhey.â you beam up at mingi before glancing around the kitchen to fix yourself a drink.
âsheâs not your type?â wooyoung mutters under his breath to mingi as they stand in the corner and observe your every move.
mingi is speechless, his eyes trailing over your frame as he tries to steady himself with another sip of his own drink. the way your skirt hugged your frame, the hem of your crop top exposing a dangerous sliver of skin. it was a massive difference from the sweats and oversized hoodies heâd grown used to seeing you in. you glance at him over your shoulder, your kohl-lined eyes sparkling more than usual.
âyou need a refill?â you ask, gesturing to the half-empty vodka bottle. mingi swallows, shaking his head before he swats wooyoung and his wandering eyes away.
âto be honest, i didnât think youâd swing by,â mingi jokes, nudging you gently as you lean against the counter beside him. the scent of your perfume engulfs him, clouding his senses as much as the intoxication.
âwhat, you thought it wasnât my kind of vibe?â you roll your eyes playfully and glance around the living room to see if you recognize anyone. aside from mingi, you vaguely pinpoint other members of the ice hockey team and a handful of girls from classes you shared. mingi follows your gaze and scoffs.
âi donât know, you seem a little nervous.â
you look up at him and fight to stifle your laugh as you pour an extra dose of vodka into your solo cup. âyeah, okay.â
mingi quickly loses you in the crowd when a group of girls call you over to join them against some of the hockey boys in a game of beer pong. you happily oblige, unaware of the fact that a certain someone was watching you from the corner of his eye all the while. you relax more quickly than you expected and drift across various conversations, finding yourself particularly enthralled with the hockey boys as they shout over one another on the apartment balcony.
âdude, she was not looking at you.â
âyes, she was!â
âno, she wasnât,â you interject with a lilt in your voice before you chuckle into your cup and take another sip. the boys holler in agreement, wooyoung cowering against the railing with a groan. you donât notice mingi continuing to stare at you from his own spot on the balcony beside yunho.
âbro, blink.â yunho scolds him with a half-grin hanging from his lips. mingi clears his throat awkwardly, struggling to play it off as he notices the way you shiver from a gust of cool night air. without thinking, he shrugs his oversized jacket off and extends it to you with a shake.
âoh, iâm fineââ
âdonât worry about it,â mingi says, something foreign mingling with the buzz from the liquor as he ignores the way yunho hums suggestively beside him.
âguys, weâre gonna play flip cup,â a girl calls out from the opening in the sliding glass door that leads back to the living room. mingi meets her gaze immediately, recognizing her faintly from one of his many late-night hookups. if only he could remember her name. âwe need one more.â
âiâll join,â mingi offers, shuffling in after her without realizing that youâve been watching him as much as he has you. the star athlete persona is in full swing, welcoming the cheers of his arrival and tilting his head back as vodka is streamlined from the bottle into his throat.
as much as you were having a good time, it was a reminder that this was who mingi was at the end of the day. the center of attention, the life of the party. and that wasnât a bad thing, but it wasnât necessarily you. suddenly, it feels as though you overstayed your welcome the longer you stare at the way mingi wraps his arms around the waist of the girl that had called him over. he rests his chin on the top of her head, swaying gently as the cups are assembled for the next round of their game.
you clear your throat, downing the rest of your drink before you bid a hasty goodbye to the rest of the boys on the balcony. they urge you to stay in a slur of drunken pleas that you laugh off, promising to join them another time as you slip back into the kitchen to head out. mingi doesnât look at you anymore, unbothered by the fact that youâre still wearing his jacket. with a sigh, you slip it off of your shoulders and drape it over the back of one of the dining chairs before heading out of the front door.
later that night, mingi releases a satisfied sigh as he surfaces from beneath the bedsheets with the very same girl whose name he couldnât quite remember. her skin glides along his, their limbs tangled as she dissolves into a string of tipsy giggles.
âcan i have water?â she asks, her lips swollen after theyâd spent the last ten minutes around the length of mingiâs cock.
âsure thing.â mingi slips out of bed and into a pair of discarded sweats, his muscles flexing as he saunters back into the kitchen for a glass. only then does he notice his jacket dangling from the back of the dining chair and stills, his mind flooded with the memory of you. he hadnât seen when youâd left, his first instinct to sift through his messages to text you.
mingi: when did you leave
mingi: sorry i missed you
you pause in your doomscrolling from your own bed, a poor attempt to return to sleep as your eyes widen at the sight of mingiâs notification. the party had ended hours ago. his messages left you confused on how exactly to feel. on one hand, it was surprising heâd even bothered to check in on you. on the other, it took him an eternity to notice that youâd left. your thumb hovers over the reply button, tempted to answer before the voice gnawing at you reminds you that you were just his tutor and you had shown up out of courtesy.
you need to go to bed.
âgot an update on your midterm grades,â the coach says as he gestures for mingi to join him in his office as the semester resumes. the pair sit on either side of the wide oak desk at the center of the room, staring at the monitor that displays mingiâs most recent transcript. âkeep it that way.â
âso does this mean âŠâ mingi trails off hopefully.
âas long as you can maintain this passing grade, weâre in the clear. i donât care what you have to do.â he glares at mingi in warning. âbut, iâm not playing with you. i donât want to see any more surprise emails from academia when weâre in crunch time.â
âyou got it.â mingi nods, relief flooding his senses.
ânow, get on the ice.â
mingi trudges back into the locker room after a grueling set of drills, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and his muscles trembling from overexertion. he canât figure out why his mind wanders to you. he hadnât heard from you since the party. while a part of him wanted to text you and tell you the good news, a larger part of him felt an overwhelming desire to see you.
biting down on his bottom lip, he opens up the scheduling portal for the tutoring center.
âwhat the fuck,â you mutter under your breath as you sift through your scheduled clients for the week. beyond the usual freshmen and your regular upperclassmen, mingiâs name appears at the very bottom of the nightâs schedule. he chooses the absolute latest slot youâd kept available for emergency sessions when someone needed help outside of traditional work hours.
you hadnât heard from him since the party. the fact that he was choosing to submit a formal tutoring request versus just texting you irked you, but you ignore it and accept the request begrudgingly. you swipe back to your last conversation with him, staring at the messages heâd sent nearly a week ago before spring break from when youâd slipped away undetected.
with a sigh, you accept the request and mentally ready yourself for another late night with mingi.
âfancy seeing you here,â mingi says as he saunters into the otherwise isolated study room. you scoff, taking a sip of the coffee you brewed in a desperate attempt to stay alert at the late hour.
âfunny,â you huff, gesturing for him to take the chair next to you. âso, howâd your convo with your coach go?â
âiâm actually in the clear for the rest of the season,â mingi beams, leaning back into his chair with his hands propped up behind his head. âthanks to you.â
âthatâs great news,â you reply earnestly. âwas that all you needed today? you didnât have to make an appointment to let me know.â
âi know,â mingi hums as his eyes trail over you. âi just figured i needed to find a way to return the favor.â your cheeks burn as you avert his gaze, tension suddenly hanging over the pair of you in the increasingly small study room. your lips part as you struggle to respond, irritated by the fact that mingi was clearly enjoying the way he was able to get under your skin.
ârepay what favor?â you ask. âiâm your tutor. you donât owe me anything.â
âwhat if i really want to show you how much i appreciate the help?â
âleave a good review for me, then.â
âyou know thatâs not what i mean.â mingi stares at you earnestly, his hands fidgeting in his lap before he inches closer. your breath hitches in your throat, a dry swallow following as you bite down on your bottom lip. âthereâs no way you donât want to.â
you know exactly what heâs talking about, but you hold firm.
âweâre not having that conversation while iâm your tutor.â
you both stare at one another silently, teetering along the edge of a dangerous line you didnât even realize you were falling victim to. youâd surprisingly grown used to mingiâs company, to the point that you looked forward to seeing him when you had sessions scheduled. the night you saw him at the party, when the lines blurred between your tutoring arrangement and just ⊠you, as people, you knew you were in trouble.
but you also knew that he was trouble.
mingi blinks at your rejection, his jaw tensing slightly as he arches a brow at your response. a smile suddenly spreads across his face as he nods, drumming his fingers against the table once. âokay.â
âokay?â
âyeah, okay.â
âhuh.â you narrow your eyes at him, half-expecting him to continue trying to egg you on. when you realize he isnât, you shake your head and struggle to conceal your own smile. âthen weâre done here tonight.â
you lay in bed later that night, cursing yourself mentally as you scroll through the ice hockey teamâs account. a stray comment from what you assume is mingiâs account catches your eye and you pause. pursing your lips, you allow yourself to look at his photos and grumble at the fact that youâre even entertaining the idea of mingi.
the next several weeks feel like your own personal hell.
all you can think about is mingi. the way he looked at you that night, the fact that he opened the door to a dangerous possibility that you hadnât given a second thought before then. you struggle to stay focused during your tutoring sessions, something mingi picks up on as he smirks to himself. he invites you to hang out with the teammates at other parties and trips to the bars downtown and you reject him each and every time, as if itâd preserve your resolve.
âyou going to the game tonight or something?â your supervisor asks you during one of your last shifts of the semester. she catches you over your shoulder, following your eyes to where the poster for the final matchup between the voyagers and their rival team is being advertised across socials. you clear your throat, awkwardly tossing aside your phone as you shake your head and she laughs at you in response. âhey, no judgment here.â
âjust keeping tabs on my students,â you lie poorly, earning another chuckle.
thatâs all you were doingâmaking sure that your student was meeting all of his obligations. after all, the goal of you tutoring him was to secure his place on the starting lineup for the critical games. there was no reason for you to overthink if you wanted to go to the game. sure, youâd never been to an ice hockey game before in your life, but it didnât have to mean anything.
it didnât mean anything.
the second you set foot into the arena later that night, the adrenaline overwhelms you. the bleachers are filled with voyagers fans, their jerseys in matching colors with the universityâs emblem etched across the front. the scent of spilled beer and popcorn fills your nose as you shuffle down to your seat near the plexiglass. the game is already in full swing, the sound of metal skates cutting across the frozen surface of the rink coupled with men yelling plays to each other.
you narrow your eyes, a shiver running down your spine when you notice the 89 on the back of mingiâs towering frame. he circles the back half of the rink, his eyes locked on the incoming players as they barrel towards the home goal. you become engrossed in the game, understanding very little but following along enough to at least cheer at the right time.
sirens blare through the arena, the voyagers securing their spot in the final with a 3-2 win. mingi circles the ice, fists high in the air as the crowd cheers him on. he skates to a stop to celebrate with the other boys, hoisting hongjoong up into the air to praise their captain. you laugh at his antics, clapping along with the rest of the fans as the team strips off their helmets.
mingiâs gaze travels across the ice, your heart nearly stopping when his eyes lock on yours. the rest of the arena grows muffled, replaced by a faint ringing in your ears as every part of you screams to look away from him. running a gloved hand across his hair in his face, mingi feels a smirk creep onto his face as realization dawns on him.
you came to see him.
even with all of the guardrails, even with being firm about not even entertaining the idea of crossing a line with him while you were his tutor, you couldnât fight the fact that you wanted to see him. something that mingi quickly picks up on as he nods once before returning his attention to the rest of his team.
itâs not more than an hour after the game when your phone vibrates on your bedside table.
mingi: i donât want you to be my tutor anymore
your blood runs cold at the sudden rejection, your mind reeling as you try to understand what the problem could be. you literally saw him for a session the day before, with plans to finalize his sessions until the week before finals. he told you himself that he didnât want to risk not being tutored before finals, especially with the chance of the voyagers making it to the finals. you wonder if you did something wrong as your thumbs move faster than your mind.
you: ???
you: is something wrong
mingiâs bubble appears and disappears for what feels like an eternity before his reply.
mingi: no, just might switch to someone else until finals tbh
after all this time?
you narrow your eyes as you reread mingiâs messages, confusion growing with every passing second. there was no reason for mingi to suddenly want to cut your tutoring short. that aside, the ice hockey team just made it to the finals. there was no way he wasnât actively at a party, three shots in with a girl in his lap. the mental image makes you grimace before you find yourself ready to dial mingi without a second thought.
and so, you do.
his end of the line is quieter than you expected. you clear your throat, quickly realizing you hadnât thought of what you were going to say.
âuh, hey,â you start, âwhatâs going on?â mingi remains silent for a long while, too long as you feel your heart hammer against your ribcage. desperate to fill the silence, you continue. âare you not going out with the guys to celebrate?â
âlater,â he finally replies, his voice eerily steady. âkinda wanted to figure ⊠this out first.â
âand what exactly is this?â you ask, confused as ever.
âyou canât be my tutor anymore.â
âbut, what did iââ
âyou said youâre not having this conversation as long as youâre my tutor,â mingi says, recounting your exact words from when heâd first offered to âreturn the favorâ of you helping him stay off of the bench. âso, stop tutoring me.â
â⊠meet me at the tutoring center,â you say firmly, ignoring every warning bell in your mind as you grab your keys before hanging up.
the study room is dark as you enter, shuffling through the termination paperwork youâd printed before mingi arrived shortly after you. mingi stares up at you in amusement as you scan the documents quickly and slide them across the tabletop to him.
âseriously?â he scoffs as he reviews the exit paperwork in the dim lighting. you watch while he signs each sheet carefully, parsing through the final review feedback before sliding it back to you. without a word, you shift the papers to the other end of the table.
neither of you say anything for a moment, your eyes locked on one anotherâs as the weight of unspoken tension grows heavier and heavier. your mind begins to blur the line between mingi as your student and mingi as the man that looked at you in a way youâd never been looked at before. desire creeps along your skin, desperate to be satiated.
you assume mingi has nothing more to say as you stand. you take so much as two steps towards the door when he grabs your wrist, pulling you into him before his lips crash against yours. a whimper escapes you as he guides you by the small of your back to straddle him, your legs on either side of his waist as his fingers dig into your hips to hold you steady.
your mind races, struggling to keep up with the way every nerve ending in your body is on fire when mingi shifts so that you could feel every inch of him pressed against your inner thigh through the fabric of your sweats. the friction coaxes a gasp from you, a sound that he swallows as he slips his tongue into your mouth to glide against yours.
âfuck,â he mutters against your lips as he resurfaces, his chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath before he pulls you into another string of messy, open-mouthed kisses. you finally succumb to the desperate need youâd been stifling ever since mingi had welcomed the possibility. you still knew exactly what kind of guy he could be. you still knew that you were mere seconds out of a strictly professional arrangement.
and right now, you could give no less of a fuck.
your hips buck against mingiâs, grinding into him as he tilts his head back with a blissful sigh. his hands never leave your sides, gripping your flesh as if it would tether him to the chair before you lower your mouth to the crook of his neck. a low groan rumbles in his throat as you trace the tip of your tongue along the sensitive skin just beneath his jaw.
he hums, sinking his fingers into your hips so that he could lift you onto the table. the wooden surface is cool beneath your skin as you lay back, the termination paperwork fluttering to the ground when mingi shoves it aside. his eyes trail over every inch of you, slow and predatory in a way that has you squeezing your thighs together for some kind of friction. his fingers curl around your throat with a grip thatâs firm enough to have you gasping for air as his other hand lowers the hem of your sweats. the fleece fabric falls to the ground, exposing your already soaked panties.
âall that talk,â he chides, dragging one of his fingers along the fabric plastered to your throbbing clit. your head falls back, his fingers still latched onto your throat. âand you wanted me to fuck you, after all.â he hoists you up by the nape of your neck, his palm holding you steady as his free hand continues to stroke along the length of your folds.
âsay the word and iâll stop,â he continues, all while continuing to trace circles around your clit. âwe can go back so youâre just my tutor.â
âa-ah,â you whimper, twitching against the tabletop as your toes curl from the pleasure. a half-smile lingers on mingiâs face as he hooks a finger on the hem of your panties to slide them down your legs before lowering himself onto his knees. you feel your chest tighten at the sight, anticipation stirring in your core as he peppers kisses along your inner thighs with his eyes locked on yours.
âno?â he asks, teasing evident in his voice as his breath grows closer and closer to your dripping entrance. âyou donât want me to stop?â
âno,â you breathe, the sound quickly replaced by a guttural moan when mingiâs tongue dips into your entrance and traces long, languid strokes. his hands settle on your knees, holding them apart until youâre able to push through his grip and nearly suffocate him between your thighs. he groans at the sudden pressure and flattens his tongue along your folds before he latches onto your clit. âoh, fuck, mingiââ
your hands thread through his cropped hair in a desperate attempt to ground yourself as you feel pleasure flooding through your torso. mingi eats you out like itâs his last meal on earth, his eyes never leaving yours as you whimper through a string of expletives at the way his tongue feels against your skin.
âiâfuck, iâm gonnaââ before youâre able to get the words out, mingi stops abruptly and rises to his feet. you glower at him, ready to curse him out for the change of pace when he slips two fingers into you with ease. the sudden intrusion draws a cry from you as your back arches off of the table, enough so that mingi can slide an arm around your waist to hold you upright. his eyes scan your face for every sign of pleasure, from the way your eyes nearly roll back in your head to the way you bite down on your lip to quiet yourself.
âride my fingers for me,â he commands gently, his lips swollen and glistening after going down on your. gripping onto his shoulders, you oblige and grind your hips down onto his hand before he curls his fingers deep inside of you. the familiar wave of pleasure threatens to spill over for the second time, something that mingi notices as he picks up the pace and thrusts his fingers in and out of you.
you donât warn him this time, your clipped breaths and the sounds you make enough of an indicator that you were close. mingi reclaims your lips in a heated kiss, the taste of you lingering on his tongue as your fingernails sink between his shoulder blades. your orgasm ripples through you, so much so that youâre sure the room is spinning when you finally come to.
âgood girl,â mingi praises lowly, bringing his fingers to his own lips to taste you. before you can steady your breath, the sound of him shoving his own sweats lowers so that he could free his cock from the restraints of his boxers has heat stirring within your core.
you glance down at him, your lips parted as you watch him stroke himself with whatâs left of you on his fingers. mingiâs chest staggers with bated breaths of his own as his eyes meet yours, his pupils blown wide from the pleasure before he lifts your ankles onto either of his shoulders. your back hits the desk again and you swallow, mentally preparing yourself for how much you knew he was about to stretch you out.
mingi eases into you, a stifled groan rumbling in his throat as he bottoms out. you gasp, your nails clawing at the tabletop in an attempt to find anything you could grip onto before he begins to move. he falls into a slow, rhythmic pace, enough for you to adjust to his size before his hips begin to slam erratically into yours.
the force of his thrusts drag the table along the tiled floors, the sounds concealed by the way you were about to scream. mingi bites down on his lower lip hard enough heâs about to draw blood, outstretching a hand to cover your mouth. the taste of you lingers on his fingers, his palm firm against your lips as he picks up the pace so that heâs fully sliding in and out of you. if it hadnât been for his hand, you were sure to have screamed bloody murder.
unexpectedly, mingi presses a kiss to your ankle before lowering it so that you could wrap your leg around his waist. you push your heel into the small of his back, urging him closer as he braces himself with his forearms on either side of you.
âfuck, you feel so good,â mingi growls against your ear, his voice lowered with every thrust. you moan in agreement, your walls clenching around him to draw him in deeper before heâs fully outside of you again. he backs away just enough to tower over you and nudges the side of your thigh. âflip over for me.â
like clockwork, you slide off of the tabletop and turn away from him on shaky legs. mingi nudges your thighs apart further with his knee, his broad palm pressing into your back to lower your torso back onto the table before shoving himself back into you. he fills you up even more from this angle and you grit your teeth when he lands a string of smacks against your ass.
âo-oh, fuck,â you groan, your knuckles white as you grip the edge of the table and arch your back into mingi. he fists a hand through your hair, already tousled from being fucked senseless before he lowers himself to the shell of your ear.
âyou like that?â he asks, his thrusts beginning to grow erratic. âlet me hear it.â
âyes,â you breathe, âfuck, yesââ
âyou wanna cum all over my dick?â he huffs breathlessly as he pounds into you. âbe a good girl for me?â
âoh, fuck,â you whine, your thighs trembling as you feel your second orgasm rack your body. the pleasure washes over you, another drawn-out cry escaping you before you fall limp onto the table. mingi follows soon after, filling you to the brim with hot streaks of cum that you feel trickling from your entrance as he pulls out of you.
the pair of you say nothing for a long while, focused on cleaning yourselves up and getting dressed. the room reeks of sex, the table askew and the windows fogged from the rising heat. your mind is flooded with voices reminding you that it was a terrible idea to have ever fucked mingi and that you needed to make it clear that it was a one-time thing.
you turn to him and before you could get another word out, mingi grins at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. âso, same time tomorrow?â
genre: non idol!au, friends to lovers, lowkey fast n' furious if it was supah horny, mechanic!mingi x street racer!reader
word count: 31.3k
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
warnings: no use of y/n, plot with some eventual smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), car sex hallelujah, public sex if u squint, dry humping, p in v, multiple o's, cum play, slight edging, mingi is a fkn munch, felching, fingering, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation (kinda), breast play, nipple play, bratty!reader, dom!mingi hallelujah, mingi is a meanie >:c, spanking, praise kink, almost pronebone but not rlly, he calls the reader a slut once, manhandling, size difference, body worship, use of 'good girl', slight dacryphilia, he's big, weak ass pullout game, implied marathon, cute aftercare (mingi is a softie my baby) / lmk if i missed any!
author's note: i saw his part in the bad mv and this idea just came to me in a dream. his outfit just screamed mechanic to me but also i was horny as fuck sooo can you blame me :> i apologise in advanced to anyone who owns a car or drives i dont have a license (yet) so i was just writing sum bullllshiiit. my friends and i have been rewatching the entirety of the fast and furious franchise so it also continued to spark this idea in my silly little brain. who knew typing a story with one hand could be so hard... i jest! i hope you guys enjoy my extremely self-indulgent fic of mingi. stream ghpt5!
ps. heres some songs i listened to while writing this fic: one, two, three, four, five
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @puoeri @mingvxs @no1likepepix8 + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
The asphalt screamed under your tires like it was begging for mercy, and you gave it none. Youâd taken the second turn tight. The one with the loose manhole cover that sent most racers wide. You heard the car behind you overcorrect, its bumper grazing the guardrail in a shriek of metal that meant youâd already won. The night air whipped through your cracked window, carrying burnt rubber and cheap cologne up from the crowd lining the overpass.
Your hands were steady on the wheel. The engine hummed the way it always hummed when it was happyâdeep and throaty and just the right side of angry. Youâd built this car from the ground up, and the only people whoâd ever touched it besides you were the crew at ATZ Auto, and that was a trust you didnât hand out lightly. Three weeks since the last race. Three weeks of late nights in the garage with nothing but a socket wrench and a headlamp for company. Three weeks of waiting for this exact stretch of empty industrial road.
The finish line was maybe forty seconds out. You could see the flare of the orange cones in your rear view, the silhouette of the flagger already lifting his arm. Another racer had fallen back to a full car length. This was yours. This was alreadyâ
Clunk.
You felt it before you heard it. A vibration through the pedal, through the floorboard, through the bones of your right foot. Not the good kind.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
Your stomach dropped.
There was a rattling now, coming from somewhere beneath the driverâs sideâunder the dash, maybe, or lower, somewhere in the guts of the transmission tunnel. It was rhythmic, metallic, and getting louder with every press of the accelerator.Â
You glanced at the dash. No lights. No temperature spike. Nothing on the gauges to tell you what was dying under the hood.
âCome on,â you muttered, gripping the wheel tighter. âCome on, baby, just thirty more seconds. Give me thirty.â
You eased off the throttle. Just barely, just enough to keep the rattle from becoming something you couldnât drive home from. The headlights behind you swelled in your mirrors like something hungry. Whoever it was had sensed the hesitation. Their engine climbed in pitch, closing fast.
Not tonight.
You dropped back into gear and put your foot down, and the rattle became a groan that you felt in your back teeth, in the base of your skull, but the car gave you what you asked for. It always did. You crossed the line with that sound still filling the cabin like a bad omen, and you had no idea by how much, and you didnât care.
The crowd was already moving toward you. A flare went up somewhere near the overpass, throwing red light across the ground. They were chanting somethingâyour carâs name, probably, or the name theyâd given it, which had stopped feeling separate from your own a long time ago.
You cut the engine at the turnout and sat in the silence that followed, listening to the metal tick and settle around you. The rattle was gone. Clean as if it had never happened. Youâd learned not to trust that. The car only ever confessed when it had no choice.
A window rolled down somewhere behind you. âNo way your shitty car beat mineâ
âWell...â you said, and forced a laugh you didnât feel. âIt is what it is. Get good next time, yeah?â
They laughed and drove off to collect their losses from the betters, and you were left alone with the hood of your car and the creeping dread that something expensive had just given up on you.
You popped the hood. The engine bay looked normal, from a racers eye anyway. The wires ran they should be, belts tight, no obvious leaks. You ran your hand along the underside of the frame near the transmission mount and came away with nothing but grease and road grit. Whatever was wrong was hiding from you, somewhere you couldnât reach without a lift and a full set of tools.
You pulled out your phone. Scrolled past three missed calls from your roommate and a text from your mother asking if youâd eaten dinner. Found the number you neededâthe one youâd saved three months ago after your last catastrophic breakdown, the one with the shop logo as the contact photo. You dialed. It rang twice.
âATZâs Auto, this is Mingi speaking.â
You exhaled, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened just hearing his voice. That low, unhurried drawl that always made it sound like heâd been expecting your call. A part of you hoped so, anyways.
âHeyââ
âHi, sweetheart.â There was a smile in it already. You could hear it, the way his voice went soft at the edges. âWhat did you do to her this time?â
You leaned your hip against the fender, phone pressed between your ear and your shoulder, and let your free hand rest on the warm hood. The metal was still ticking, still settling, and somewhere deep in the chassis, you were pretty sure something was still dying.
âI didnât do anything,â you sighed, hearing your own defensiveness. âShe justâI donât know. She started making this sound on the last stretch. Like a clunk sound? Like somethingâs swinging loose under the driverâs side.â
âClunking?â He repeated, and you could hear the scratch of a pen on paper. Mingi always wrote things down, even the small stuff, even the things you thought were nothing. It was one of the reasons you kept coming back. âIf it's under the driverâs side... Maybe it's the transmission tunnel area?â
âMaybe? I couldnât tell. It was rhythmic, though. Tied to the rotation. Got worse when I gave it gas, went away when I let off.â
âMmm.â The sound was thoughtful. You heard the creak of his chair, the muffled thump of what might have been his boots coming off the desk. âNo dash lights?â
âNothing. Gauges looked fine. The temperature was steady. I popped the hood and poked around but I couldn't see anything obvious from the top.â
âOf course you canât,â he teased, âBecause the car knows better than to show you whatâs wrong. Itâs saving it for me.â
âDonât be smug.â
âIâm not being smug. Iâm being right. Thereâs a difference.â You could hear him moving through the shopâthe familiar background percussion of a metal door swinging open, the overhead lights buzzing to life. He was already walking toward the bay. âWhere are you? Still on the industrial stretch?â
âYeah, just by the turnout by the overpass."
âI know the one.â There was a pause, and you heard the jingle of keys. âStay put. Iâll come get you. Twenty minutes, tops.â
âMingi, you donât have toââ
âSee you soon,â the line went dead before you could argue.
You stared at your phone for a second, then slipped it into your back pocket. The crowd had thinned out now. Most of them following the money to the next unofficial bet, a few stragglers lingering near the guardrail with their phones still recording the aftermath. Someone had brought a speaker. The bass was thumping low and lazy, and someone else was laughing too loud about something that probably wasnât funny.
You slid down onto the curb and pulled your knees up to your chest. The asphalt was still warm from the dayâs heat, and the night air smelled like diesel and the distant, greasy promise of the all-night diner three blocks over. You let your head fall back and stared at the underside of the overpass, at the graffiti someone had painted in fluorescent pink that youâd never been able to fully read.
Twenty minutes.
You closed your eyes and listened to your car breathe. The ticking had slowed to something almost peaceful, the way a personâs pulse slows after a scareâstill elevated, still wary, but pretending to be fine. You knew that rhythm intimately. Youâd felt it in your own chest more times than you wanted to count.
The tow truck arrived in eighteen. Youâd know the sound of it anywhereâthat particular diesel grumble, the squeak of the suspension that Mingi kept meaning to fix and never did because, in his words, it gives her character. The headlights swept across you in a wide arc before settling, and then there he was, climbing down from the cab in that oversized mechanicâs jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, grease already smudged along the inside of one forearm like heâd been working on something else before you called.
He was tall enough that he had to duck under the tow rigâs boom, and the motion made his dark hair fall across his forehead in a way that was, frankly, unfair. His eyes found you on the curb before they found the carâwhich, coming from Mingi, was basically a love confession.
âThere she is,â he announced as he walked over to where you where seated.
You couldnât tell if he meant you or the car. Maybe both. He was looking at you like you were the one making the concerning noise. âYou in one piece?â
âIâm fine. The carâs the oneââ
âYeah, yeah, I know. Just messing with ya,â he was already crouching beside your driverâs side door, one hand flat against the frame, the other reaching underneath. You watched his fingers move with the kind of practiced confidence that made your stomach do something complicated. Heâd barely touched the car, and already he looked like he understood it better than you did. âCan you pop the hood for me?â
You reached through the window and pulled the release. He stood, and the hood swung up between you like a shield, and for a moment you could only see his handsâlong fingers, silver rings decorating them, a thin white scar across the knuckle of his right index finger that youâd asked about once and heâd shrugged off with "kitchen accident, donât worry about it." You worried about it.
He leaned into the engine bay, and you heard him hum. A low, considering the sound he made when he was cataloguing damage. Youâd heard it enough times to know the variations.
âTransmission mount,â he noted, pulling back. A streak of fresh grease ran from his wrist to his elbow now, and he didnât seem to notice. âOr something connected to it. The boltâs either sheared or backed out entirely. I can hear the play from here.â
âWell... Can you fix it?â
He looked at you over the hood, and his mouth did that thingâthe half-smile, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to be charmed by the question and failing. âCan I fix it?â He repeated, like youâd asked him if water was wet. âSweetheart. I could fix this car with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back.â
âThen why do you charge me so much?â
âThat's because you keep breaking it in increasingly creative ways, and my emotional labour isnât free.â He closed the hood with a soft thunk and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. âC'mon. Help me get her on the flatbed and Iâll take you to the shop. I can pull it apart tonight if you want to watch.â
You stood, brushing the grit off your jeans. âYouâre not going to lecture me about racing, are you?â
âIâve given up on that.â He was already walking toward the tow controls, but he glanced back over his shoulder, and the streetlight caught the line of his jaw and the curve of his smile in a way that made your breath catch. âBesides. You won anyway, didnât you?â
âHuh? How'd you know?â
âYou called me from the turnout instead of a ditch.â He shrugged like it was obvious. âWinner stays. Loser limps home. Thatâs how it works.â
You helped him hook the chainsâyour hands under his direction, his voice low and patient beside your ear, his fingers guiding yours when you fumbled with the latch. The car went up onto the flatbed with a groan that sounded almost relieved. You stood there in the red glow of the tow lights with grease on your palms and Mingiâs jacket brushing your shoulder, and something in your chest that had been rattling all night finally went quiet.
He gave the last strap a snap to check the tension, then straightened up and wiped his hands on the rag. You walked together back to the truck and the gravel shifted under your boots and his footsteps were easy and unhurried beside yours, like he had nowhere else to be.
He opened the passenger door before you reached for it. An old habit, one he never skipped, even though the hinges groaned like they were protesting the gentlenessâand you climbed up into the seat, settling into the seat that still smelled like him. Coffee, motor oil and that cedar-sandalwood cologne he wore ever since the day you mentioned that combination smelled good.
The engine turned over with a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and up through the soles of your boots. Mingi pulled out onto the industrial road with the kind of unhurried confidence that came from knowing every pothole and crack by heart, his left arm resting on the door frame, his right hand loose on the wheel at the bottom. You watched his profile in the dashboard lightâthe sharp line of his nose, the way his jaw worked when he was thinking about something he wasnât saying.
âYouâre staring,â he said, without looking over.
âYou have grease on your face.â
He touched his cheek, found nothing. âWhere?â
âNah, it's on the other side.â
He touched the other cheek. âWhat a little liar.â
âYouâll never know.â
The smile he gave you was small and private, just for the dark of the truck, and you turned to look out the window at the streetlights blurring past. The tow rig swayed gently with each turn, and your car rocked on the flatbed behind you with a soft metallic creak that sounded almost like a lullaby. You hadnât realized how tired you were until the adrenaline drained out of you all at once, leaving you hollow and heavy-limbed.
You pressed your forehead against the cool glass and let your eyes drift half-shut. The engine hummed quietly. Mingiâs thumb tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel tapping along to a beat of a song you couldnât quite recognise. The streetlights strobed across your closed eyelids in warm amber pulses.
You didnât remember falling asleep. One moment you were watching the city slide past in streaks of neon and shadow, and the next there was nothingâjust the deep, dark quiet of a body that had decided it was done.
You came back to consciousness in pieces.
First: the smell. Motor oil and metal and something warmâcotton, maybe, or the inside of a jacket? You couldn't tell. Second: The feeling of being carried. Strong arms under your knees and across your back, the steady rise and fall of someoneâs breathing close to your ear, the careful way they shifted their weight to keep from jostling you through a doorway that was too narrow.
Then: a voice, very low, and very very close. ââsheâs fine, sheâs justâno, Iâve got her.â
You forced your eyes open. The ceiling was familiar, you think. Not to mention the acoustic tile and water stain in the shape of something that might have been a rabbit if you squinted. A fluorescent light buzzed somewhere out of sight, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional pale yellow.
You were in Mingiâs office.
You came to that conclusion after you recognized the framed poster on the wall. It was some vintage Porsche ad heâd found at a flea market and hung crooked because he thought straight lines were boring. The desk was covered in invoices and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate.
You were on the couch. Orânot a couch, not exactly. Mingi had pushed the two waiting-room chairs together and draped them with what looked like every clean shop towel he owned, layered thick enough that the metal armrests had disappeared entirely. A folded hoodie served as a pillow. He had tucked your boots off to the side, lined up neatly against the baseboard like they were standing at attention.
You tried to sit up but unfortunately your body said no.
âHey.â His voice came from the doorway, and you turned your head to find him leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that was equal parts amused and something softer. âYouâve been out for twenty minutes. I was starting to think Iâd have to check your pulse.â
âHow did Iââ
âYou fell asleep in the truck. Like, fully. Head against the window, mouth open, the whole thing.â The amusement won out. His smile was wide and unguarded, the kind he only wore when he thought no one was looking. âIt was very dignified. Very graceful and adorableâ
You groaned and pressed the heel of your hand against your eye. âYou carried me in here.â
âYes, I did.â
You pouted, a flush of pink creeping up your cheeks. The thought of Mingi carrying you alone sent shivers down your spine. "You didn't have to, could've just woken me up too."
âAnd be a dickhead for waking up sleeping beauty? Absolutely not.â He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in three long strides, and before you could protest, something heavy and warm settled over youâhis jacket, the oversized mechanicâs one, still carrying the heat of his body and the smell of him up close. He tugged it up to your chin with the same careful precision he used on engine bolts, making sure it covered your shoulders. âGo back to sleep. I promise the car isnât going anywhere.â
âBut⊠I wanted to watch you work on it," you yawned, clearly your body betrayed what your heart wanted.
âYou can watch me work on it tomorrow, when your eyes are open and you are fully conscious.â His hand lingered on the collar of the jacket, adjusting it, and his knuckles brushed your jaw. You held very still. âIâm just going to get her up on the lift and take a look. No heavy lifting tonight. Scoutâs honour.â
âYou were never a scout.â
âHow do you know? Maybe I had a very brief and disappointing scouting career.â His thumb traced a line along the edge of the jacketâonce, twiceâand then he pulled his hand back like heâd remembered himself. âGo back to sleep. Iâll be right outside if you need me, okay?â
He left the door open a crackâenough that the sounds of the shop filtered through: the hydraulic hiss of the lift engaging, the clank of a toolbox being rolled across concrete, the low murmur of whatever he was saying to your car under his breath. Youâd heard him do that before. Talk to engines like they were old friends. Tell them it was going to be okay. Youâd always found it endearing in a way that made your chest ache.
You pulled his jacket tighter around you and buried your face in the collar. It smelled like himâthe coffee and the oil and the cedar and something underneath that was just warmth. The makeshift bed was more comfortable than it had any right to be. The shop towels were soft from a hundred washes, and the hoodie-pillow held the shape of his head like a confession.
Outside, the lift groaned as it took the weight of your car. You heard Mingiâs boots on the concrete, the metallic click of a drop light being positioned, the soft whistle he made when he was concentratingâthe same three-note tune every time, becoming your lullaby for the night.
You closed your eyes and listened to him work, and the sound was steadier than any lullaby, and you were asleep again before the first bolt came loose.
Light came through the half-closed blinds in thin, dusty stripes, and you woke to the sound of water hitting glass. Not rain. Something more deliberate. The measured pour of a coffee machine doing its one job in the world with quiet, mechanical devotion. You blinked against the soft morning light and found the ceiling tile rabbit still there, still watching over you with its water-stain eyes. You were on the couch. Orâthe chair-couch. The shop towels had shifted in the night, bunched up under your left hip, and Mingiâs jacket was still draped over you like a promise heâd made and kept. Your neck had a crick in it that felt like it had been personally installed by someone with a grudge.
You turned your head.
Mingi was standing at the small counter heâd wedged into the corner of his office. The one that held the coffee maker, a stack of paper cups, and a jar of sugar packets that had been there so long the paper had gone soft at the edges.
He had his back to you. White tank top, the ribbed kind, worn soft from too many washes, and dark denim that sat low on his hipsânot a mechanicâs uniform, not a work shirt. Something heâd changed into. His hair was damp at the temples, like heâd splashed water on his face recently, and you could see the shift of muscle in his bare arms as he measured something into the machine with the kind of focus most people reserved for open-heart surgery. Heâd either gone home and come back or kept a change of clothes in the shop. Knowing Mingi, you werenât sure which answer was more like him.
The machine gurgled and hissed. He reached for two mugs from the shelf above, the ceramic kind with the shop logo chipped along the rim from years of being knocked against the sink. One was blue the other green. He set them side by side with the care of someone arranging chess pieces.
He pulled the carafe and poured it into the blue mug first. Two sugars. A splash of the creamer from the mini-fridge under the counterâthe oat milk kind, the specific brand youâd mentioned exactly once, six months ago, when heâd handed you a black coffee and youâd said "oh, I usually take it withâ" and heâd cut you off with "oat milk, two sugars, I know, I was testing you."
He didnât look over. Didnât ask. Just poured the oat milk in with the same steady hand he used on transmission fluid, stirred it twice with a spoon that had the ATZ logo printed on the handle, and set it on the edge of the desk closest to where you were lying.
The green mug got black. Nothing in it. He took a sip straight from the carafe before setting it back on the warmer, and you watched the line of his throat move when he swallowed, and you thought about how unfair it was that a person could look like that atâyou squinted at the clock on the wallâseven-forty in the morning.
âMorning,â he greeted, his back was still facing you. âYou snore, by the way. Just so you know. Itâs not loud. Itâs more of aââ He made a small, rhythmic puffing sound with his lips. âLike a cute little engine trying to start on a cold morning.â
You scoffed. âI do not snore.â
âYou absolutely snore.â He turned finally, leaning his hip against the counter with his mug cradled in both hands. âItâs cute, though. Donât worry about it.â
The morning light caught his eyes and made them warmer than they had any right to be. The cut on his left thumb was wrapped in electrical tape because of course it was. His hair had dried crooked from wherever heâd splashed water on his face, pushed back and slightly flattened on one side, and there was a shadow of his stubble catching the lightâalong the line of his jaw. You looked at all of it and felt a low, private irritation settle in your chest. Just how could someone look so beautiful?
You sat up slowly, wincing as the kink in your neck announced itself with a crack that echoed off the acoustic tile. His jacket slid down to your lap, and you caught it before it hit the floor and pulled it back over your shoulders. The coffee was right there, steam curling up in lazy spirals, and you reached for it and wrapped both hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into your palms.
âHow long have you been up?â you asked, taking the first sip. The coffee hit your bloodstream like a jumpstart cable.
âSince about four.â He took a drink from his own mug, watching you over the rim. âGot as far as I could on the car, then hit a wallâparts house doesnât open until eight. So.â He lifted a shoulder. âI reorganized the tool wall.â
You raised an eyebrow, âAt four in the morning? Really?â
âThe socket wrench set was out of order,â he insisted, like that explained everything, and in the context of Mingiâs brain, maybe it did. âIt was bothering me.â
You held the mug against your chest and studied himâthe way he stood in the morning light like heâd been built for it, all long lines and easy posture, the white shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he spent most of his waking hours lifting things heavier than himself.
âHowâs my car?â
Something shifted in his expression. He set his mug down on the counter and crossed his arms, and you watched the fabric pull across his chest and tried very hard to focus on his words and not the way the morning light was doing something illegal to the line of his shoulders.
âTransmission mount bolt sheared clean through,â he explains, âRight at the base. The threads are still in the block, which is the good newsâI didnât have to drill and tap new ones. The bad news is that the mount itself took some damage when it came loose. Thereâs a crack along the bracket on the driverâs side. Not catastrophic, but it needs replacing.â
You closed your eyes. âThank God it wasn't that bad. How much do I owe you?â
âTaking into everything into account,â He paused, and you could hear him doing the math in his head, always honest, never padding. âThree-fifty, maybe four hundred. Iâll have to call the parts house when they open to confirm the bracket price.â
You opened your eyes. He was watching you with that careful, measured lookâthe one that meant he was already running through the options, the payment plans, the ways he could make it hurt less.
Mingi had never once pressed you for money. Heâd let you pay in installments more times than either of you could count, and there was a running tab on a sticky note on his monitor that had your name at the top and a number that would have made a bank manager faint.
âI can pay up front,â you werenât entirely sure that was true, but you said it anyway because pride was a thing youâd never fully excised from your system. âIâve got some cash fromâfrom last night.â
âFrom the race.â He replied it flatly, without judgment, but you heard the the underlying concern he always had for you. âHow much did you take?â
âMore than enough, thankfully.â You took another sip of coffee. âThe other racer had a big ego and a bigger wallet. It worked out.â
âMmm.â The sound was noncommittal, which from Mingi meant he had opinions he was choosing not to share. He picked up his mug again and tilted his head toward the door. âYou want to see her?â
You were already standing. The shop towels rustled to the floor as you swung your legs off the makeshift bed, and you pulled Mingiâs jacket over your shoulders because the morning air coming through the cracked window was sharper than you expected. Your boots were still lined up by the baseboard, and you stepped into them and laced them quickly, fingers still clumsy with sleep. He held the door open for you as you walked past him into the shop proper.
The overhead fluorescents were already on, buzzing their familiar yellow-white hymn, and the air smelled the way it always smelled in hereâmetal and solvent and the particular sweetness of fresh rubber. The shop was organized chaos: tool chests along the far wall, each drawer labeled in Mingiâs careful handwriting; a rolling cart stacked with parts bins; the hydraulic lift in the center bay, and on itâ
Your car.
She was up on the lift, raised to chest height, and the undercarriage was exposed in a way that felt almost intimateâthe transmission tunnel open, the exhaust piping curled along the frame like veins, the differential housing gleaming with fresh grease where Mingi had been working. You could see the damage from here: the empty bolt hole where the mount should have been secured, the cracked bracket hanging at an angle that made your stomach clench. There was a new bolt already threaded partway in, shiny and clean against the old, oil-darkened metal around it.
Mingi came to stand beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he pointed. âSee there? The crack runs along the weld line. Itâs been stressed out for a whileâthis didnât happen last night. This has been a gradual build upâ
You crouched down to get a better look, and Mingi crouched with you, his knees popping softly. His shoulder pressed against yours, warm and solid, and you could feel the heat of him through the jacket, through your shirt, through the thin barrier of everything you both werenât saying.
âHow long has it been building?â you asked.
âHard to say. A few weeks, maybe. You said you tuned it yourselfâwhen was the last time you had the transmission out?â
âThree months ago. When you replaced the clutch.â
âRight.â He reached past youâhis arm extending over your shoulder, his chest nearly against your backâand tapped the bracket with one finger. The metal gave a dull, hollow sound that confirmed everything heâd already told you. âThe mount was probably already compromised then. The new clutch put more torque through it, and the racing justââ He made a sound with his tongue, a soft tch, like he was scolding the car. âShe held on as long as she could. Sheâs a good girl.â
The last two words landed somewhere low in your stomach and stayed there. Youâd heard him say it beforeâto engines that turned over after a hard rebuild, to cars that limped in and left running cleanâbut with his jaw close enough to your temple that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the phrase did something it had no business doing. You wondered how much better it would be if those words were directed at you.
You looked up at him. He was closeâcloser than he needed to be, his face inches from yours. You tear your gaze away to reassess your car.
âYou fixed the bolt already?â you gasp, pressing your lips together to fight a smile.
âStarted to. I couldn't sleep, remember?â His voice had dropped to something quieter, something that belonged to the space between the two of you and nowhere else. âThe bracketâs the holdup. Iâve got to call the parts house soon. If they have it in stock, I can have her back on the road by this afternoon.â
âThat quick? Are you sure?â
âYeah, Iâm sure.â He held your gaze, and his eyes did that thingâthat slow, warm thing that made your chest feel like it was full of something too big for your ribs. âUnless you had somewhere else to be?â
You didnât. You looked back at the carâat the cracked bracket, the new bolt, the careful way Mingi had already cleaned the mating surfaces and applied thread locker to the fresh threads. Heâd been working on your car in the dark hours of the morning while you slept on his makeshift bed in his office, wearing his jacket, drinking coffee heâd made exactly the way you liked without being asked.
Heâd cut himself on your transmission and wrapped it in electrical tape and kept going. Heâd reorganized the socket wrench set at four in the morning because the disorder bothered him, and heâd remembered your oat milk, and you realized, belatedly, that it wasnât just about the car and it wasnât just about the coffee and it wasnât just about the sharp sting of a cut wrapped in cheap tape. It was the sum of it, the way it all stacked up into a scaffolding of care, a habit of showing up for you that had never announced itself as anything special but now, under the ugly shop fluorescents and the pale creep of morning, felt like the kind of thing people wrote songs about. It hit you with a force that absolved every sleepless night youâd ever spent wondering if you meant anything to anyone outside of a set of hands on a steering wheel, or the numbers on a finish line clock.
You remembered the first time youâd stumbled into his shop: rain in your hair, a half-dead alternator in your trunk, and a chip on your shoulder big enough to wedge open the front door. Mingi had looked at you over the top of his glasses, rainwater pooling under your boots, and said, âNo offense, but you look like you lost a fight to a lawnmower.â Heâd fixed your alternator for half what the dealer quoted, showed you the basics so you could DIY next time, and called you âbossâ with a straight face even as you stripped a bolt and almost started a small electrical fire.
You remembered the way he never commented on your hands, even when they shook after a race, even when you cut them on cold steel and stained the shop rags dark. Heâd hand you a fresh towel, or a bottle of water, or a protein bar from his desk drawer, and just say, âYou good?â Like he already knew you werenât, but heâd be there when you started to be.
You remembered that night you lost by a nose and blew out the input shaft. Youâd expected nothingâmaybe a lecture, a bill, perhaps even silence. Instead, youâd found a note under your windshield wiper: âNice launch. Shift faster next time. Come by tomorrow, Iâll fix her up. - M :)"
You remembered a lot of small things. The way heâd always find the one good song on the radio and turn it up just before the solo. The way heâd set his jaw when he was about to say something he thought might piss you off. How heâd talk to your car when he worked on them, in the low, careful voice some people reserved for frightened animals or babies. How heâd stand close, when you both leaned under the hoodâshoulders bumping, elbows knockingâand none of it ever felt accidental.
You looked at him now, this tall, loose-limbed mechanic with his wild hair, goofy smile and hands that looked like theyâd been built to break and repair the same things over and over. The cut on his thumb was leaking through the electrical tape, and his shirt was streaked with something dark.
You thought about every time youâd tried to pay him back, every time youâd tried to balance the emotional ledger, and how he always found a way to tip the scales in your favour. You thought about all the ways youâd failed to say thank you, or I owe you, or justâanything that would make it clear that you noticed. That you noticed everything.
The weight of it all landed on your chest with the slow, terrifying certainty of falling in love with the exact person youâd told yourself that would never fall in love with you. It didnât hurtâit just rearranged some things inside you, made space for something that might not have a name but absolutely had a pulse.
You reached for the coffee again, just for something to do with your hands, and took a sip that was mostly oat milk and sugar from the lack of stirring. Mingi watched you, waiting, like he knew you were on the verge of some personal catastrophe and was already prepping the metaphorical fire extinguisher.
You finished the coffee in two long swallows and set the mug down on the edge of the lift, where it wobbled once before settling. Mingi caught it with the edge of his handâa reflex, the same one he used to catch falling tools before they hit concreteâand set it somewhere safer without comment.
âI should go,â you cleared your throat, your voice came out steadier than you expected. âDon't want to bother you more while you're working on my baby."
He straightened up from his crouch, and you both rose together, and the distance between you was exactly the same as it had been a moment agoâclose enough to feel the warmth, far enough to pretend it was nothing. He nodded once, that slow, easy nod that meant he understood and wasnât going to make it difficult.
âLike I said, I'll phone the parts house and if, hopefully, they have the shit I need I can have her buttoned up byââ He tilted his head, calculating. âThree, maybe four this afternoon. I'll call you as soon as I'm finishedâ
You nodded, finding a sense of calm with his reassurance. âSounds good! Also, donât bother calling 'cause I might not answer. Text me instead.â
âOf course.â He pulled his phone from his back pocket and held it up like proof. âGo home. Sleep in a real bed, please.â
You pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders and walked toward the office to collect your things. Your phone was on the desk where youâd left it, the screen lit with three new notificationsâyour best friend asking if you were alive, a group chat youâd muted, and a weather alert you didnât read. You shoved it into your pocket and hesitated at the door, one hand on the frame.
âMingi?â
He was already turning back toward the lift, a socket wrench in his hand, but he paused and looked over his shoulder. âYeah?â
âThank you. Forââ You gestured vaguely at the car, the shop, the jacket, the coffee, the entire architecture of care heâd built around you without ever asking for permission. âAll of it.â
His mouth did the half-smile thingâthe one that meant he was trying not to be charmed and failing. âDonât mention it, itâs my job after all.â
You left before he could see whatever was happening on your face.
You showered in water hot enough to turn your skin pink, scrubbing road grit and engine grease from under your nails until your fingertips went raw. You changed into clean clothesâjeans, a t-shirt that had seen better days, a hoodie that smelled like your own laundry detergent and not someone elseâs cologne. You ate a bowl of cereal standing at the kitchen counter and stared at your phone, waiting.
The text came at 8:47.
Parts house has the bracket.
Pulling it now.
Sheâll be ready by 3.
Donât come early, I mean it.
You sent back a thumbs-up and nothing else, because if you started typing youâd say something stupid, and Mingi would read it in the middle of a transmission job and drop something heavy on his foot.
You spent the morning doing nothing useful. You organized the junk drawer. You called your mother and listened to her talk about the neighbourâs cat for eleven minutes. You scrolled through your phone and found a video someone had posted from last nightâs raceâthe angle was bad, the audio even worse. You could hear the clunking in the last stretch, that rhythmic metallic death rattle that had sent your stomach through the floorboards. The comments were already filling up. Sheâs cooked. Thatâs a rod. Nah thatâs transmission. RIP to another one. You closed the app and put the phone face-down on the couch.
At two, you couldnât sit still anymore. You grabbed your keys and your wallet and this jacket, still draped over the back of the kitchen chair where youâd left it that morning, because youâd forgotten to give it back, or maybe because you hadnât wanted toâand headed out the door.
You stopped at the place on the corner. The one with the yellow awning and the handwritten menu taped to the window and the cook who knew your order by heart because youâd been coming here since before you had a car to break. You got two orders of the spicy pork bulgogi bowlsâextra kimchi on the side, extra rice, the way Mingi liked it, because youâd watched him eat it enough times to memorize the ratio.
You added a container of japchae because heâd mentioned once, offhand, that his mother used to make it on Sundays, and the way heâd said it had made you want to put the entire city between you and the feeling it produced. You got two coffeesâblack for him, oat milk and two sugars for youâand a slice of the honey butter cake that the ownerâs wife made fresh every afternoon, because Mingi had a sweet tooth he pretended he didnât have and youâd watched him eat three pieces at a shop potluck without breathing between bites.
The bag was heavy and warm against your hip as you walked the six blocks to the shop. The afternoon sun was high and bright, and the city smelled like exhaust and fried food and the particular greenness of the potted trees someone had placed along the sidewalk in a doomed attempt at beautification. You passed the auto parts store where Mingi had sourced your bracket, the hardware store where he bought his electrical tape in bulk, the laundromat where he washed his shop rags because the machines at his apartment complex ate quarters. You knew this stretch of road the way you knew the inside of your own engine bayâevery crack, every stain, every story it told about the people who walked it.
The shopâs roll-up door was half-open when you arrived, and you could hear the radio before you could see insideâsome old rock station Mingi kept tuned to because the signal was clear and the DJs never talked during the guitar solos. You ducked under the door and stepped into the fluorescent hum.
Your car was on the ground. The hood was closed. The driverâs side door was open, and the interior light was on, and you could see the fresh gleam of something newly installed through the gap in the door frame.
Mingi was sitting on an overturned bucket near the workbench, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since given up any pretense of cleanliness. He had the radio turned up just loud enough that he didnât hear you come in, and for a moment you just stood there and watched him. The way his shoulders moved when he reached for the solvent bottle, the way his jaw worked around whatever he was chewing (gum, probably, or the inside of his cheek), the fresh bandage on his left hand where heâd clearly cut himself again and upgraded from electrical tape to something that actually qualified as medical supplies.
You cleared your throat.
He turned. His face went through three expressions in rapid successionâsurprise, recognition, and then something warm and slow that started at the corners of his mouth and spread upward until his whole face was doing the thing, the thing youâd been cataloguing for months without admitting what it was.
âWhat did I tell you about coming early, hm?â He deadpanned.
âDon't be dramatic, Min.â You held up the bag. âI got your favourites.â
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face, and the warmth deepened into something that looked almost endearing, which was not a look youâd ever seen on Mingi and did not know what to do with.
âAll of this for me?â He set the rag down and stood, and he was taller than you remembered, or maybe youâd just forgotten in the hours since morning how he filled a room without trying. âYou shouldnât have, baby.â
The word landed somewhere between your ribs and stayed there. He said it casually, the way he said everythingâlike it cost him nothing, like it was just a sound the air made when it passed through him on its way to you.
You crossed the shop and set the bag on the workbench, pulling out the containers one by one. The bulgogi bowls steamed when you opened the lids, and the smell of garlic and gochujang filled the space between the tool chests and the lift. You handed him the black coffee without asking and kept the other one for yourself, and you set the japchae and the honey butter cake on the bench beside the bowls like you were setting a table.
âItâs for my favourite mechanic, after all,â you smirked, keeping your voice light and easy.
Kept it from doing the thing it wanted to doâwhich was crack open and spill everything youâd been carrying since four that morning when youâd woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room. Maybe even beyond that.
Mingiâs smile went wide and bright, showing the dimples that only appeared when he was genuinely, stupidly happy. âSo, you finally admit Iâm your favourite, huh?â
You handed him a pair of chopsticks and fixed him with a look that you hoped conveyed the appropriate ratio of affection and threat. âDonât push it, pretty boy.â
He laughedâfull and loud, the kind of laugh that echoed off the concrete walls and made the overhead lights buzz in sympathy. He pulled the bucket closer to the bench and sat, and you pulled up a stool from the corner, and you ate lunch together.
He told you about the bracketâhow the parts house had exactly one left in stock, how heâd had to sweet-talk the guy behind the counter into holding it, how the installation had gone smooth except for the bolt that fought him for twenty minutes before finally surrendering. You told him about the cereal, and the cat, and the video someone had posted, and he made a face and said, âSend me the link, I want to see these idiots diagnosing your car from a thirty-second clip.â
You ate the japchae first, and he didnât comment on it, but you watched his face when he took the first bite and saw something shift behind his eyesâsomething old and fond and a little bit melancholicâand he looked at you across the workbench with an expression that said he knew exactly why youâd ordered it and exactly what it meant that youâd remembered, and he didnât say thank you because he didnât need to.
The honey butter cake disappeared in four minutes flat, and he licked the glaze off his thumb with the shamelessness of a man who had given up pretending he didnât have a sweet tooth approximately three bites ago.
When the food was gone and the coffees were empty and the radio had cycled through two more songs, Mingi stood and stretchedâarms overhead, back arching, the white tank pulling tight across his chest in a way that you absolutely did not stare atâand walked to your car. He patted the roof twice, the way youâd seen him do a hundred times, and looked at you over the hood.
âSheâs ready when you are.â
You walked to the driverâs side and ran your hand along the door frame, tracing the line where the paint chipped and the clearcoat had started to surrender to time and sun and too many city winters. It was cool and solid under your palm, and for the first time in days you didnât imagine hearing the sickly metallic tick that had haunted every drive since the first warning sign. No rattle. No vibration. No secret countdown to catastrophic failure shivering through the welds. Just a door, a car, a moment of stillness as you drew in a breath and let your shoulders drop.
You slid into the seat, and the interior smelled like Mingiâsolvent, engine oil, the sharpness of fresh brake cleaner and something sweeter underneath, a cedar note that clung to the cloth. You could see where heâd wiped down the steering wheel, the faintest imprint of a towel snagged on the horn pad, and the new bracket gleaming through the gap below the dash. The seat was exactly the way you left it, except you could tell heâd sat here, adjusted the mirrors, checked the fit of the pedals. It was like stepping into a space that had been quietly, lovingly proofed against disaster.
The key was already in the ignition. You turned it.
The engine caught on the first tryâclean, steady, the deep throaty hum youâd tuned into existence with your own hands, but different now. Quieter. Settled. Like something that had been suffering in silence had finally been allowed to breathe again. You pressed the throttle lightly and listened, heart in your mouth, waiting for the telltale clunk or metallic swing-and-bang. Instead, there was only the smooth, even purr, the delicate click of injectors priming, the systems waking up like a body stretching after a long sleep.
You pressed a little harder, feathering the pedal. The tach jumped, held, dropped. No hesitations. No overcompensation. No subtle warning in the feedback through the wheel. If you closed your eyes, you could almost believe this was someone elseâs carâsomeone whoâd never driven it to the edge, never asked it to survive three consecutive summers of midnight street circuits, never let it run a degree hotter than it was supposed to just to beat a kid with something newer and flashier. But it was yours, and youâd earned every scar on the center console, every burn mark on the carpet. And now, for the first time in years, it didnât sound like a ticking time bomb. It sounded like something that was meant to last.
You sat with that for a minute, hands resting on the wheel, the engineâs steady rhythm echoing in your bones. You shifted into neutral and let the engine idle. Mingiâs handwriting was on a sticky note taped to the dash: âCheck oil before running. -M.â You popped the hood just to be sure, and the dipstick came up clean and full, the oil exactly where it should be, the new gasket already sealing like it was part of the block from the beginning. Heâd even topped off your washer fluid, the little things he always did, the ones he never mentioned but that you always noticed.
When you came back around, Mingi was standing by the shop door. Heâd wiped his hands again, but there was a new smudge of something across his cheekbone, and he was watching you with an expression so open it made it impossible to look away. There was pride there, and relief, and a weird kind of gentleness that didnât fit with the way he usually moved through the world. You realized, suddenly and with embarrassing clarity, that he was waiting for you to say something. To react, to light up, to show him that this mattered.
So you revved the engine, just a little, and gave him a thumbs-up through the windshield.
He grinned, and the whole shop seemed to brighten. You cut the engine and stepped out, and for a second the world held its breath.
He nodded, then pointed at the car. âHow does she feel?â
You tried to come up with something technical. Something that would do justice to the hours heâd put in, the parts you knew heâd paid for himself, the sweat and blood literally on the line. But all that came out was, âSheâs perfect.â
Mingiâs face went soft around the eyes, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair like he didnât know what to do with the compliment. âYou did most of the work, I just did some touch ups,â he smiled.
You barked a laugh. âAll I did was fall asleep in your office and bring you lunch. You fixed my car.â
He shrugged, but you could tell he was pleased. âYeah? Whatâs next, then? An oil change? New tires? You know, just for fun.â
You grinned. âI was thinking about a test drive. Want to come with?â
He hesitated, then held up his hands. âIâll sit in the passenger seat, but only because I donât want to get kimchi juice on your nice upholstery.â
You tossed him the keys. âNo Min, Youâre driving.â
He caught them one-handed, easy, and you felt something loosen in your chest. You hopped into the passenger seat, let the window down again, and watched as he adjusted the mirrors just so, checked the angle of the seat, and all the little rituals he did before a test drive.
He started the engine, and this time you noticed the way the sound made him smile. He rolled slowly out of the shop and down the street, careful at first, but then letting the car stretch out as the road opened up. You watched the city go by in a blurâcorner store, laundromat, the park with the busted swing setâand realized you were seeing all of it through the windshield of a car that was finally, blissfully, whole.
Mingi drove with one hand on the wheel and one on the shifter, and he kept glancing at you like he was trying to memorize your reaction. You leaned back in the seat, let the sun warm your face, let the feeling of the world working as it should sink in.
Halfway to the river, he turned to you and said, âSo what do we do now? Victory lap? Or do we just keep driving until something else breaks?â
You considered it. âCan we...â You stopped, not sure how to put it into words, and settled for, âLetâs just keep going for a while.â
And so you did. You let the city recede, let the noise fade into the background, and just existed, two people in a car that was finally running right, the road unspooling ahead of you like there was nowhere else you needed to be.
The road curved along the riverbank, and the water caught the late afternoon light in long, lazy ribbons of gold. Mingi drove with the windows down, one elbow resting on the door frame, and the wind pushed his hair back from his forehead in a way that made him look younger, looser, like someone whoâd set down a weight heâd been carrying for years and forgotten what it felt like to stand up straight.
You watched the trees slide past and let the silence hold for another mile before you spoke.
âHey,â you began, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. âI have another race on Friday. The industrial stretch againâthe same one as last night, but bigger. More cars. Some guys from out of town are coming up.â
Mingiâs thumb tapped the steering wheel once. Twice. âYeah?â
âMhm.â You turned in the seat to face him, pulling one knee up under you. The leather creaked. âIâm in, obviously. Jihoon, the guy that had that fat stack of cash, wants a rematch, and thereâs this new kid from Busan whoâs been talking shit online all week.â
Mingi nodded slowly, eyes still on the road. âYou can beat him for sure.â
âI donât even know what he drives.â
âNah, it doesn't matter.â He glanced over, a warm smile spread across his face. âItâs not about the car, itâs about whoâs behind the wheel. That cocky piece of shit will not win, trust me.â
The warmth that spread through your chest was embarrassing in its intensity. You looked down at your hands, at the grease still lingering in the creases of your knuckles, and you said the thing youâd been turning over in your head since you woke up on his shop-towel bed with his jacket over your shoulders and his coffee in your hands.
âYou should come watch me. In the raceâ I mean.â
The words hung in the air between you, carried on the wind rushing through the open windows. You kept your eyes on your hands, on the grease, on anything that wasnât his face, because youâd said it casuallyâor tried toâand you needed a second to make sure the casual had landed.
Mingi was quiet for too long. Unusually long, you think. His jaw had set. Not in a hard wayâin the way it did when he was about to deliver news he didnât want to deliver.
âFriday,â he repeated, and the word came out carefully, measured, like he was testing its weight. âThis Friday?â
âMhm. Starts around ten. Should be over by midnight, hopefully by one.â
He exhaled through his noseâa slow, controlled breath that told you everything before the words did.
âOh I'm sorry, sweetheart.â His voice had gone soft in that particular way, the way that meant he was about to disappoint you and he already hated himself for it. âI canât. Iâm booked solid. Likeâcompletely. Iâve got three clients coming in after hours, and one of themâs a timing chain replacement on a V6 thatâs going to take me till two in the morning if everything goes right, which it wonât, because timing chains never go right.â
âOh,â you mumbled. And then, because you were a person whoâd spent your entire adult life pretending you didnât need anything from anyone: âThatâs fine. No big deal. Itâs just a race.â
You turned back to the windshield. The river was on your left now, wide and flat and silver, and a heron stood motionless in the shallows, and you focused on the heron because the heron didnât care about Friday nights or timing chains or the particular ache that had settled behind your sternum like a stone dropped into still water.
The car slowed. Mingi pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching softly, and cut the engine. The sudden silence was enormousâjust the tick of cooling metal and the distant hum of the highway and the sound of your own breathing, which you were trying very hard to keep even.
He turned in his seat.
You didnât look at him. You kept your eyes on the heron, which had taken a step forward into the water with the slow, deliberate grace of something that had never once needed to explain itself to anyone.
âYouâre doing the thing,â he frowned as he scanned your facial expression.
âWhat thing?â
âThe thing where you say itâs fine and itâs not fine.â His voice was close. Closer than the passenger seat should have allowed. âLook at me, please.â
You looked at him.
His face was right thereâinches away, the afternoon light catching the gold in his eyes. He was looking at you with an expression that made your chest do something complicated and painful, like a valve opening somewhere you hadnât known was closed.
âI want to be there,â he mumbled. The words were simple and direct, the way Mingiâs words always were when he meant them. âYou know I want to be there. Iâd rather be watching you race than doing a timing chain on a V6 that some idiot ran dry for six months. But I told these people Iâd do it, and theyâre counting on me, andââ
âI know.â You did know. That was the worst part. You knew exactly the kind of person Mingi wasâthe kind who showed up, who kept his word, who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning because someone had asked him to and heâd said yes. Youâd fallen for that person. You didnât get to resent him for being exactly who he was. âItâs okay, Mingi. I understand.â
He studied your face for a long momentâthe way your mouth was doing something you hoped passed for a smile, the way your eyes kept flicking to the heron because holding his gaze for too long felt like standing too close to a fire. He saw it. Of course he saw it. Mingi saw everything.
His hand came up.
Slow. Deliberate. Giving you every chance to pull away, to deflect, to make a joke, to do any of the things you usually did when someone tried to touch you with intention. You didnât move.
His palm settled against your cheek. His thumb traced the line of your cheekboneâonce, twiceâand his skin was warm and rough and smelled like solvent and the honey butter cake from lunch, and the touch was so gentle it made your eyes sting.
âHey,â he whispered. Soft. So soft. âIâll make it up to you. You name it, and Iâm there. I promise.â
You leaned into his hand before you could stop yourself. Just a fractionâjust enough to feel the pressure of his palm, the steady warmth of it, the way his thumb stilled against your skin like he was holding his breath.
âYou promise?â you mumbled against his hand, your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.
âPromise.â His thumb moved againâa slow sweep along your cheekbone that sent something warm and liquid through your bloodstream. âIâll clear a night. Iâll put it on the calendar in permanent marker. Iâll tell every client in the city that Song Mingi is unavailable that evening because he has a prior engagement that is non-negotiable.â
A laugh escaped you, a little broken, but real. âNon-negotiable?â
âCompletely non-negotiable.â His eyes crinkled at the corners, and the dimple appeared, and the cut on his lip stretched when he smiled, and you thoughtâwith the kind of clarity that only comes in the quiet moments between one heartbeat and the nextâthat you would remember this exact image for the rest of your life. Mingi in the driverâs seat of your car, his hand on your face, the river silver behind him, promising you something he meant with every molecule of his being.
âOkay,â you exhaled. âAnother night.â
âAnother night, I promise.â He held your gaze for one more beatâlong enough that the air between you changed, thickened, became something you could almost tasteâand then his hand dropped from your cheek and returned to the wheel, and the moment collapsed back into the ordinary like it had never happened.
He started the engine. The car came alive around you, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He pulled back onto the road, and the heron lifted from the shallows and beat its slow, heavy wings into the sky, and you watched it go until it was a speck against the pale blue, and then you watched the road unfold ahead of you, and you didnât say anything else because you didnât need to.
The silence held. The kind that didnât need to be filled. The kind that felt like a promise.
Friday arrived like a held breath finally released.
The industrial stretch was different tonightâlarger, louder, the energy cranked up to something that buzzed against your skin like a live wire. More cars lined the turnout than youâd seen in months, their engines idling in a low, impatient chorus that vibrated through the soles of your boots. The crowd had spilled past the guardrail and onto the shoulder, phones out, speakers blasting three different songs at once, the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer and someoneâs body spray mixing with the burnt-rubber perfume of the asphalt. Someone had strung LED lights along the overpass supports, casting everything in a pulsing, carnival-bright wash that made the night feel like something staged, something that knew it was being watched.
You stood at the open driverâs side door with your hands on the roof and your head bowed, running through the checklist.
Tire pressure: thirty-two all around, checked four times.
Oil: full, clean, Mingiâs handwriting still on the dipstick tube where heâd marked the fill line with a pencil.
Coolant: topped off. Brake fluid: clear and full. Belts: tight, no cracks, no fraying.
Youâd gone over every inch of the engine bay yourself that afternoon, twice, with a headlamp and a torque wrench and the kind of obsessive attention to detail that bordered on compulsion. The new bracket gleamed under the hood like a promise kept, and the transmission mount bolt sat snug and true, and youâd driven the car here tonight without a single sound that didnât belong.
Still. You checked again. You always checked again.
Behind you, the pre-race circus was in full swing. You could hear your best friend, Yuna, before you could even see her. A voice that could cut glass and a laugh that could shatter itâwas arguing with someone about the bet spread, her hands moving in sharp, emphatic arcs while three guys in matching jackets nodded along like they understood a word she was saying. Your friend, Soobin, was crouched beside your rear tire with a flashlight, double-checking the tread depth because heâd lost fifty bucks once on a blowout and had never fully recovered emotionally.
And there, leaning against the hood of a black sedan that had no business being at a street race, were three figures youâd recognize anywhere.
Hongjoong saw you first. He was the shortest of the three but carried himself like heâd been genetically engineered for maximum authorityâblack beanie pulled low over his forehead, a leather jacket that cost more than most of the cars on the stretch, arms crossed, jaw set in that permanent expression of mild, world-weary amusement that he wore like a second skin. He raised his chin in greeting, and you raised yours back, and that was the entirety of the conversation Hongjoong ever needed to have with anyone.
Beside him, Seonghwa stood with the kind of posture that suggested heâd been born in a finishing school and escaped at the first opportunity. Tall, lean, dressed in all black like he was attending a funeral for someone he didnât like, his dark hair swept back from his face in a way that looked effortless and absolutely was not. He was the manager at ATZâthe one who kept the books, handled the clients, and maintained the delicate fiction that the shop operated within the bounds of something resembling a schedule. He was also, youâd learned over the months, the only person on earth who could make Mingi do paperwork without a fight, which meant he was either a wizard or had blackmail material of catastrophic proportions. You suspected both.
Jongho was on Seonghwaâs other side, arms folded, watching the crowd with the alert, slightly wary expression of someone whoâd seen enough to know that crowds were where trouble went to multiply. He was the youngest at the shop but moved through it like heâd been born under a liftâquiet, capable, the kind of mechanic who could diagnose an engine from the sound of the starter alone. Heâd helped Mingi with your transmission mount the morning after the repair, youâd learned later, holding the bracket in place while Mingi threaded the new bolt. He gave you a small nod when you caught his eye, and you nodded back, and the exchange contained approximately as much warmth as two people who respected each otherâs competence could manage in a single gesture.
You straightened up from the door and walked over to them, wiping your palms on your jeans.
âI canât believe you guys made it,â you beamed, because it was the polite thing to say, even though the sight of themâof anyone from ATZ, anyone who knew the shape of your engine bay the way you didâhad loosened something tight behind your ribs.
âHongjoong lost a bet,â Seonghwa said, without looking at Hongjoong.
âI did not lose a bet.â Hongjoongâs voice was flat. âI made a strategic decision to attend a cultural event.â
âUh-huh, cultural event⊠right, right.â you nodded your head slowly, heavy with suspicion.
âStreet racing is a cultural institution with deep roots inââ
âHe lost twenty dollars to Jongho about whether youâd check your tire pressure two times or four,â Seonghwa said, and Jonghoâs mouth twitched in something that was almost a smile. âIt was three, by the way.â
âFour, actually.â you corrected, and Hongjoong pointed at Jongho with the satisfied air of a man whoâd just been vindicated.
âSee? She checked it four times and I said four. You said three. Pay up, kid.â
Jongho reached into his back pocket without argument and handed over a crumpled twenty. Hongjoong took it with the gravity of someone accepting a Nobel Prize.
You laughed, the sound felt good in the night air, loosening something that had been wound tight since youâd pulled into the turnout and cut the engine. The three of them were here. Theyâd come. Mingiâs people had come, which meant maybe he was also there too.Â
âHowâs the car?â Seonghwa asked, and his tone was professionalâthe managerâs tone, the one that meant he was genuinely interested in the answer and not just making conversation.
âSheâs solid,â you answered back confidently. âMingi did the bracket last week. Sheâs running cleaner than she has in months.â
âMm. Good.â Seonghwaâs eyes moved past you to the car, assessing it with the same quiet attention he gave everythingâinvoices, clients, the state of the break room microwave. âHe spent three hours on that mount. Wouldnât let anyone else touch it.â
Something warm bloomed behind your sternum. You didnât let it show on your face.
âControl freak,â you joked lightly.
âThe worst,â Seonghwa agreed, and there was something in his voiceâsomething knowing, something that suggested heâd been paying attention to more than just the state of the break room microwaveâbut before you could parse it, Hongjoong was speaking again.
âWho are you running against tonight? The Busan kid?â
âJihoon and the Busan kid, yeah. And a few othersâsome guy in a WRX whoâs been talking a big game on the forums, and a girl in a Civic thatâs been modded within an inch of its life. It should be interesting.â
Jongho made a soundâa low, considering hum that was eerily similar to the one Mingi made when he was cataloguing damage. âThe Civicâs got a K-swap. I saw it at the meet last weekend. Sheâs running a bigger turbo than she should be. Sheâll pull hard off the line but fade by the second turn if the cooling canât keep up.â
You looked at him. âYou went to the meet?â
âI go to all of them.â He said it like it was nothing. Like attending every unofficial car gathering within a thirty-mile radius was a perfectly normal hobby for a twenty-five-year-old mechanic who otherwise gave the impression of being allergic to social interaction. âResearch.â
âResearch,â Hongjoong repeated, deadpan.
âMarket analysis,â Jongho smirked, and didnât elaborate.
You grinned and turned back to the car. The ritual wasnât finished. You still had to walk the length of the stretchâcheck the surface for debris, note the manhole cover on the second turn, feel the asphalt under your boots and commit its texture to memory. You still had to sit in the driverâs seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, running the course in your headâevery shift point, every braking marker, every place where the road cambered in a way that could send an unwary car wide.
Your eyes moved past the crowd. Past Yuna and her betting spreadsheet, past Soobin and his flashlight, past the three ATZ mechanics standing in their cluster of black leather and quiet competence. Past the LED lights and the speaker stacks and the groups of strangers with their phones raised like offerings to some digital god. You scanned the turnout. The guardrail. The overpass. The shadows where the streetlights didnât reach.
You looked for him.
You looked for the tall frame, the dark hair, the oversized jacket with the sleeves pushed up. You looked for the way he stoodâloose and easy, one hip cocked, like gravity was a suggestion heâd chosen to follow. You looked for the familiar smile. You looked for the one person in the crowd who would be watching you the way he watched enginesâwith total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
The turnout was full of people. None of them were Mingi.
You let your gaze sweep one more timeâslower now, deliberate, giving him every chance to materialize from behind a car or step out of the shadows or call your name from somewhere you hadnât checked. The crowd shifted and pulsed, and a flare went up near the starting line, throwing red light across a hundred faces, and none of them were his.
He wasnât here. Of course he wasnât here. Heâd told you, and youâd said it was fine, and it was fine. It was completely, totally, one-hundred-percent fine.
You turned back to the car and placed both hands on the roof again, fingers spread wide, and you took a breath that went all the way to the bottom of your lungs and held it there for a count of four.
âYou okay?â Seonghwa asked from behind you. His voice was careful. Observant. Heâd seen you looking.
âYeah. Everythingâs fine,â you replied, and you meant it about the car, and you meant it about the race, and the part that wasnât about the car or the raceâthe part that was about a mechanic who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning and remembered your oat milk and carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shouldersâyou set that part aside. You set it in the same place you kept all the other things you werenât ready to examine, and you closed the door on it, and you turned the lock.
You had a race to win.
You walked the stretch. You checked the surfaceâclean, dry, the manhole cover still loose on the second turn, the same one that had sent Jihoon wide last time. You committed the texture to memoryâsmooth here, slightly rough there, the seam where the old pavement met the new running like a scar down the centerline. You sat in the driverâs seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, and you ran the course in your head.
You opened your eyes. The dashboard glowed its familiar amber, and the key was in your hand, and the crowd outside had gone quiet in that particular way that meant the flagger was taking position.
You turned the key.
The engine caughtâclean , steady, that deep throaty hum that meant every bolt was where it belonged and every belt was singing the same song. You let the RPMs settle, then blipped the throttle twiceâonce for luck, once because the car asked for itâand pulled forward to the starting line.
Jihoon was already there. His silver coupe idled beside you, its aftermarket exhaust popping and crackling with the aggressive, attention-seeking rhythm of someone whoâd spent more on sound than substance. He revved at youâthree quick stabs, the automotive equivalent of a middle fingerâand you didnât respond. You kept your eyes on the flagger, on the strip of white cloth hanging limp in the still night air, on the exact point where it would snap upward and the world would narrow to nothing but asphalt and instinct.
The Busan kid was two cars back in his modified Civic, the intercooler gleaming under the LED lights like a promise of trouble. The WRX was on your other side, its driverâa guy you didnât recognize, late twenties, a baseball cap pulled lowâcracking his neck side to side with the theatrical tension of someone whoâd watched too many movies. The girl in the K-swapped Civic was behind you, engine ticking over with the tight, impatient rhythm of a turbo spooling against its wastegate.
The flagger raised his arm.
Your hand found the shifter. First gear. Clutch in. Throttle to the sweet spotâthree thousand, hold it, feel the car strain against the brakes like a dog pulling at its leash. Your heartbeat was steady. Your breathing was even. Everything outside the windshield had gone soft and distant, the way it always did in the seconds before the greenâthe crowd noise flattening to a dull roar, the LED lights blurring into streaks of color, the smell of burnt rubber and beer and body spray condensing into a single, meaningless note.
The flag dropped.
You released the clutch and the brakes simultaneously, the way youâd practiced ten thousand times in empty parking lots and deserted stretches of road, and the car launched forward with a violence that pressed you into the seat. The tires bitâclean, no spin, no wasted energyâand you were through first gear before the WRX had found its footing, the tach needle swinging past redline and your hand already moving to second, third, the engine screaming its approval as you fed it everything it asked for.
The first turn came fast. You took it tightâtighter than the line youâd rehearsed, cutting inside the apex marker by a close margin because Jihoon was already trying to crowd you wide, his front bumper edging into your peripheral vision like something predatory. You held the line. Your right rear tire kissed the inside curb and the car shuddered onceâa brief, violent protestâand then settled, and you were through, accelerating hard into the short straight before the second turn.
The manhole cover. You could see it aheadâa dark circle in the asphalt, slightly raised, slightly loose, the same one that had cost Jihoon a bumper last time. Heâd remember it. Heâd be cautious. You wouldnât.
Your foot came off the pedal at the last possible moment, and the car rotated into the turn with the kind of precision that only comes from knowing exactly how much grip you had left and being willing to use all of it. The manhole passed under your left tires with a dull, metallic thunk that you felt through the steering column, and you were already unwinding the wheel, already feeding power back in, already watching Jihoon in your rearview as he liftedâjust barely, just enoughâto avoid the cover, and the gap between you opened by half a car length.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
The third turn was sweeping and fast, the camber pulling you toward the outside guardrail, and you fought it with micro-adjustments of the wheelâtiny, instinctive corrections that kept the car on the line youâd drawn in your head three minutes ago. The tach sat at six thousand in fourth gear, the engine pulling hard and clean, no hesitation, no vibration, no sound that didnât belong. Mingiâs bracket held. Mingiâs bolt held. The transmission mount sat silent and true beneath you, and you pushed harder because it let you.
The Busan kid was gaining. You could hear himâthe high, tight whine of his turbo spooling, the sharp crack of his exhaust on overrunâand in your mirrors you could see the Civicâs headlights swelling, closing, eating the gap youâd built on the first two turns. He was fast. Jongho had been right about the coolingâyou could see heat shimmer rising from his hood in the LED lightâbut he was fast enough that the fade wouldnât matter if he caught you before the straight.
The fourth turn. The one that looked easy and wasnât.
Jihoon had recovered from the manhole. He was on your right now, his front bumper level with your door, his engine screaming as he pushed for the inside line. You could see his face through his windowâjaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead with the desperate intensity of someone whoâd bet more than he could afford to lose. His car was faster in a straight line. You both knew it. If he got past you before the fifth turn, the straight would belong to him, and youâd never close the gap.
You braked early.
You let the car slow a fraction of a second before the braking marker, and Jihoon took the bait. He shot past your bumper, diving for the inside, certain heâd found the opening, and you let him have it. You let him have the inside line on a turn that tightened at the exit, on a road that cambered outward, on an asphalt surface that was slightly rougher on the inside than the outside.
He realized his mistake a half-second too late. You saw it happenâthe moment his wheels lost their grip, the moment the camber pulled him wide, the moment his rear end stepped out and he had to catch it with a correction that cost him speed, momentum, everything. You cut to the outside, carried your speed through the exit, and when you looked in your mirror, Jihoon was a full car length behind and fighting to stay on the road.
The straight opened ahead of youâflat, dark, the orange cones of the finish line glowing like distant candles. Fifth gear. Foot to the floor. Donât lift. Donât think. Just go.
The Civic was still there. The Busan kid had found something on the fourth turnâsome line you hadnât anticipated, some technique that kept his turbo spooled and his tires plantedâand he was alongside you now, his front bumper creeping past yours inch by inch, his engine howling with the particular fury of a K-swap pushed past its comfort zone. Heat poured from his hood in visible waves. The cooling was failing. You could see it in the way his tach was fluctuatingâdropping a hundred RPM, climbing back, dropping againâthe engine fighting for air it couldnât get.
But he was still moving. Still gaining. His front bumper was at your door. Then at your front wheel. Then past it.
The finish line was thirty seconds away. Maybe less. The cones were getting bigger, the crowd noise swelling from a dull roar to something sharp and specificâyou could hear individual voices now, individual shouts, someone screaming your name.
You dropped to fourth. The engine screamedâpast the redline, into territory youâd never asked it to visit, the tach needle buried in the red and the valves singing a song that was equal parts defiance and desperation. The car responded. It always responded. The RPMs climbed past anything the factory had ever intended, and the power came backânot smoothly, not cleanly, but enough. Enough to close the gap. Enough to pull even with the Civicâs rear bumper, then its door, then its front wheel.
The Busan kid looked over. You saw his face through his windowâyoung, flushed, eyes wide with the particular shock of someone whoâd been certain theyâd won and was watching the certainty evaporate. He pushed the throttle harder. You heard his engine stutterâa single, violent misfire that cost him everythingâand in that fraction of a second, you were past him.
The finish line. The cones. The flaggerâs arm dropping.
You crossed first.
You knew it before the crowd told you. You knew it in the way the Civicâs headlights fell behind you, in the way the straight opened up empty ahead of your bumper, in the way the engineâs scream shifted from desperate to triumphant as you lifted off the throttle and let the car coast, the adrenaline still singing through your veins like electricity through a live wire.
The crowd erupted.
You could hear it even through the closed windowsâa wall of sound that hit the car like a physical force, hundreds of voices merging into a single, incoherent roar of celebration. Phones were raised, flashlights swinging, the LED lights along the overpass pulsing in time with the bass from the speakers someone had turned up to maximum. You pulled into the turnout and cut the engine, and the sudden silence was immediately filled by the sound of people running toward your car, their boots pounding on the asphalt, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of congratulations and disbelief.
You sat there for a moment. Hands on the wheel. Breathing hard. The dashboard lights faded slowly, and the engine ticked its cooling song, and something behind your chestâsomething that had been wound tight since the starting line, since the moment youâd scanned the crowd and found him missingâunspooled all at once, leaving you lightheaded and grinning like an idiot.
The door opened from the outside.
Yuna was there, her face split in a grin so wide it looked like it hurt, both hands gripping the door frame like she was afraid the car might try to escape. âYou absolute madwoman! You insane, beautiful, completely unhingedââ She was pulling you out of the seat before you could unbuckle, her arms around your neck, her voice shouting directly into your ear at a volume that should have required a permit. âYou killed it, babe! You beat them all! The Busan kid looked like he was going to cry!â
Soobin was right behind her, his flashlight still in his hand, his face flushed with the particular joy of someone whoâd just won back the fifty dollars heâd lost on the blowout plus interest. âDude, that fourth turn was insane! That was literally criminal, Iâm pretty sure thatâs illegal but who gives a fuck.â
You were laughingâyou couldnât stop, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and raw and entirely involuntaryâand people were pressing in from all sides, hands clapping your shoulders, voices shouting your carâs name, your name, variations of your name that youâd never heard before. Someone had a bottle of champagneâthe cheap kind, the kind that came in a green bottle with a foil labelâand the cork popped with a sound like a gunshot, and foam sprayed across your hood in a wide, arcing fan that caught the LED light and turned to gold.
âCareful on my paint man!â you shouted, but you were laughing, and someone else had a second bottle, and then a third, and within seconds your car was glistening with cheap champagne, the hood dripping, the windshield streaked, the headlights wearing crowns of foam that slid slowly down the lenses. The crowd was chantingâyour name, your carâs name, something rhythmic and obscene that Yuna had probably startedâand you stood in the center of it with champagne in your hair and the particular, dizzying high of having done the thing youâd set out to do and done it perfectly.
Hongjoong materialized at your left shoulder, his twenty-dollar bill now folded neatly in his breast pocket, his expression one of grudging respect. âNot bad, kid.â He nudged your shoulder, which from Hongjoong was roughly equivalent to a standing ovation.
Seonghwa was beside him, arms crossed, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. âThe bracket held,â he observed, like heâd been watching for exactly that and nothing else.
âThank god for that, huh,â you confirmed, and the words came out slightly breathless, slightly giddy, and you wiped champagne from your eyebrow with the back of your hand and grinned at both of them like youâd just won the lottery.
And then you saw him.
He was at the edge of the crowdâtall, unmistakable, the white of his tank top bright against his leather jacket, dark jeans that had no right to fit the way they did. Hair pushed back. Rings shining brightly on his fingers and silver chains by his throat catching the light they always did. Both hands clean, the left one uninjured and wrapped around the stems of a bouquet he was holding down at his side with the careful, slightly uncertain grip of someone who had never bought flowers before and was now standing in a crowd of street racers holding flowers. Proudly wearing that stupid smile of his.
Mingi.
Your brain short-circuited. You blinked. You blinked again. The champagne was still dripping from your hair, and the crowd was still roaring, and Yuna was still screaming something in your ear that you couldnât hear, and Mingi was there, standing at the edge of the turnout like heâd materialized from the very specific fantasy youâd been refusing to acknowledge for the past couple of weeks.
You pushed through the crowd. People moved asideâor you moved through them, you werenât sure. The crowd parted like water, and you were running. Boots slapping against the champagne-wet asphalt, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth. Mingi lifted the bouquet from his side and held it out to you like an offering, like a confession, like the only thing he could think to bring to the most important moment of his week.
You took the flowers without breaking stride. Wildflowers, not the kind from a shop, the kind that grew along the riverbank where youâd pulled over that afternoon, blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in what looked like shop towel because Mingi didnât own ribbon. Then you were launching yourself at him, both arms around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist because the momentum demanded it, because physics demanded it, because every molecule in your body demanded it.
He caught you. Of course he caught youâhis free arm hooking under your thighs, the other still clutching the bouquet, his body absorbing the impact with the same easy, practiced confidence he brought to everything that mattered. You buried your face in his neck, and he smelled like something warm and newâaftershave, maybe?
The crowd erupted.
Not the race-winning eruptionâsomething different, something bright, the particular sound of hundreds people collectively losing their minds over something they hadnât known they were watching for. A chorus of whoops and whistles and someoneâYuna, definitely Yunaâscreaming âOH MY GODâ at a frequency that could transcend both space and time. Phones were up, cameras flashing, and you could hear the cooing, the affectionate, slightly drunk awwww that rolled through the turnout like a wave, and someone shouted âKISS HER, BRO!â and someone else shouted âAW MAN I THOUGHT I HAD A CHANCE.â and the whole thing collapsed into laughter and applause that vibrated through the asphalt and up through Mingiâs chest and into yours.
His mouth was at your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, and his voice was lowâso low that only you could hear it, the words meant for you and you alone, tucked into the space between his jaw and your hair.
âCongratulations, my little racer,â he whispered. âYou were incredible. I watched the whole thing from the overpass. You kicked their asses.â
You pulled back just enough to look at himâhis face inches from yours, the gold in his eyes catching the LED light, the cut on his lip healed to a thin white line, the flowers crushed between your chest and his, releasing their faint, sweet smell into the narrow gap between your bodies.
âYou came,â you beamed up at him, your voice came out breathless and disbelieving, like you were still waiting for the punchline. âI thought you said you couldnâtâthe timing chain, the V6ââ
âI pulled some strings.â His dimple appeared. âI finished the timing chain at nine. Drove straight here. Parked on the overpass and watched you absolutely murder that Civic.â
âYou finished a timing chain inââ
âDid you forget that Iâm very good at my job?â The smile was wide now, unashamed, the kind of smile that belonged in a movie montage, and you were laughingâboth of you were laughing, your foreheads pressed together, the crowd still cheering around you like youâd invented something new.
He shifted his grip on youâadjusting, settling, his arm tightening under your thighsâand then he was walking. Carrying you. Back through the crowd, past Yuna who was filming with both hands and sobbing dramatically, past Soobin who gave you a thumbs-up that was mostly champagne foam, past Hongjoong who looked like he was trying very hard to maintain his world-weary composure and failing, past Seonghwa who was watching with the quiet, knowing satisfaction of someone whoâd seen this coming from three months away.
Mingiâs mouth found your ear again. His lips brushed the shell of itâbarely, accidentally, not-accidentallyâand his voice dropped to that register that lived in the space between a whisper and a thought.
âDid you want to give them a show, hm?â The words were warm and teasing, his breath ghosting across your skin. âBecause we could. We could stand right here and let them film every second. Iâm sure everyone would appreciate the content.â
You shook your head against his shoulderâa quick, emphatic noâand felt him smile against your temple.
âSmart girl, arenât you.â His arm tightened around you, possessive and gentle in equal measure. âLetâs go somewhere more private.â
You reached into your back pocket without looking, your fingers finding the key fob by touch alone, and you pressed it into his free handâthe one not holding the bouquet, the one not holding you. He caught it without looking, the way he caught everythingâtools, keys, the particular weight of your trustâand his fingers closed around it like it belonged there.
He carried you to the car. The crowd was still cheering, still filming, still living in the moment youâd already left behind, and Mingi set you down gently at the passenger doorâyour feet finding the ground, his hand lingering at the small of your backâand opened it for you with the same old habit, the one he never skipped. You slid into the seat, the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, and Mingi closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click.
He walked around the hoodâyou watched him through the windshield, the way he moved through the champagne-streaked light with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was goingâand dropped into the driverâs seat. The engine turned over on the first try, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be, and Mingi pulled out of the turnout with the kind of smooth, controlled precision that made your stomach flip.
The crowd fell away behind you. The LED lights shrank to pinpoints in the rearview. The champagne and the shouting and the bass-heavy music dissolved into the night, replaced by the sound of the engine and the wind through the open windows and the faint rustle of wildflowers in your lap.
The road unwound beneath you, and the city thinned to scattered streetlights and the occasional glow of a late-night convenience store. You held the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, their scentâsomething green and wild and faintly sweetâmixing with the smell of Mingiâs cologne that still clung to the upholstery. The radio was off. The engine hummed its steady, contented song. The wind through the open windows pushed your hair across your face, and you didnât bother pushing it back.
Mingiâs hand left the wheel. You felt it before you saw it. The shift in the air, the subtle change in the weight distribution of the car as he turned his body slightly toward you. His fingers found yours on the center console, warm and rough and sure, and they laced through yours with the easy, unhurried confidence of someone whoâd been waiting to do exactly this and had decided that the waiting was over.
You looked down at your joined hands. His thumb traced a slow circle over your knuckleâonce, twiceâand then his grip tightened, just barely, and he lifted your hand from the console and brought it to his mouth.
His lips pressed against the back of your hand. Soft, deliberate, lingering. The kiss was warm and dry and over almost before it began, but it sent something electric cascading through your bloodstream, a current that started at the point of contact and raced up your arm and settled somewhere behind your ribs like a spark catching dry tinder.
You didnât pull away. You didnât speak. You just watched himâthe sharp line of his profile in the dashboard light, the way his jaw worked as he lowered your hand but didnât let go, his thumb resuming its slow, circling pattern on your skin.
The car turned left. You recognised the roadâthe one that curved along the riverbank, the one youâd driven that afternoon with the windows down and the silence between you feeling like a promise. The water was dark now, reflecting the moon in long, broken ribbons of silver, and the trees along the bank stood in silhouette against the pale sky. The road narrowed to a single lane, then to gravel, and Mingi pulled into the empty parking lot.
He cut the engine.
The silence was immediate and totalâjust the tick of cooling metal and the distant murmur of the river and the sound of your own breathing, which had gone slightly uneven without your permission. Mingiâs hand was still in yours. The flowers were still in your lap. The moonlight came through the windshield and painted everything in shades of blue and silver, and for a long moment neither of you moved.
Then Mingi turned in his seat.
He looked at you the way he looked at enginesâwith total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. His eyes moved from your face to the flowers in your lap and back, and something shifted in his expressionâsomething vulnerable and warm and slightly terrified, the look of a man whoâd decided to say something heâd been carrying for a long time and was now realizing there was no taking it back.
âI picked those,â he said, nodding at the bouquet. âFrom the riverbank. This morning, before the shop opened. I drove out here at five-thirty and walked along the water and picked the ones that looked the prettiest, reminded me of you.â
You looked down at the flowers. Blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in shop towel, slightly crushed from being held between your bodies during the champagne-soaked celebration. They were imperfectâwild, uneven, some of them already starting to droopâand they were the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given you.
âYou drove out here at the ass crack of dawnâ you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. âTo get me flowers?â
âMm.â His thumb was still moving on your handâslow circles, steady and grounding. âI was going to give them to you at the race. Had this whole planâIâd wait until you won, and then Iâd walk up like it was nothing, suuuuper nonchalant. Like hey, congratulations, here are some flowers I found, no big deal.â He huffed a laugh, soft and self-deprecating. âBut then you came up and ambushed my whole plan.â
âYou remembered the flowers.â
He turned to look at youâreally look at youâwith an expression youâd never seen on him before. Not the easy grin, not the teasing half-smile. Something quieter. Something that made your breath catch.
âYouâre surprised?â he said. It wasnât a question.
You didnât answer, which was answer enough.
âSweetheart.â His voice was low, almost careful, like he was choosing each word by hand. âI remember your fancy oat milk creamer. I remember that you check your tire pressure four times before a race. I remember the little sound you make right before you shift, and the way your hands shake after, and you shove them in your pockets, so nobody sees.â His thumb stilled on your knuckles. âItâs you. How could I forget all the things that make you, you?â
The words landed in the space between you like stones dropped into still water. You could feel the ripples spreadingâthrough your chest, through your stomach, through the places youâd been keeping locked and quiet for months.
âMingiââ
âI know,â there was a thread of nervousness in his voice that youâd never heard beforeânot from him, not from the man who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning with one hand tied behind his back. âI know itâs a lot. And I know the timing isâI showed up at your race with riverbank flowers wrapped in shop towel, thatâs not exactlyââ
âNo, Itâs perfect,â you breathed.
He stopped. Blinked. âWhat?â
âItâs perfect.â You squeezed his hand, and your voice was steadier now, steadier than it had any right to be given the way your heart was trying to escape through your sternum. âThe flowers are perfect. Showing up when you said you couldnât is perfect. Finishing a timing chain in four hours to watch me race isââ You laughed, a little broken, a little giddy. âThatâs the most ridiculous, over-the-top, completely unnecessary thing anyone has ever done for me, and itâs absolutely perfect.â
His eyes went brightânot with tears, but with something close, something that made the gold in them catch the moonlight and hold it. âYeah?â
âYeah.â You held his gaze, and the air between you had gone thick and warm and charged with something that had been building since the first time heâd called you sweetheart over the phone, since the first time heâd carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shoulders, since the first time youâd woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room.
âIâve been remembering things too, you know. The way you talk to engines. The way you wrap cuts in electrical tape. The way you always open the door even though the hinges complain. The way youââ Your voice cracked, just barely, and you pushed through it. âThe way you make me feel like Iâm worth showing up for. Like Iâm worth the overtime and the missed sleep and the riverbank flowers at five-thirty in the morning.â
Mingiâs hand tightened around yours. His jaw workedâonce, twiceâand when he spoke, his voice was rough at the edges, like something had been sanded down to its most honest layer.
âYou are,â he said. âYouâve always been. I just didnât know how to say it without soundingââ
âLike a lovesick mechanic?â
The laugh that escaped him was startled and genuine, and it broke the tension like a window shatteringânot violently, but completely, the barriers between you dissolving all at once. âYeah,â he admitted, still laughing. âLike a lovesick mechanic who picks wildflowers at dawn and drives across the city to watch his girl race because he canât stand the idea of her crossing the finish line without him there.â
His girl.
Your chest was so full it hurt. You looked at him, at the way his eyes were shining in the moonlight with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like loveâand you made a decision.
You swung your leg over the centre console, bracing one hand on the dashboard and the other on the back of Mingiâs seat, and the flowers tumbled from your lap into the footwellâyouâd apologise to them laterâand you were halfway across when your back connected with the steering wheel.
BEEEEP!
The horn blared. One long, deafening, comically loud sound that shattered the romantic tension like a brick through a greenhouse window.
The sound bounced off the river and came back at you from three directions, and a flock of something erupted from the trees along the bank in a flurry of wings and indignant squawking.
You froze. Mingi froze. The horn kept blaringâyour weight still pressing against the wheelâand for one horrible, eternal second the only sound in the universe was the aggressive, unwavering beep of your car announcing to every living creature within a half-kilometre radius that two people were having a moment.
Then Mingi laughed.
It started lowâa rumble in his chest that you felt through the hand still pressed against his seatâand then it broke open, wide and bright and completely unrestrained, his head falling back against the headrest, his whole body shaking with it. You were laughing too. you couldnât help it, the absurdity of it crashing over you like a wave. You shifted your weight off the horn, and the silence that followed was somehow even funnier than the noise had been.
âOh my god,â you wheezed, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. âI justâI canât believe I did that.â
âSo smooth,â Mingi confirmed, his voice cracking with laughter. âThatâs going in the wedding vows. Iâm putting it in our wedding vows one day.â
âStopââ You were laughing too hard to finish the sentence. âThis is so embarrassing.â
âTo have and to hold, in sickness and in health, and that one time you honked the horn with your backââ
You swatted his shoulder, and he caught your wristâeasy, instinctive, the way he caught everythingâand the laughter died between you like a candle guttering in a draft, and the silence that replaced it was different from the one before. Charged. Intentional. The kind of silence that had a destination.
You were in his lap.
You hadnât fully registered it until this moment. The solid warmth of his thighs beneath yours, the way your knees bracketed his hips, the way his free hand had found your waist and settled there with the kind of certainty that suggested it had been planning this landing for months. His face was inches from yours. You could see every detailâthe flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lower lip caught the moonlight and held it.
âHi, gorgeous,â he murmured.
âHi, pretty boy,â you whispered back.
His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back and pulled you in with the quiet confidence of someone who had already decided. Your chest met his, and through the thin cotton of his tank top you felt it: the hard press of a chain against your chest, cold metal warming fast between your bodies, and beneath it the steady knock of his heartbeat going just a little faster than it should have been. His other hand still had your wrist, his thumb resting over your pulse, and you had the dizzy, helpless thought that he could feel exactly what he was doing to youâevery traitorous beat of it.
âMingi,â you whispered.
âTell me to stop,â he murmured, his voice was low and rough, the words coming from somewhere deep in his chest. âIf you want me to stop, tell me now, becauseââ
You kissed him.
You didnât hesitate. The need in your chest had built past the point of thinking, past the point of planning, leaving you with nothing but the gravitational certainty of wanting him so badly it hurt. You leaned in and claimed his mouth with both handsâone threading into his hair, the other cupping the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb grazing the stubble as you tilted his face toward yours. Your lips crashed together, all the trembling restraint of the last few months shattering between your teeth, and you kissed him with none of the gentleness youâd always thought a first kiss was supposed to have. It was hungry, greedy, almost angryâa collision of lips and breath and hands, your pent-up longing poured into the space of a single, shuddering breath.
Mingi met you with an equal, ferocious urgency. His hands found your hips and pulled you even closer, and the heat between your bodies was immediate, as if the months of flirting and 'what ifs' had been gasoline and someone finally struck the match. His mouth tasted like cool mint and something darker, sweeter, and you licked into him without thinking, chasing the sound he made when your tongue brushed his. He groaned, low in his throat, and the vibration went straight through your bones, finding all the places in you that had been waiting for this and lighting them up at once.
The kiss turned reckless almost instantly. Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch and his lips part for you. His hands slid up your back, bunching the fabric of your shirt at your waist, exposing a strip of skin that tingled in the cool air and then burned under the heat of his palms. He kissed you like he was trying to learn youâmemorise you. Take as much as you would give and then ask for more, and you gave it to him gladly, shamelessly, your body moving in the small, instinctive ways that said yes, now, please.
He tasted you, mapped you, his breath coming faster as the kiss deepened, and when you broke away to gasp for air, his mouth didnât leave your skinâit travelled along your jaw, down to your neck, finding the spot just beneath your ear that made your eyes flutter shut, and your nails dig into his shoulders. You heard yourself make a noise, helpless and wrecked, and felt him grin against your neck, triumphant.
You chased his mouth back to yours, biting his lower lip, and he let you, let you take and take until you were dizzy with it, until nothing else existed except the press of his lips, the slide of his hands, and the wild, intoxicating rush of wanting him and being wanted back just as fiercely.
You barely heard yourself whisper his name as you pressed your forehead to his, breathing the same air, letting his hands anchor you while the rest of the world spun out beneath you.
He kissed you like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else, and you let him. You kissed him back like you wanted to ruin him too. You lost track of time. Of the river outside, of the moon overhead, of anything that wasnât the taste of him and the weight of his hands on your body.
When you finally separated, both of you breathing hard, his hands were still at your waist and your fingers were still in his hair. He was looking at you like a starved man, a little wrecked and utterly, unironically smitten.
âI shouldâve done that a long time ago,â you heard yourself say, voice shaky but certain.
He grinned, slow and devastating, and pulled you in for another, softer kiss, barely a brush of lips but somehow more intimate than everything before. âYou know damn well that I wouldâve let you,â he breathed, and you felt the words all the way down your spine.
You kissed him again.
This time it was deeper, hungrier, his hands sliding up your sides with a deliberateness that made your skin prickle. His thumbs hooked under the hem of your shirt, and he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against your lips.
âLift your arms for me, baby.â
You did, arms lifting without hesitation, and he peeled the fabric up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind the driverâs seat without looking. The cool night air hit your bare skin, and you shiveredâ but not from the cold. His gaze darkened as it dropped to your chest, and his fingers went to the clasp of your bra with the same practiced ease he used on engine bolts. One flick, and the band loosened. He didnât pull it away yet, just let the straps slide down your shoulders an inch at a time, his knuckles grazing your skin like a promise.
âFuck,â he murmured, voice rough. âLook at you.â His thumb traced the edge of the lace, teasing the swell of your breast before finally dragging the fabric away.
The air hit your nipples first, tightening them instantly, but then his hands were thereâwarm, calloused, cupping you with a reverence that made your breath catch. He rolled one peak between his fingers, watching your face contort with pleasure as you gasped, then leaned in to take the other into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue made you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he teased you, alternating between gentle suction and sharp little nips that sent sparks straight to your core.
âSânot fair Iâm half naked, and youâre still fully dressed,â you whined, tugging at his own shirt. He smirked and let you pull it over his head, revealing the lean muscle youâd been thinking about all eveningâall week, if you were being honest. His chains pooled against his collarbones, still warm from his skin. Your fingers went to them before youâd made any conscious decision to, looping them gently, feeling the small links drag across your knuckles as you gave a slow, idle tug.
âFuck⊠Damn,â you breathed, because apparently your vocabulary had abandoned you.
Mingiâs laugh was low and pleased. âYeah? Thatâs all youâve got for me?â. His hands were already on your hips, guiding you down onto his lap, and the words dissolved into something more primal when you settled against him.
You rolled your hips experimentally, and the sound he madeâhalf groan, half growlâwent straight to the blooming heat of your pussy. His fingers dug into your waist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to steer, and you found a rhythm that had both of you panting against each otherâs mouths.
âThatâs it,â he drawled, his voice dropping into that register that made your stomach flip. âAlways so pretty f'me.â
You ground down harder, chasing the friction, and his head fell back against the headrest. His throat was right there, and you kissed it, nipped at it.
âBackseat,â the command in his tone sent a thrill down your spine. âNow.â
You blinked, dazed. âWhat?â
âGo to the backseat. Iâm not doing this half-assed in the front of your car.â His hands were already pushing you off his lap, and you stumbled out of the driverâs side, your legs unsteady. He followed, unfolding his long frame from the passenger seat with considerably less grace.
You both climbed into the backâyou first, sliding across the leatherâand then Mingi ducked in after you. Or tried to. His head connected with the roof with a solid thunk, and he winced, rubbing the spot with a rueful grin.
âJesusâForgot this car is so tiny. Might need to buy you a bigger car if we're going to do this again.â
You burst out laughing, the tension breaking into something bright and giddy. âItâs a perfectly normal-sized car! Youâre justââ You gestured vaguely at all six feet of him.
âIâm just what?â He was grinning now too, that lopsided smile that crinkled his eyes. He settled beside you, the space suddenly very, very small. âDon't get shy on me now.â
âMassive,â you smirked, and the word came out breathier than you intended.
His eyes darkened. âIs that so? You knowâŠMy height isnât the only thing thatâs massive.â Instead of answering, you pulled him into another kiss, and he let you for a moment before pulling back, his hand on your jaw
âLie back for me, baby.â He nodded toward the door behind you. âRight there.â
You shifted, letting your back find the door, the handle pressing briefly into your shoulder blade before you angled away from it. Your upper body sank against the cool window, your legs stretching across the seat toward him. The leather was cold against the backs of your thighs. Mingi settled in the footwellâknees at his chest, impossibly foldedâand reached for the button of your jeans.
âLift your hips.â
You did. He worked your jeans down your legs, his hands trailing fire along your skin, then dealt with your bootsâone lace, then the otherâand you kicked them off into the darkness somewhere near the front seats.
Then it was just you, stretched across the backseat in your panties, propped against the door with Mingi crouched between your knees, looking up at you like you were something worth taking his time with.
âSpread your legs wider,â he drawled.
Your breath caught. âMingiââ
âDonât make me ask twice, sweetheart.â His voice was velvet over steel, and your thighs fell open almost involuntarily. âGood girl.â
His hands settled on your knees, and he just looked at youâall of you, laid out for him. The parking lot light filtered amber through the windows. You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat. âYouâre so beautiful,â he coos, his thumb grazing the inside of your thigh and stopping long before you needed him.
âPlease,â you managed, voice trembling.
He flashed that infuriating smile and inched his thumb higher, then paused. âPlease what? Youâre my smart girlâyou can use your words.â
âYou know what I want,â you whispered, voice cracking.
He reached up, cupping your face and tilting your chin until you met his gaze. âIf you want something, you have to use your words.â
You wanted to kill himâor kiss him. Maybe both. âTouch me properly. Please, Mingi, I needââ
âShh.â At last his thumb brushed the edge of your underwear and you whined. âGood job, baby. Thatâs all you had to say.â
He shifted forward, knees braced against your thighs, steam and intent filling the small space between you. His eyes were dark, fixed on the bare skin just above his reach. When you looked down, your heart stutteredâhe was entirely present, and you trembled before his touch even arrived.
âKeep your eyes on me,â he murmured, voice absolute. You obeyed, so helplessly drawn in that youâd have done anything he asked.
His touch feathered across your knee crease, drifting upward along the line where your skin warmed with anticipation. He watched every shiver, every hitch of your breath, lingering on the inner curve of your thigh. You squirmed; his hands held you steady, grounding you with effortless strength.
When your lids fluttered closed, he cleared his throat, and you snapped them open, mortified by how much it turned you on. He extended each second, building tension until you felt you might scream.
Finally, his thumb caught the elastic of your underwear, teasing the fabric. He leaned in close enough for each breath to scorch your skin. âWant it right here donât you, baby?â
You nodded, barely able to whisper, âI do, Please Mingi...â
He rewarded you with a devastating smile and hooked both thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, dragging it down your legs in one slow, deliberate pull. He held your gaze as he folded the fabric and tucked it into his back pocket, casual as anything, like he was keeping it. Then his hand found you, fingers gathering your slickness, mapping every gasp and twitch as he traced your clit in gentle, maddening circles.
Your hips bucked, and he murmured, âEasy, pretty girl. Iâve got you.â But instead of rushing, he slowed, keeping you perched at the edge. Your knees knocked against his shoulders as he leaned back to admire his work.
âYou look so perfect like this,â he breathed, voice low and ragged, âalll of this just for me.â He paused, satisfaction in every curve of his smile, as though heâd painted a masterpiece with his own two hands.
âPlease, Mingi, p-please,â you heard yourself beg, the words rolling out of you shameless and raw.
He gave in, at last, sliding one long finger inside you, the sensation so intense you almost blacked out. The stretch and the heat and the pressure, all of it hit you at once, and your hands flew to his shoulders, digging in.
He curled that finger, just so perfectly, and when you arched off the car door, he kept pace, never breaking that perfect eye contact, never letting you drift even a second away from his attention.
He pumped his finger with a slow, luxurious rhythm, letting you ride the wave until you could hardly breathe. âSo fucking tight, need to get you all ready for me,â he whispered, the pride in his voice made you even wetter. His thumb came up to circle your clit again, this time with purpose, dialling your body up to eleven in the space of a heartbeat.
He added a second finger, stretching you wider, and that was itâyou were gone, hips rolling, head tossed back, mouth open in a silent scream. He pressed his face against your thigh, biting softly, and the feeling of his teeth and tongue sent shivers through your whole body.
But even when you tried to hide your face behind your hands, to ride the sensation out in the darkness of your palms, he stopped, pulling his hand away just long enough to force your gaze back to his.
âDon't you hide that cute face from me. I wanna see all of you.â
"Ah! M-mingi, fuck!" You cried out, unconsciously pulling away from him when his fingertips were already hitting so sinfully against your g-spot. You gripped onto his forearms for purchase, steadying yourself against his promiscuous rythmn.
He kept his fingers moving through itâcurling, stroking, finding that sweet spot again and again with devastating precision, the filthy wet sounds of your cunt filling the silence of the car each time he drove his fingers deeper.
"You're taking my fingers so well," Mingi cooed, picking up the pace even faster.
Broken moans left your lips as he fucked you with his fingers. Your thighs clamped around his wrist and he pulled them apart with his free hand, firm and unhurried, spreading you back open without ever breaking his rhythm.
âYouâre close, aren't you?â He murmured, not as a question rather as a statement. His voice was low and honeyed, that lazy confidence threading through every word like heâd mapped out every single one of your reactions before youâd even felt them. âI can feel it. Youâre clenching so pretty around my fingers, baby.â
You whined, high and desperate, because he was right and he knew he was right and the worst part was that he sounded so goddamn pleased about it.
âThatâs it. Donât fight it.â His free hand slid up your thigh, fingers splayed wide against your skin, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee like it was something sacred. âLet go for me. Iâve got you.â
The coil in your belly pulled tighter, tighter, and your hands fisted in the leather seat because there was nothing else to hold onto, nothing solid in a world that had narrowed down to the curl of his fingers inside you and the rough velvet of his voice.
âCâmon, sweetheart. Right on my hand. Show me how good I made you feel.â
You shattered.
It hit you like a wall of white noise, blinding and electric, and your back arched clean off the backseat as you came apart around him. His fingers didnât stop for a second. If anything they slowed, drawing it out, wringing every last shudder and pulse from your body until you were trembling and gasping and completely, utterly ruined.
He watched you the entire time. You cracked your eyes open at some point and found him staring down at you with that crooked half-smile, the one that always made your stomach flip even when you were too wrung out to do anything about it.
âFuck,â he breathed, and there was something almost reverent in it. âLook at you.â
He pulled his fingers free slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, but then he was bringing his hand up between your puffy folds gathering the remains of your pleasure on his digits.
You watched, still trembling, your chest heaving, as he slipped those slick fingers them between his lips and sucked them clean with the kind of deliberate, unhurried pleasure that made your thighs clench all over again. His eyes never left yours, dark and heavy-lidded, and the sound he madeâa low, appreciative humâvibrated through the small space between you.
âSo sweet,â he murmured, pulling his fingers free with a soft pop. He licked the pad of his thumb, slow and thorough, like he was tasting something worth savouring. âSo fucking perfect. You taste even better than I imagined.â He paused, searching for the word, and the half-smile that curved his mouth was devastating. âAnd I've imagined it a lot.â
Your face burned. Your entire body burned. You couldnât look away from his mouth, from the way his tongue traced the line of his knuckles, from the way his eyes went half-lidded and dark with satisfaction.
You made a noise that was supposed to be indignation but came out embarrassingly close to a moan. âSuch a fucking perv.â
âMm.â He lowered himself over you, bracing his weight on one forearm against the back of the seat, and pressed his lips to the corner of your jaw. Still wet. Still tasting like you. âYou love it though.â
You did. God help you, you really did.
He lowered his hand and reached for you, his palm warm against your hip, guiding you with that easy, unhurried confidence that made your knees weak even when you were already lying down.
âCome lie down properly, you know I donât bite,â he purred, and you obeyedâsliding backward onto the leather seat, letting him guide you. His hands traced your spine like he was tuning something precious. He shifted, smoothing your body until you lay flat, legs splayed, arms above your head, torso exposed beneath the cool leather.
He hovered over you, one hand on your hip to anchor you, the other brushing your inner thigh. The door handle pressed into your shoulders, the stickiness of the leather biting into your ribs, but none of it mattered. Only Mingiâs heat and the slow, hungry gleam in his eyes.
âHow flexible are you?â he asked, as casually as if checking the time.
Your mind still foggy, you blinked. âIâd say Iâm pretty flexible. Why?â
He hummed, hands sliding beneath your hips with mechanical precision, and lifted. Your lower body left the seat entirely, suspended in the air, nothing beneath your but his grip. You grabbed for something to hold and found his thighsâthick and solid under your palms, the denim warm.
âIs this okay?â he murmured. You nodded as you dug your fingers in his thighs.
Then his mouth was on you.
His tongue was a live wire, tracing a slow, molten path from where you ached to where you burned. The first drag of itâflat, deliberate, searingâsent a jolt through you like a spark plug firing. Your hips jerked upwards in his grasp, a broken sound clawing its way out of your throat. Mingi hummed against you, the vibration a deep, resonant purr that thrummed through your bones, your nerves, your very core. He explored you like he was memorizing a blueprintâeach ridge, each sensitive fold, each flutter of muscle beneath his lips. His tongue lingered where your breath hitched, swirled where your thighs trembled, pressed where your pulse hammered like a piston in overdrive.
âM-Mingiâfuck, feels so good!â Your voice was raw, shredded by the pleasure coiling tighter inside you.
His grip on your hip intensified, fingertips biting into your flesh with an urgency that made your spine arch. You could feel the imprint he was leaving on your skinâfive points of possession, claiming you as his even as you squirmed helplessly in his hold. The other hand slid up, tracing the natural curve of your back with almost reverent care before splaying wide and holding you there, helplessly suspended, a perfect angle for his tongue to do its damage. The cold air inside the car prickled against the sweat beading along your skin, but the contrast only sharpened the focus of every hot, wet, maddeningly precise thing Mingi was doing between your thighs.
He worked you with a methodical, almost mechanical intensity, the kind youâd seen him use on the shop floor with a stubborn bolt or a seized partâdetermined, relentless, and utterly sure of himself. His mouth didnât just tease; it engineered your pleasure, tracing out every sensitive ridge and dip, every stuttering gasp and involuntary twitch. He learned you so quickly it was terrifyingâevery time you tried to twist away or clamp your knees shut, he countered, easily, like a wrench snapping onto a stripped nut. You had no leverage. No hope. Just the inevitability of what he was building in you.
He alternated, sometimes flattening his tongue and dragging it up your puffy pussylips in one long, slow burn, sometimes isolating the spot that made your vision strobe, focusing the pressure until you were clawing at his jeans and choking on your own moans. There was no rhythm to fall into, no lull; just spikes of pleasure, sharp and unpredictable, wracking through you until your thighs shook uncontrollably. He hummed again, the sound low and smug, vibrating straight into your core like a tuning fork.
Somewhere in the haze, you realized youâd started to beg. Not with words, not at firstâjust hoarse little whimpers, your ragged breathing an open admission of defeat. But then the words tumbled out, torn from you by the merciless grind of his tongue. âPlease, Mingi, please, please, I canâtââ You werenât sure what you were asking for. Mercy, maybe. Or more, always more.
He paused only long enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark with heat and satisfaction. âI thought you could handle more, baby?â he rasped, breath fanning over your swollen flesh.
âI can-fuck, I can handle it.â you snarl back, your words having no real bite behind them. Mingi knows that, hell, even you know that.
He bent to his work with renewed vengeanceâfaster now, chasing your pleasure like it was something he could catch and pin down. The carâs interior filled with the obscene wet sounds of his mouth and your body betraying you, slick and desperate under his assault. The seat vibrated under your head as you started to thrash, your legs locked tight around his shoulders, your fingers digging deeper and deeper into the meat of his thighs.
Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off, a shrill warble that barely penetrated the cocoon of sensation. The world could have ended around you and you wouldnât have noticed. Not when he was doing this, not when he was making you feel like your whole body had been rewired for his touch alone.
He played you up and down the scale, sometimes gentle, sometimes ruthless, reading every clench and flutter with greedy satisfaction. When he sensed you hovering on the knifeâs edge, he eased off, letting you breathe for exactly two seconds before diving back in, measuring out your pleasure in cruel increments. He wanted you to break. He wanted to see it.
And you did.
Then he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, hard. The sensation detonated through you, a backfire of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You came apart with a cry, your voice fracturing on his name, the seat shuddering beneath your frantic grip. The orgasm wasnât just a releaseâit was a full-system failure, white-hot and all-consuming, waves of sensation crashing over you like a blown gasket. Your vision whited out, your body convulsing in his grasp as he drew it out, his tongue still working, still demanding, still taking until you were nothing but a trembling, sobbing mess of sweat and tears.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were slick with small strings of your arousal hung between his lips and your dripping cunt. You collapsed against the seat, your chest heaving like youâd just run a 10km marathon, your arms limp, your legs still trembling in the cradle of his hands.
He blew warm breath against your thigh and groaned, part laugh, part moan. âFuck,â he rasped. âYouâre incredible. So good for me, my sweet girl.â
Then he rose, slow and deliberate, his body unfolding from between your legs with the easy grace of someone who knew exactly how much power he held. Your breath still came in short, hitching gasps as he leaned over you, one hand braced on the headrest beside your temple, the other still tangled with your fingers.
He didnât say anything. He didnât need to. The look in his eyes said enoughâhungry, satisfied in a way that was only temporary, the kind of satisfaction that fueled something deeper. He tilted your chin up with his free hand, thumb tracing your lower lip, and then he was kissing you.
His mouth was hot and wet and youâthe unmistakable taste of your own release still clinging to his tongue as it swept past your lips. The flavor was sharp, musky, intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn even hotter. You moaned into the kiss, the sound muffled against his mouth, your body still trembling with the aftershocks that his taste seemed to reignite. He swallowed the sound like it was something precious, his hand sliding from your chin to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the angle.
You could feel the rough texture of his calloused fingers against your jaw, the faint scent of cologne and sweat and him filling your lungs with every ragged breath you shared. His tongue moved against yours with the same deliberate precision heâd used between your thighsâmethodical, thorough, tasting every corner of your mouth like he was cataloging you. The kiss was filthy and tender all at once, possessive in a way
You couldnât speak. Still pulsing with aftershocks, you looked and saw himâflushed, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger sharpened, not sated. His hand found yours on the seat, fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently.
âStill with me?â he whispered, genuine concern in his voice, as careful as checking an engine after a hard run. You nodded, something warm and new cracking open behind your sternum.
You squeezed his hand back. âStill here,â you managed, and your voice was hoarse, barely recognisable. âWant⊠more.â
His eyes went darkâdeeper, hungrier, the look of a man whoâd been holding himself back by a thread and just heard the thread snap. âMore,â he repeated, and the word came out low and rough, like gravel dragged across silk. âDoes my baby want more?â
You nodded. âPlease. I needâI need to feel you inside me, Mingi.â
The sound he made was barely humanâa low, guttural growl that started in his chest and vibrated through the console into your bones. Then his hands were on you, sure and unhurried, guiding you forward until your stomach met the centre console, the leather cool against your bare skin. He arranged you with careful, deliberate handsâchest down, hips tilted back toward him, your ass and cunt angled up and open, completely exposed to whatever he wanted to do next.
âStay right there,â he murmured, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. âDonât move. Keep your hips up, just like thatâperfect, sweetheart, perfect.â
You stayed. The hard edge of the gear shift dug into your body and none of it mattered because Mingiâs hands were on you, warm and sure.
His hand left your hip. You heard the rustle of denim, the soft clink of a belt buckle, and then the sound of fabric being pushed downâand your heart hammered so hard you were certain he could hear it, certain it was echoing off the windows and the river and the moon. You glanced over your shoulder to watch him, he smirked when he realised you were watching him, then pulled down his boxers.
Precum was already oozing from his pinkish mushroom tip. Mingi wasnât kidding, he was fucking massive. A good 7 to 8 inches you thought to yourself. You reached behind you and pumped the base of his cock, earning a low groan from him as you traced your thumb across the head. Mingi twitched in your palm and gently bucked his hips into your hand.
Mingiâs jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek as you squeezed him again, your thumb swirling another lazy circle around his tip just to watch his nostrils flare. His hand closed over yoursâlarge, warm, callousedâand stilled your movements.
âCareful,â he moaned, his voice had dropped into that dangerous register, the one that sounded like a warning label on something flammable. âYou keep teasing me like that and youâre gonna regret it, sweetheart.â
You bit your lip, a grin spreading despite yourself. âRegret what, exactly?â
His eyes narrowed. âYou know exactly what.â
You didnât stop. You couldnât help it. The power of making him twitch, of watching his composure crack, was intoxicating. You gave him one more deliberate pump, slow and tight, your fingers curling just the way you knew would make his hips buck.
âMingi, I donât think youâd actually be so bigââ
The words died in your throat because he was moving, shifting behind you with that fluid, predatory grace that made your stomach drop. His hand left yours and found the small of your back, pressing you flat against the console. You felt the blunt, hot head of him drag through your slickânot pushing, not entering, just smearingâtrailing a path of your own arousal along your swollen, desperate entrance with agonizing precision.
You clenched. Your body tried to pull him in, hips tilting back, chasing the pressure that wasnât there. Your cunt pulsed around nothing, fluttering, aching, empty.
âMingiâpleaseââ
âUh-uh.â His voice was velvet over steel, warm and utterly merciless. âYou had your chance to behave. You didnât take it.â
Then his hand was on your ass. Not gently or tentatively. His palm settled against the curve of your right cheek with a weight that made your breath catch, his fingers spreading wide, and for one suspended moment he just held you there like he was claiming his territory.
âYouâre so beautiful like this,â he said, almost to himself, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the crease where your thigh met your ass. âSuch a shame, you just had to be a brat, didnât you?â
The first spank landed without warning.
His palm connected with your right cheek with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed through the carâs interior like a gunshot. The sound was obsceneâwet, resonant, the kind of sound that made your face burn and your cunt clench simultaneously. The pain bloomed hot and bright, spreading across your skin in a wave that crested and broke into something that wasnât pain at allâsomething electric, something that lit up every nerve ending it touched and sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.
You gasped. Your fingers scrabbled against the dashboard, and Mingi made a soundâlow, satisfied, the sound of a man whoâd just confirmed a hypothesis and found the results exceeded every expectation.
âAgain,â you whimpered at the impact. âHarder, Mingi.â
âTsk, Greedy girl,â he murmured, but there was no admonishment in it. Only warmth, only approval, only the particular pleasure of being asked for exactly what he wanted to give. His hand came down againâleft cheek this time, harder, the impact ringing through your bonesâand you cried out, your hips jerking forward, your body chasing the sting like it was oxygen.
He spanked you three more timesâalternating sides, each one landing with a precision that spoke to practice, or instinct, or both. The pain built in layers, each impact compounding the last, until your entire ass was burning and your cunt was so wet you could feel it dripping down your inner thighs. You were moaning openly now, embarrassing, desperate sounds that youâd never made in your life, sounds youâd have been mortified by if anyone but Mingi could hear them.
And stillâstillâhe didnât push inside you. His cockhead just rested there, right at your entrance, hot and heavy and right there, and every time your hips shifted back to try and take him, he pulled away just enough to deny you.
âMinâbaby please, Iâm sorry, Iâll be good, Iâllââ
âYouâll be good?â he repeated, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without turning around. âI asked you to stop teasin' me but you didn't listen, baby. Look where that got you.â
His hand smoothed over the burning skin of your ass, palm flat and warm, soothing the sting even as he stoked it. The gentleness was almost worse than the spanking. The tenderness in contrast to the punishment making your eyes sting.
He leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear. âYouâll get what I give you, when I decide to give it,â he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. âAnd right now, I think you need to learn some patience.â
His hand returned between your thighs, fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering your arousal before circling your entrance again still refusing to push inside. You whined, your hips bucking desperately against his teasing touch.
âAww you poor thing,â he chuckled, his voice thick with satisfaction. âSo wet. So desperate. All because you couldnât resist being a brat.â
You were beyond words now, reduced to incoherent sounds of need as he continued his torment. The spanks had left your skin hypersensitive, every nerve ending alight, amplifying the sensation of his fingers as they traced patterns around your entrance without ever granting you the penetration you craved.
When he finally, mercifully, pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, you nearly sobbed with relief. But he didnât push inâhe just held it there, letting you feel the heat and weight of him without giving you what you needed.
âStill want to tease me?â he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
âNo,â you gasped, shaking your head frantically. âNo, Iâm sorry. Iâll be good I-I promiseâŠâ
He rewarded your submission with a slow, deliberate pushâjust the head of his cock entering you, stretching you just enough to make your breath catch. Then he stopped again, pulling back slightly.
âTell me what you want,â he demanded, his voice rough with restraint.
âYou,â you panted, your fingers gripping the dashboard so hard your knuckles turned white. âAll of you. Please, just fuck me, Mingi.â
The sound he made sent shivers down your spine. âThat's my girl. Look how easy that was when you just ask nicely.â he murmured, and then he was pushing forward. His fingers were spreading you open, and you felt his cockâhot, heavy, already slickâpressing against your entrance with a pressure that made your whole body clench in anticipation.
âHands,â he said, the command was quiet but absolute, leaving no room for interpretation.
You reached back automatically, and his hand caught both of your wrists in one grip and pulled them behind your back. His fingers laced through yours, locking your hands together, and the position pushed your chest forward, your breasts pressing into the console, your back arching in a curve that left you completely exposed, completely vulnerable, completely his.
âNow, be a good girl and stay still for me, okay?â He instructed, and you gripped your own hands, your fingers interlaced behind your back, held in place by the warm cage of his palm. The restraint was gentle but unyielding, and the vulnerability of itâthe inability to move, to brace, to control anything about what was happening to youâsent a wave of heat through your body so intense it bordered on vertigo.
Then he was pushing inside you.
Slow. So slow. Inch by agonising inch, his cock stretching you open with a fullness that made your breath stutter and your vision white-out at the edges. You were still sensitive from before, still trembling with aftershocks, and the sensation of him filling youâthick, relentless, every ridge and vein pressing against walls that were already singingâwas almost too much. You whimpered against the console, your fingers tightening behind your back, and Mingi groaned above youâlow, broken, the sound of a man who was fighting for control and losing.
âFuckâfuuuck, youâre so tight, sweetheartââ His voice cracked on the last word, and his free hand found your hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks. âSo perfect. So goddamn perfect for me.â
He bottomed out, and the feeling of himâfully seated, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt inside youâdrove the air from your lungs. You could feel his heartbeat through the point of connection, fast and strong and slightly out of rhythm, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just existed in the same impossible, electric space.
Then he pulled back and thrust forward, and the world narrowed to nothing.
The angle was devastating with the console holding your hips at exactly the right height, the position forcing him deep, deeper than youâd thought possible, every stroke hitting something inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You couldnât move. Your hands were locked behind your back, his grip unrelenting. The helplessness of it, the complete surrender of control, turned every nerve in your body into a live wire.
âMingiâoh my god, oh fuckââ The words tumbled out of you in a broken stream, your voice cracking on every syllable, and you felt him shift behind youâadjusting, finding the angle, his hips snapping forward with a precision that told you he was paying attention to every sound you made, every hitch in your breathing, every involuntary clench of your body around him.
âI want to hear you,â he growled, and his voice was rough, wrecked, barely holding together. âEvery sound. Every moan. Every time I make you feel good, I want to hear it. Donât hold back. Donât be quiet. Iâve been thinking about the sounds you makeââ His hips pressed forward, just an inch, just enough to make you gasp. ââfor months. So be loud for me, baby.â
He punctuated the words with a thrust that drove the air from your lungs, and the sound you made was loudâembarrassingly loud, the kind of sound that would have carried across the parking lot if anyone had been there to hear itâand Mingi groaned like youâd punched him.
âLouder,â he demanded, and his hand tightened on your wrists, pulling them higher up your back, the new angle arching your spine and pressing your chest harder against the console. âYou think I pulled up to this abandoned car park to hear you be quiet?â
You laughedâor tried to, the sound dissolving into a moan as he hit that spot again, that devastating, mind-melting spot that turned your bones to liquid. âYouâyouâre such an assholeâmmf!â
âMm-hm.â His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and the console creaked beneath you. âAnd you love it. Now be loud for me, baby. Let me hear how good Iâm making you feel.â
He set a devastating rhythmâdeep, relentless, each thrust measured and deliberate. His cock dragging against every sensitive point inside you with a precision that bordered on cruel. You couldnât hold back. You didnât try. The sounds poured out of you. Moans and whimpers and half-formed pleas, his name repeated like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain could still form.
Each thrust pulled another sound from your throat, each one louder than the last, and Mingi fed on them. You could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his breathing went ragged, in the way his hips moved faster, harder, chasing the particular pitch of your voice that told him he was doing something right.
âSoâfuck, so fucking tight,â he panted, and his forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, his breath hot against your spine. âMy pretty little slut to ruin.â
His free hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pressing flat against your abdomen, and you could feel him through the thin wall of muscleâthe thick, heavy shape of his cock moving inside you, stretching you open with every thrustâand the obscenity of it, the visceral, undeniable reality of being filled so completely, made you sob.
âThatâs it,â he murmured against your ear, and the words sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. âYou were made to take this cock.â
He established a rhythmâsteady, unhurried, each thrust deep enough to hit the spot that made your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open. The console creaked beneath you with every movement, the gearshift vibrating against your hip, the leather squeaking where your skin met it. The sounds were so pornographic. Wet, rhythmic, the slap 'plap, plap, plap' of skin against skin punctuated by your increasingly desperate moans and Mingiâs low, ragged breathing.
You kept your promise. You were loud. Every thrust pulled a gasps, moans, whimpers and broken versions of his name that dissolved into nothing before they finished. When he angled his hips and found the spot that made you see stars. The pleasure was so euphoric you felt fat wads of tears trailing down your face.
âRight there, baby?â he grunted, barely controlled. âThat feel good?â
âYesâfuck, yes, right there, d-donât stop, please donât stopââ
He didnât stop. He shifted his angle, changed the depth, found the exact position that had your entire body lighting up like a switchboard and he stayed there, driving into you with a precision that was almost mechanical in its consistency. Each thrust hit the same spot, built the same pressure, sent the same cascade of pleasure rolling through you in waves that grew taller and closer together with every repetition.
His free hand left your hip and found your hair, fisting in it, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat. His mouth found the pulse point beneath your jaw. Sucking, biting, leaving marks youâd find tomorrow. The overwhelming combination of sensationsâhis cock inside you, his hand in your hair, his teeth on your neckâpushed you toward the edge with a speed that was almost frightening.
âMinâMingi, Iâm close, Iâm so closeââ
âI know, baby.â His voice was strained, the words coming in sharp bursts between thrusts. âI can feel it. Youâre clenching so hardâfuck, sweetheart.â
His hand left your hair and slid down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The first touch was electric. A direct connection to the live wire of your pleasure and you completely fell apart.
Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, no warning, no build up, just a sudden detonation that ripped through your body and turned every muscle to liquid fire. Your walls clamped down around his dick, pulsing in tight, rhythmic waves, and Mingiâs breath hitchedâa sharp, broken sound that told you he was right there with you. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables, and his thrusts grew slower, sloppier, the precise mechanical rhythm dissolving into something raw and desperate.
His fingers kept working your clit through your high, drawing out every last tremor, and you could feel the sweat dripping from his forehead and chest onto your back. The ministrations he had on your clit wasnât his normal teasing ones. It felt like he was spelling something outâS-O-N-G M-I-N-G-I. You gasp at the realisation. The bastard wrote his name on your clit. He didnât pause, didnât pull away, just kept moving inside you through the wreckage of your own orgasm.
âGonna cum, baby,â he rasped, and his voice was wreckedâscraped raw, barely recognizable, the voice of a man hanging by a thread. âWhere do you want it?â
âInside,â you whimper, the word torn from you as another wave crested and broke. You were still coming, still trembling, still clenching around him in pulses that you couldnât control, and you were pretty sure if he kept going like this, kept hitting your sweet spot, kept his fingers on your clitâheâd pull another orgasm from you before youâd even finished the first. âWant it inside, need it inside. Need you sâbad ohmygod.â
He groaned as his hips snapped forward three more times, deep and deliberate, each one driving the air from your lungs. Then his entire body locked, every muscle going rigid, and you felt him spill inside youâhot, thick, pulsing in time with the frantic beat of his heart.
âWait, babyâdonât do that,â he choked out weakly when your cunt fluttered around him, trying to milk every last drop.
His cock twitched inside you, still sensitive, still spilling, and you hummedâcontent, satisfied, smugâat the feeling of him filling you up exactly the way youâd asked. He laughed, the sound hoarse and breathless, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.
âYouâre greedy,â he murmured, carefully lowering himself until his chest pressed flush against your back. His body was warm despite the sweat, solid and heavy and grounding, and you felt him press a kiss to the nape of your neckâsoft, almost tender, completely at odds with the animal intensity of the last twenty minutes.
âMm,â you managed, your voice barely a whisper. Your hands were still locked behind your back, still held in his grip, and you made no move to free them. You didnât want to. You wanted to stay exactly like thisâtrapped between the console and his body, filled and claimed and utterly, completely his.
Mingiâs grip loosened on your wrists. His fingers uncurled from yours, and your hands fell to your sides, tingling with returning blood flow. His forehead was still pressed between your shoulder blades, and you could feel the rapid hammer of his heartbeat against your back, slowly, slowly beginning to steady.
âAre you okay?â he murmured against your skin, and his voice was wreckedâhoarse and tender and slightly dazed, like heâd just woken from a dream he wasnât sure was real.
You turned your head on the console, your cheek pressed against the leather, and managed a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. âBarely.â
He laughedâa warm, rumbling sound that vibrated through your back and into your chestâand his arms came around you, gathering you against him with a gentleness that made your chest swell with love. He pulled you upright, carefully, mindful of the cramped space and the awkward angle, and you collapsed back against his chest, your body boneless and trembling, your head falling against his shoulder.
His arms were warm around you, his heartbeat steadying beneath your ear, and the world was slowly reassembling itself from the scattered pieces the orgasm had left behind. His hand was tracing lazy patterns on your lower back, his fingers drawing circles that made your skin prickle with renewed sensitivity.
His face was right thereâinches away, his eyes half-lidded, his lips swollen and slightly parted, a thin sheen of sweat catching the moonlight that filtered through the windows. You looked at the way his hair stuck to his forehead, and at the flush still high on his cheekbones, shifted in your chest. You turned your head and found his mouth with yours.
The kiss was different this time. Slower. Softer. The desperate, hungry collision of before had given way to something deeper, something that tasted like relief and wonder and the particular sweetness of a thing youâd been waiting for without admitting you were waiting. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, and you felt him smile into the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark and soft and slightly unfocused, the way they got when he was looking at something he couldnât believe was real, and you pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.
Then you moved.
You shifted in his lap, turning your body, swinging one leg over his hips until you were straddling himâfacing him, your knees pressed into the leather on either side of his thighs, your hands braced on his shoulders. The position was awkward in the cramped backseatâyour head nearly brushing the roof, your knees at angles that would make a chiropractor weepâbut you didnât care. You looked down at him, at the way his eyes went wide and dark and hungry all at once, and something hot and liquid pooled low in your belly.
His hands found your waist immediately. Both of them, warm and rough, his thumbs tracing slow circles on your hipbones through the thin barrier of your skin. His gaze dropped from your face to your chest, and the sound he madeâlow, appreciativeâsent a shiver cascading down your spine.
âOh fuck,â he breathed, and his hands slid upward, tracing the line of your ribs with a touch so light it barely qualified as contact. âNow this is a view I could get used to.â
You rolled your hips. The movement was deliberate. Slow, grinding, your cunt dragging along the length of his cock where it lay heavy and spent against his stomach. You felt him twitch, felt the soft sound he made vibrate through his chest, and you did it againâslower this time, more pressure, watching his face the whole time.
His hands tightened on your waist. His jaw clenched. His eyes went darkânot the playful dark, not the teasing dark, but the deep, consuming dark of a man who was being given something he hadnât known to ask for.
âAgain,â he groaned, his voice was rough, wrecked, the words barely holding together. âDo that again.â
You did. You rolled your hips in a slow, circular motion that pressed your clit against the base of his cock, and the frictionâcombined with the oversensitivity still singing through your nervesâmade your breath catch. You braced your hands on his shoulders and lifted your hips, just enough to shift the angle, and when you sank back down. Taking him inside you in one smooth, devastating stroke.
His head fell back against the seat, his throat exposed, the tendons standing out in sharp relief. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard, and you felt his cock twitch inside youâstill soft, still recovering, but the sensation of being filled, of being stretched around him even in this state, sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through your core.
âHoly shitâŠâ He swallowed hard, his Adamâs apple bobbing. âYouâre gonna kill me. You know that, right?â
You smiled slow and deliberate. âGood.â Then, you started to move.
Not fast. Not yet. You set a torturous rhythm. Slow, grinding, your hips rolling in tight circles that dragged his cock against every sensitive wall inside you. You kept your eyes on his face, cataloguing every reactionâthe way his breath hitched when you clenched around him, the way his fingers dug into your hips when you changed the angle, the way his eyes went half-lidded and glassy when you found the spot that made his whole body tense.
His hands never stopped moving.
They traced your waist, your ribs, and the curve of your lower back. Like he was trying to touch every inch of you at once and couldnât decide where to start. His hands were everywhere, and each point of contact sent sparks cascading through your nervous system, building on the pleasure already coiling tight in your belly.
Then his hands found your breasts.
You felt the shift in his attention before you saw it. His gaze dropping, his breath catching, his hands moving with a new kind of intention. His palms cupped you from below, lifting, weighing, his thumbs tracing the undersides with a touch so light it made your skin prickle. He squeezed gentlyâonce, twiceâand the sound you made was involuntary, a soft, broken moan that escaped before you could catch it.
âThese,â he murmured, and his voice was thick, reverent, his eyes fixed on your chest with the same focused attention he gave to engine bays. âIâve been thinking about these. Every time you leaned over the hood, every time you stretched. I tried to be a gentleman but fuck, baby, you made it so hard.â
His thumbs found your nipplesâhard, sensitive, still aching from beforeâand rolled them between his fingers with a precision that made your vision blur. The sensation was sharp and electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core, and you arched into his touch, your hips stuttering in their rhythm.
âOh god, that feels s-so good!â
âI know, sweetheart,â he breathed, and his mouth was already moving, leaning forward, closing the distance, his tongue finding your left nipple with a flat, wet stroke that made you cry out. He circled it, his tongue painting tight spirals around the peak and then he sucked, and the sound you made was loud enough to echo.
His hand kept working the other breast. Rolling, squeezing, his fingers finding the perfect pressure while his mouth lavished attention on the first. He alternated between gentle suction and sharp, teasing bites that made your whole body jerk, and every time you moved, every time your hips rolled or your back arched, he groaned against your skin like you were doing something specifically designed to destroy him.
You were. You knew you were. The way you moved, the way you clenched around him on every upstroke, the way your hands found his hair and pulled just hard enough to make his breath catchâyou were giving him exactly what heâd given you, and then some.
His cock was hardening inside you. You could feel it. You could feel him. The gradual thickening, the way he filled you more completely with every passing second, the way his breathing went ragged and his grip on your hips turned desperate. You rolled your hips harder, faster, chasing the friction, chasing the building pressure, and Mingi broke away from your breast with a gasp that was almost a sob.
âYou feel so fucking good.â His hands were everywhereâyour waist, your back, your tits, your thighsâtouching, squeezing, mapping your body with the frantic energy of someone who was trying to memorise every detail before the moment ended.
You leaned down and kissed him. Deep, hungry, your tongue sliding against his, your hips never stopping their rhythm. He kissed you back with equal fervour, his hands sliding up your back and pressing you closer, your chest flush against his, your nipples dragging against the hard planes of his pecs with every movement.
When you pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together, your noses brushing. Mingiâs eyes were dark and dazed and full of something that looked terrifyingly like love.
âRide me like you mean it, baby. Show me what youâve got.â he whispered, and the words were a plea and a command in equal measure.
You sat up straight, your hands braced on his shoulders, and you moved.
Your thighs flexing as you lifted yourself up and dropped back down, setting a pace that was fast and deep and absolutely devastating. The angle was different from before. You were facing him, your weight driving you down onto his cock with a force that made the leather squeak and the seat frame creak and Mingiâs hands fly to your hips like he was trying to hold on to something solid in a world that had gone liquid.
âAtta girl, thatâs it baby jusâ like thatâ The words tumbled out of him in a broken stream, his head falling back, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping.
His cock was fully hard now, thick and heavy inside you, stretching you open with every downstroke, and the sensation combined with the friction of your clit against his pelvis was building something enormous and inevitable at the base of your spine. You were bouncing now, your body moving with a fluid, athletic grace that surprised even youâand every time you dropped down, Mingiâs cock hit that spot, that devastating, mind-melting spot, and the sounds you made were obscene.
âHarder,â he growled, and his hands tightened on your breasts, squeezing, rolling, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you see stars. âRide me harder, baby. I want you to feel me until tomorrow.â
You obliged. You drove yourself down onto him with everything you had. Every ounce of strength in your thighs, every shred of control in your core. The impact was sharp and bright and perfect. The car rocked beneath you, the suspension groaning, and Mingiâs grip on your breasts turned bruising, his mouth finding your collarbone and biting down hard enough to leave a mark.
âYouâreâfuck, youâre so good at this,â he panted against your skin, his voice cracking.
âShut up,â you gasped, and you meant it fondly, your hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest, your nails dragging down the hard planes of muscle. âStop talking and touch me.â
âYes Maâam.â
His hands moved. They slid up your sidesâslow, reverent, his palms mapping the terrain of your body with the same careful attention he gave to engine components. His hands cupped youâboth of them, warm and sure, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles that made your breath hitch and your hips falter. You were still riding him, still moving in that steady, controlled rhythm, but his touch was pulling your focus, scattering your concentration, turning the deliberate pace into something more desperate, more urgent.
You couldnât stop. You were moaningâloud, unrestrained sounds that filled the carâs interiorâand every sound you made seemed to spur him on, his mouth working harder, his tongue more insistent, his hands gripping tighter.
âFuckâMingi, I canâtâitâs too muchââ
âYou can.â His voice was muffled against your breast, his tongue still working, his hand still moving. âYouâre doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me. Oh fuckâ This pussy was made for me.â
You found the rhythm againâor something close to it. Your body moving on its own, chasing the pleasure that his mouth and his hands and his cock were building inside you in overlapping waves. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping hard, your nails digging into the muscle, and you rode him with everything you hadâevery ounce of strength, every shred of desire, every month of pent-up longing poured into the movement of your hips.
Mingiâs mouth left your breast. His lips traced a burning path up your sternum, along your collarbone, to the pulse point in your throat, where he sucked hard enough to leave a mark youâd wear like a trophy. His hands were on your back now, his palms sliding from your shoulder blades to the base of your spine, pressing you closer, holding you flush against his chest as you moved.
âMy pretty girl giving me the best ride of my life,â he breathed against your throat, and his voice was shattered, barely holding together.
You rolled your hips harder, faster, your body tightening around him with every downward thrust, and you could feel him swelling inside you, thicker, harder, his control fraying at the edges. His hands dropped to your ass, gripping both cheeks, spreading you open, and the obscenity of itâthe way he was holding you, positioning you, watching you take him apartâsent you spiralling toward the edge.
âMingi, Iâm so close againâIâm gonna cum again!â
âMe too, baby.â His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. âTogether. Cum with me... I want to feel you cum all over me.â
You kissed him. Messy, desperate, your teeth catching his lower lip, your tongue pushing past his, and your hips didnât stop. They couldnât stop. The rhythm had taken on a life of its own, your body moving with a primal, instinctive urgency that left no room for thought. Mingi kissed you back with equal desperation, his hands gripping your ass, his hips thrusting upward to meet your downward movements, and the collision of forcesâyou riding him, him driving into youâcreated a friction that was devastating.
The orgasm built from the base of your spineâa slow, tight coil of pressure that wound tighter with every thrust. You could feel it approaching like a wave, could feel the moment the water started to pull back from the shore, and you held Mingiâs gaze through it allâhis eyes dark, desperate, fixed on yours with an intensity that told you he was right there with you, hanging by the same thread.
It broke.
The orgasm hit you with a sensation so immense it threatened to strip away your consciousness, leaving you suspended in a single, blinding instant of pleasure that fused every muscle, every nerve, every trembling synapse into a singular electric current. You screamed, a sound that started low and guttural and built into a thin, ragged shriek, the kind youâd never made before, the kind that left your throat raw and echoing in the thick, humid air of the car.
But it didnât matter. Nothing mattered except the way your body seized around Mingiâs cock, the way you milked him, the way every wave of release hit harder than the last, scattering your thoughts to the corners of your skull and leaving you utterly, beautifully ruined.
You felt him come apart under you. Felt the way he jerked inside you, the way his breath stuttered, the way his hands flew up to lock around your waist like he could anchor himself in your wreckage. He was gasping your name, voice wrecked and desperate, his hips slamming up to meet you with a force that jolted your spine, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself inside you with a velocity that bordered on violence. The aftershocks were nearly as intense as the orgasm itself; your body took his, drank him down, and doubled the force of his own release, the sensation so raw and so real it went straight to your soul.
Your legs shook. Your vision went white at the edges. You collapsed forward, your hands flattening against the sweat-slicked muscle of his chest, your hair falling in a tangled curtain around your face as you panted, desperate for air, for sanity, for a return to the world that didnât seem to want you anymore.
Mingiâs hands were still on your waist, trembling slightly, his chest heaving beneath your palms. You could feel his heartbeatâfast, erratic, slowly steadyingâand the wet heat of him still inside you, still filling you, still marking you as his in the most primal way possible.
You shifted. Slowly, carefully, your body protesting every movement, and reached between your bodies. Your fingers found the mess between your thighs. Warm, slick, the mingled evidence of both of you leaking from where you were still joined and you gathered it. Your fingers came away glistening, and you brought them to your mouth without thinking, without planning, without anything but the raw, animal instinct to taste what youâd made together.
You closed your lips around your fingers. Sucked. The taste hit you. Salt and musk and something uniquely, unmistakably both of you. You moaned around your own knuckles, your eyes fluttering shut, your hips clenching involuntarily around his softening cock.
Mingi went absolutely still beneath you. The way his breath stopped, the way his hands tightened on your waist, the way every muscle in his body locked into sudden, rigid attention. You opened your eyes and found him staring at you with an expression youâd never seen beforeânot hunger, not satisfaction, not even the dark, possessive gleam from before. Something rawer. Something that looked like heâd just been hit by a car he hadnât seen coming.
âOh my god.â His voice came out wreckedânot the sexy, post-orgasm wrecked, but genuinely, fundamentally destroyed. âOh my fucking god.â
You pulled your fingers from your mouth slowly, your tongue dragging across your knuckles one last time, and you watched his eyes track the movement with the intensity of a man watching his life flash before him.
âThat,â he said, and his voice cracked on the word, âmight be the hottest thing I have ever seen in my entire goddamn life.â
You smiled and as you were about to say something clever when his hands flew to your face and he was kissing you. Hard. Desperate. His mouth crashed into yours with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting the remnants of what youâd just licked from your fingers, and the sound he madeâa low, broken groan that vibrated through your chest and into your bonesâmade your entire body clench around him again.
His hands were in your hair, cradling your skull, angling your head to deepen the kiss even further, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. Which wasnât much, but it was enough. Enough to make his hips shift beneath you, enough to make him gasp against your mouth, enough to make the world narrow to nothing but the heat of his lips and the taste of you both on his tongue.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing like youâd just run a sprint. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes still closed, his lips still parted, and you could feel the smile forming on his mouth before you even looked at him.
âYouâre trying to kill me,â he murmured, and his voice was warm and dazed and full of something that made your chest ache. âYou know that, right? I haven't even taken you out to a proper date yet and I'm already dead.â
You laughedâsoft, breathless, your hands still flat against his chest. âWould you have it any other way?â
His eyes opened. Soft, shining with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like devotion. âNot a chance in hell, sweetheart.â
Mingi shifted beneath you once more, his arms loosening just enough to let you breathe, and you felt his lips press against your temple.
âWe should go and get out of here,â he murmured against your skin, and his voice was low, rough, still carrying the gravel of everything youâd just done to each other. âDo you wanna come back to mine?â
You lifted your head to look at him, and the expression on his face made your stomach flip. Hungry. Determined. The look of a man whoâd tasted something and was addicted.
âYour place?â you repeated, your voice still wrecked, still barely functional.
âYeah.â His hand slid down your spine, settling at the small of your back with a possessiveness that made your toes curl. âBecause this car is about three seconds away from being declared a biohazard, and I have a bed thatâs significantly bigger and more comfortable than this console.â His thumb traced a slow circle on your skin. âAnd Iâm not done with you yet. Not even close.â
The words hit you like a spark jumping a gapâsudden, electric, lighting up every nerve ending you had left. You felt your body respond before your brain caught up, a fresh pulse of heat rolling through your core despite the fact that you were still trembling, still oversensitive, still leaking him onto the leather beneath you.
âNot done?â you managed, and your voice came out breathier than you intended.
Mingiâs grin was slow and devastating, the kind that started at the corners of his mouth and spread until it reached his eyes, turning them dark and dangerous and full of promise. His hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing gently, and you felt him shift beneath youâfelt the unmistakable, traitorous twitch of his cock, still buried inside you, already stirring back to life.
âSweetheart,â he said, and the word came out like a caress, like a threat, like both at once, âweâve been in this car for whatâan hour? Maybe two?â His hips rolled upward, deliberate, and the friction made you gasp. âIâve been thinking about this for months. You think Iâm gonna call it quits because your backseatâs uncomfortable?â
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, and he was smiling, and then he was easing you off of himâslow, carefulâand you both made a sound at the same time, a soft, involuntary whimper at the sudden cold where there had been warmth, the absence where there had been fullness. He pressed his lips to your temple like an apology.
He helped you dress.
Not in a hurry because nothing about Mingi was ever in a hurry, but with the same methodical care he brought to everything. His hands found your bra first, hooking it closed with fingers that trembled just slightly, his knuckles brushing your spine in a way that made you shiver. He smoothed the straps up your arms, adjusting them with a precision that suggested heâd been paying attention to how they sat before, and when his thumbs traced the line where the fabric met your skin, you caught his wrist.
âMingi.â
âSorry.â He didnât sound sorry. He sounded pleased. âCanât help it. Youâre right here.â
You pulled your shirt over your head, and his hands were there immediatelyâtugging the hem down, smoothing the wrinkles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gesture so domestic it made your chest ache. He found your jeans in the footwell, shook them out with a quiet efficiency that made you think of him folding shop towels, and held them open for you like a gentleman helping you into a coat.
Before reaching for your jeans, he paused and reached behind him, two fingers hooking your underwear out of his back pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world, like heâd been carrying them there all evening on purpose.
He crouched down and held them open at your feet without a word, and something about the quiet patience of the gesture made your throat tighten. You stepped in. He took his time drawing them up, his thumbs pressing slow, warm circles into the outside of your hips as he settled the waistband into place.
Then he shook out your jeans and held them open the same wayââ Step in,â he saidâ and you did, balancing on one foot, your hand on his shoulder. He pulled the denim up after, his palms warm against your calves, your thighs, the curve of your hips, and when he fastened the button, his fingers lingered at your waistband, pressing a kiss to your stomach through the fabric.
âThere,â he murmured against your skin. âAll dressed.â
âNot all of us are dressed.â You gestured at his bare chest, the leather jacket still draped over the front passenger seat, his own shirt nowhere to be found. âYouâre half naked.â
âAm I?â He looked down at himself with mock surprise. âSo I am! The absolute horror.â
You found his shirt balled behind the driverâs seat and tossed it at him. He caught it one-handed and pulled it over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that made your mouth go dry all over again. His jeans were already on. You had no memory of when heâd managed that. He reached past you for his jacket, shaking it out with a practiced flick of his wrists.
Then he held it open for you.
The gesture was so simpleâso stupidly, achingly simple. You turned, and he draped the jacket over your shoulders, his hands settling on your arms for a moment, pulling you back against his chest. The leather was warm from the carâs interior, and it smelled like himâcedar and engine oil and the faint sweetness of whatever heâd put on after his showerâand it was so big on you that the sleeves swallowed your hands entirely.
âYou look good in my jacket,â he said, his chin resting on your crown.
âIt looks like I'm being swallowed by your jacket.â
âYou look perfect.â His arms tightened around you, and you let yourself lean into him, let the weight of his body hold you upright when your legs were still shaky and your brain was still soft around the edges. âAbsolutely perfect.â
You stayed like that for a momentâwrapped in his jacket, wrapped in his arms, the car ticking quietly around you, the river murmuring its endless, indifferent song beyond the steamed-up windows. Then Mingi pressed one more kiss to the top of your headâsoft, lingering, the kind that felt like a period at the end of a sentenceâand pulled back.
âAlright, let's go home.â he exhales.
âOkay.â You tugged the jacket tighter around yourself, the leather creaking softly. âBut youâre driving. I can barely feel my legs.â
âOf course.â He kissed you once moreâquick, chaste, the kind of kiss that was more punctuation than prose.
Unfolding his long frame from the backseat with considerably more grace than heâd managed on the way in. You heard the soft thud of his boots hitting the gravel, and then his hand appeared through the open door, palm up, waiting. You took it.Â
He helped you out of the backseat. Steadying you when your knees buckled, his arm around your waist, his body a warm wall of support, and you stood in the moonlight together, the river silver behind you, the city a distant constellation of light beyond the trees. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you pulled his jacket tighter, breathing in the smell of him like it was oxygen.
Mingi opened the passenger door for you and you slid into the seat, the leather warm beneath you, the dashboard glowing its familiar amber. He closed the door with that soft, deliberate click, and you watched him walk around the hoodâtall and sure and slightly dishevelled, his hair a mess, his shirt still untucked, the moonlight catching the line of his jaw and the satisfied curve of his mouth.
He dropped into the driverâs seat, and the car came alive around you. That clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He adjusted the mirrors, checked the seat position, and turned to you with an expression so open and warm it made your breath catch.
âReady?â he asked.
You nodded your head. He pulled onto the road, and the river fell away behind you, and the city lights grew closer, and you sat in the passenger seat of your own carâwearing his jacket, smelling like his skin, your body still singing with the echo of his touchâand you watched the road unfold ahead of you.
His hand found yours on the console. Not tentativeânot the careful, testing reach of someone still figuring out the impossible. This was different. This was his palm sliding across the leather, his fingers lacing through yours. His thumb settled into the groove between your knuckles, and the warmth of his skin against yours was so familiar it made your chest ache.
You looked down at your joined hands. At the way his thumb traced a slow, absent circle on your skin, the same pattern heâd used that afternoon on the river road, the same pattern heâd use a thousand more times if you let him.
You lifted his hand from the console.
He glanced overâjust briefly, just long enough to register the movementâand you brought his knuckles to your mouth. You pressed your lips to the back of his hand and felt the slight roughness of his skin, the faint chemical smell of solvent that lived in the creases of his fingers, the steady pulse of blood beneath the surface. You held the kiss there for a count of three, maybe four, and then you lowered your joined hands into your lap, tucking them between your thighs, his palm warm against your denim-clad leg.
Mingi laughed.
Not the startled, horn-induced laugh from before. Something quieter. Something that started in his chest and came out through his nose, a soft, incredulous huff of sound that carried more tenderness than any word could have. His thumb resumed its circling on your knuckle, and he kept his eyes on the road, but the smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and pulled at the cut on his lip, was doing something devastatingly beautiful to his face.
âYouâre so cute, baby,â he coos. The words were simple, almost offhand, delivered with the same casual confidence he used when he told you your oil level was fine. But you heard the weight behind them. The particular, careful weight of a man who meant what he said and was still learning how to say it without sounding like he was about to combust.
âOnly for you,â you replied, because you couldnât think of anything else, because your chest was so full it was pressing against your ribs, because his hand was in your lap and his jacket was on your shoulders and his smell was in your lungs, and you were fairly certain youâd never been this happy in your entire life.
He kept driving. One hand on the wheel, one hand in yours, the road unspooling ahead of you like a ribbon of dark silk under the pale wash of the streetlights. The city rose around you in incrementsâfirst the scattered houses, then the convenience stores with their neon signs still burning, then the apartment blocks and the late-night buses and the occasional taxi drifting through the empty streets like a fish through deep water.
The city had a way of falling in love with the people who moved through it at nightâthe ones who knew its empty streets and its quiet corners, the ones who understood that the best parts were the ones nobody else was awake to see. The racer and the mechanic drove through those streets now, their hands locked together over the center console, the engine humming its steady, contented song beneath them, and neither of them said a word about timing belts or transmission mounts or the particular, terrifying thrill of falling in love with someone who could take you apart and put you back together better than youâd been before.
But the car knew. The car had always known. It had carried you to him and it had carried you home, and somewhere between the starting line and the finish, between the riverbank and the backseat, between the first time he called you sweetheart and the last time you screamed his name, the engine had learned a new songâone about two people whoâd been running on parallel tracks for so long theyâd forgotten what it felt like to collide, and who were now, finally, beautifully, irreversibly headed in the same direction.
The mechanicâs hands knew every bolt and belt and bearing in the city, but theyâd never held anything as perfectly as they held yours. And the racerâs heart, which had spent its whole life chasing finish lines, had finally found the one that matteredâthe one that didnât end with a checkered flag, but with a man in a leather jacket who picked wildflowers at dawn and rebuilt transmissions at midnight and promised you another night in a voice that meant forever.
You squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.
The city lights blurred past the windows, and the engine hummed, and the road stretched ahead, endless and open and full of possibility, and you didnât need to say a word, because the car was already saying it for you. In every clean shift, every steady rev, every mile that carried you closer to the place where the racer and the mechanic had stopped being two separate things and become something neither of them had the words for yet.
But theyâd find them. They had all the time in the world, and an engine that would never let them down, and a road that went on forever, and each other.
And reallyâwhen it came down to itâwhat else did anyone need?
synopsis: mingi looks too fucking good, and not even the heatwave can stop you from getting a taste.
warnings. nsfw 18+, pwnp, plot what plot, dom!mg, sub!reader, some humiliation, dryhumping, coming in your clothes, slight somno bc mingi is kinda asleep at a point?, dirty talk, nicknames (angel, baby, good girl etc.) daddy kink
wc. 1.5k
an. i am BACK and as horny as ever. heres smth based on a post by @809gf , tysm for the seedling. also thank you guys for being patient and waiting for me, it has paid off! enjoy :) not proofread! taglist: @yslj1n @joongnoodle @matznana @kisssan
It started innocently enough. sitting on the lounge chair of the hotel room balcony, feeling the heat trickle against your skin. the weight of your sunglasses pushed on your nose as sweat dripped down onto the pages of your book.
the midsummer heatwave was knocking the energy out of everyone, including your, typically energetic, boyfriend, mingi. fresh out the shower, his short black hair was messy, spiked over his head as he opened the balcony door. he had slipped on his matching set of a striped shirt and shorts, the buttons hanging dangerously open.
your eyes were begging to tear away from the words on the pages, catching glimpses of mingi sitting in the comfort of a plush chair opposite from you. you hadn't spoken a word, something unsaid lingered in the air.
as beads of sweat started to run down the side of your neck, you couldn't help but use your book as a makeshift fan. the view before you surely wasn't helping. mingis eyes had shifted closed, hands resting on his lap as his head was leaned back into the chair cushions.
maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the need.
but something in you snapped. nothing crazy, yet, just a floodgate of something seeping out of you. so, you pressed your book shut, and got on your feet.
mingis eyes didn't open just yet, he was basking in the sun, it hugging his features so beautifully in this warm morning. as you stood before him, you let your other hand grip the metal railing next to mingis chair, the other holding onto his shoulder blade. his lips twitched at the sudden touch, but melting into it as your familiar warmth neared him. speaking in a mumbled tone, he muttered:
"isn't it a bit too hot to cuddle hm?" you chuckled lightly, your hips now laid on top of his, chest pressed up on his.
to admit, it was definitely not making the heat go away, more so making it worse. but you couldn't possibly tear yourself off your delicious boyfriend now, his tan toned arm now tight around your waist. you just craved being close, just being here together like this.
the trip so far had been mostly you inside, alone, reading books, since mingi was on a business trip. having these little moments together was certainly more and more rare, so you had to take what there is to take.
"but it's so comfortable like this isn't it?" you asked, tracing shapes into the exposed skin of mingis collarbones. his low laugh rumbled in his chest as he nodded, eyes still hung close.
"mhm, you could say that"
you weren't sure how long you sat there, unmoved, before something started to change. maybe it was the subtle changes in your seating position, or the way your eyes were wandering, but you couldn't help but feel a new type of heat rise in your body.
your both hands laid against mingis sweat sticky chest, your thighs spread around to straddle his. looking up to see his eyes still closed, light breaths passing his lips, you let yourself experiment a bit.
your hand slid down his torso, hanging onto the buttons that remained closed a little longer then supposed, accidentally popping one open. the newly exposed skin glistened in the sunlight, making your cheeks burn red like you've never seen him like this before.
you could feel his breath catching a little, making you pause for a moment before resuming. your other hand traced down to meet the other, slowly opening the last two remaining buttons. with slow but sure movements, you moved aside the light fabric, flashing his toned chest to your vision.
you couldnât help but feel your mouth salivating at the sight of his exposed chest, the ridges of his muscles, the light hairs below his bellybutton, all the way to to his perked brown nipples. it was all too much.
you didnât even notice your hips moving at first, your body taking over into an animalistic state. the fabric of mingis shorts was riding up dangerously high, the skin of his toned thick thighs meeting yours as you humped down on him like a dog in heat.
you felt a grin tug on mingis plump lips, his lengthy tongue slipping past to wet the surface before he spoke in a low voice:
" tsk, now now, that's not cuddling now is it angel?"
your breath hitched, but you couldn't bring yourself to stop moving against him, hands now eagerly tugging on the remains of his shirt that hung on his chest. mingis grip on your waist adjusted a bit, both his large palms now resting against your hipbones, guiding your movements.
"couldn't help it" you mumbled, face merely inches away from his. a smirky grin appears on his lips, before he bites down into them, pulling you closer on his lap. you fall forward slightly, your hands now laid above his chest, fingers directly on his perky nipples.
"don't you dare stop now then, even if you're caught, you dirty girl"
even if you wanted to, you couldn't. the feeling of the heat radiating from mingis body, his scent, his presence. the way his eyes were slightly opened now, that dark gaze burning into your skull as you worked your hips against him. you felt your brain melt away as you eased more into it, upping the pressure as mingis hands guided you back and forth.
as you moved, you could feel tension rise below you, the hardness of mingis cock firm against your clothed pussy as you grinded with need. a twitch rippled through mingis body as your hips met up with the sensitive spot of his tip through his flimsy shorts, his fingers digging into your flesh.
âthats it baby, faster fâme, go onâ
his hands are eager to pull and push you faster, the slickness of your pussy seeping through your clothes, leaving a wet patch on his shorts. moans tear past your lips as you lean forward to lay youe forehead on his shoulder, fingers digging into his chest muscles.
âmin- so good.. fuck..â
raking your hands down his torso, your nails leaving behind a red trail as your chest heaves. youâre burning up, the heat of the summer air and the burning sensation of your body against mingis driving you near passing out, but it felt so worth it.
âyeah? gonna cum untouched like a fucking virgin are you baby?â
mingis words twist your gut, his pitying tone making a new wave of arousal slick down your thighs. he just smirks knowingly, beginning to thrust up into your grinds.
you shriek, digging your nails into his stomach as the new sensation takes over. you may as well be naked from how much you can feel the imprint of mingis cock in his pants. you can feel the thick shape of it, every ridge, every vein running down its sides. and its making you lose it faster then you want to.
âp..please.. d- da.. mghm min..â your words stutter as you hold onto him, teeth grazing his exposed shoulder blade.
âmmm what was that, say that againâ his words sharp as his hips slow down a bit, waiting your answer.
your cheeks flare, gulping, you try again:
âplease.. please daddy more!â you muster the courage, shaking as mingi chuckles against you, picking back up his page.
âthatâs a good girl, always so obedient for meâ
you feel the tightness in your abdomen come scarily close at his words, your body tingling with every grind, every thrust. raising your head from his shoulder, youre met with his gaze again, eyes clouded, lips parted in a smirk while low groans tear out repeatedly.
his palm smacks your right cheek before pulling on it again, spreading you open while grinding up into you, and you feel yourself lose it.
âneed to.. need to cum now daddy mgmh! m comingâ
mingis face dives forward, closing you into a kiss thats almost all tongue and teeth, sucking your sounds into his mouth. you pant, repeating his name like a mantra as his cockhead grinds against your clit with ease.
âthats it, cum on daddy just like this, attagirll babyâ his voice mumbles against your lips, you feel him smile into it with that devious grin.
and it completely undoes you. you feel the band inside you snap, the overwhelming heat of your body peaking as you hold onto mingi for some stability, his hands on your hips grounding you.
the wet patch is even more imminent now on mingis shorts as you lean forward to his shoulder again, hanging on like a ragdoll. his hand caresses your back, soothing the burning skin as you come down from your high.
after a minute or two, you leaned up again, meeting his attentive gaze, and that never ending smirk. you raise a brow.
ânow, why are you still grinning now, whatâs so funny?â mingi chuckles, running his hand down your side, the other below your chin.
âoh nothing, just imagining how youâre gonna walk once weâre done on this balconyâ you smack his shoulder, pretending to be hurt.
âoh? donât think iâm not going to have you holding onto that bar for dear life while i stuff your pussy full, you know iâll do it.â
and with that, you knew your knees would remain wobbly, and your body heated for the rest of this damned heatwave.
unscripted, the podcast that talks about everything sex, is the bane of wooyoungâs existence. he hates her snarky voice, her tips that he can guarantee are baseless, he hates that all of his friends are jumping on the fucking bandwagon when wooyoung can give them the same goddamn advice from experience. never in a million years would he guess that the person behind the voice, the girl in a sexless, boring, long-term relationship, is you.
SYNOPSIS ; Kim Hongjoong is the ruthless dictator of the TEEZER house, and his latest decree is simple: Absolute emotional detachment. No situationships, no distractions, no exceptions. Itâs a foolproof system, except for one detailâthe rules weren't written to keep his men in line. They were built to keep you out. Three months after breaking off your secret, late-night arrangement to protect his pride, Hongjoong finds himself trapped in a pitch-black room with you during a violent campus storm. Armed with ice-cold compliance and zero intention of backing down, youâre about to prove that you canât regulate a heartbeat. The fortress is cracking, the paperwork has hit the floor, and the great Captain is about to learn exactly what it means to bow.
PAIRING(S) ; Frat Captain!Kim Hongjoong x Fem!reader
WARNING(S) ; Exes-to-lovers, secret history, forced proximity (trapped in a storm), corporate/fraternity au, mutual pining, malicious compliance, fake/hidden emotions. Explicit sexual content !!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!, rough/frenetic intimacy, biting, slight blood (lip biting), marking/bruising, language/profanity, public display of affection/groveling.
WC ; 10k-ish
Part 4/8 of THE REVERENCE SERIES
Inspired by Rules by doja cat !
The air in the TEEZER house kitchen smelled like stale beer, expensive cologne, and immediate regret.
It was 10:00 AM on a Sunday, and the sunlight cutting through the blinds was entirely too bright for the seven men gathered around the scarred oak island. At the head of the space stood KIM HONGJOONG, looking less like a college senior and more like a corporate executioner. He hadnât slept. His leather jacket was slung over the back of a chair, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the sharp lines of his forearms as he aggressively smoothed down a crisp, printed sheet of paper against the stainless-steel refrigerator.
Magnetic tape snapped against the metal.
"Look at it," Hongjoong commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that immediately silenced the low groaning from the hangover brigade. "Read it. Memorize it. Because as of five minutes ago, this house is under a strict goddamn lockdown."
Song Mingi, slumped so low in his chair his chin was practically resting on the table, let out a miserable whine. "Hongjoong, man, my head is literally splitting open. Can we do the dictatorship speech at noon?"
"No," Hongjoong fired back, his dark eyes snapping over to Mingi with zero mercy. "We do it now. Because last night, half of our executive board missed the alumni mixer because you were 'otherwise occupied' upstairs, and San was apparently too busy playing prince charming to notice someone threw up in the downstairs foyer. We are losing control. The TEEZER house has a reputation, and I am not letting a collective case of sudden, pathetic heart-eyes ruin our standing on this campus."
Choi San, sitting cross-legged on a barstool with a mug of black coffee cupped in his hands, didn't even look guilty. He just smirked into his mug, a faint, whipped softness around his eyes that only validated Hongjoongâs fury.
"So, what is that?" Jeong Yunho asked from the kitchen island, leaning forward with a smug, knowing grin. "A manifesto?"
"Itâs a corrective measure," Hongjoong said coldly, tapping his knuckle against the paper.
Centered at the top of the page, bolded and unyielding, were the words: THE NEW RULES.
Rule 1: No overnight guests past 2 AM on weeknights.
Rule 2: No domestic privileges (cooking, laundry, or clothing borrowing) for non-residents.
Rule 3: Absolute emotional detachment. No situationships, no placeholders, no distractions that interfere with house duties.
"You've got to be kidding me," Mingi muttered, squinting at the page. "You literally wrote out an anti-feeling clause?"
"I wrote an anti-stupidity clause," Hongjoong corrected, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you can't keep your head straight, Iâll keep it straight for you. The next person who breaks a boundary or lets a girl dictate their schedule answers directly to me."
The front door clicked open down the hall, followed by the soft, familiar scuff of sneakers on the hardwood. Hongjoong didn't think much of itâuntil you walked straight into the kitchen.
You stopped dead in your tracks, a tote bag slung over your shoulder and your hair tied up in a messy clip. You had only come by to retrieve a denim jacket youâd left on the living room couch the Friday before, completely unprepared to walk into what looked like a high-stakes mafia tribunal.
Every eye in the room shifted to you.
Hongjoongâs posture went instantly rigid. The collective breath in his lungs hitched, his jaw tightening so hard a small muscle ticked beneath his skin. It had been three months since he abruptly ended the secret, late-night arrangement the two of you sharedâthree months of him pretending you were just another face on campus, and three months of you treating him like white noise.
You looked at the tense circle of boys, then at Hongjoong, and finally, your eyes drifted to the fresh piece of paper pinned to the fridge.
You walked over, entirely unbothered by the suffocating silence, and read the bolded title. Then, you read the three rules.
A short, genuine laugh burst from your lipsâloud, mocking, and completely lethal to Hongjoongâs carefully constructed authority.
"The New Rules?" you murmured, looking back at him with an raised eyebrow, your eyes dripping with sharp amusement. "What is this, Hongjoong? A fraternity or a corporate internship?"
"It doesn't concern you," Hongjoong said, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous edge cutting through his tone. "It's house business. Grab your things and leave."
You didn't flinch. Instead, you took a step closer to him, entirely immune to the "Captain" persona that kept the rest of the campus in check. You knew exactly what he looked like when he wasn't playing dictator; you knew the exact cadence of his breath against your neck at 3 AM.
"Oh, it does concern me, considering your little disciples usually come to me to complain when you have a power trip," you countered smoothly, crossing your arms. You tilted your head toward the fridge. "Emotional detachment? No situationships? Let's be realâif you can't text someone back, you should just look them in their face and say it, instead of printing out a manifesto because youâre terrified of a little vulnerability."
A collective, quiet 'oh shit' seemed to ripple through the boys. Yunho hid a laugh behind his hand, and San suddenly found his coffee very interesting.
Hongjoongâs eyes darkened, a flash of pure, unadulterated frustration breaking through his icy exterior. He stepped into your space, his chest practically brushing yours, trying to use his height and his position to crowd you out.
"Out," he ordered the room, not breaking eye contact with you for a fraction of a second. "Everyone. Out of the kitchen. Now."
Nobody argued. The boys scrambled out of their seats with frantic urgency, Mingi practically tripping over his own feet to escape the incoming blast radius. Within three seconds, the heavy swing door clicked shut, leaving just the two of you in the suffocating heat of the kitchen.
"You think you're exceptionally clever, don't you?" Hongjoong hissed, his voice low and dangerous as he leaned down, his face inches from yours.
"I think you're a hypocrite," you whispered back, matching his fire with a cold, steady gaze of your own. "You want to play the cold king who doesn't feel anything? Fine. Letâs see how long your little kingdom stands when you try to regulate the one thing you can't control."
Hongjoongâs fingers twitched at his sides, the only crack in his otherwise immovable posture. The scent of his cologneâsomething expensive and sharpâmixed with the residual musk of last nightâs party, wrapping around you like an unspoken dare. "You donât get to walk in here and act like you know how I operate," he said, voice rough-edged, the kind of tone that sent underclassmen scrambling. Â
You didnât scramble. Instead, you leaned in, close enough that your next words brushed against the shell of his ear. "I donât act," you murmured. "I know." And just like that, you stepped back, pivoting toward the living room like none of it matteredâlike he didnât matter. The denim jacket was right where you left it, slung over the arm of the couch. You snatched it up, folding it over your arm with deliberate nonchalance. Â
Behind you, Hongjoong let out a slow, controlled exhale. "Those rules apply to everyone," he said, quieter now, almost to himself. "Especially past mistakes."
You donât stop walking. You let his words hit your back, but you refuse to let him see you stumble. You throw a sharp, careless smile over your shoulder as you reach the front door.
"Then you better pray I don't catch you breaking them, Captain," you fire back, the heavy front door clicking shut behind you.
Once you're gone, the narrative should shift briefly to Hongjoong's internal state. He is left alone in the quiet house, completely unraveled by a girl who didn't even have to raise her voice.
The kitchen door creaked open with theatrical slowness, Yunho peering in first with a smirk splitting his face. "Coast clear?" he stage-whispered, already laughing when Hongjoong threw a dish towel at his head. The boys flooded back in like a pack of hyenas circling wounded preyâSan biting his lip to hide his grin, Mingi wolf-whistling under his breath as he grabbed a protein shake from the fridge.
"Clean this disaster up," Hongjoong snapped, kicking a toppled beer bottle toward Mingiâs feet. His voice carried enough venom to send them scrambling, but Yunhoâalways the boldestâlingered just a second too long.
"You can print out as many rules as you want, Hyung," Yunho murmured, tapping the fridge with his knuckles. "But she just rewrote them in five seconds."
Hongjoong didnât dignify that with a response. He stormed upstairs, the weight of their laughter pressing against his ribs like a physical ache.
His office door slammed shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the empty room. He braced his hands on the edge of his desk, head bowed, fingers digging into the wood. The air still carried traces of your perfumeâsomething citrus and sharp, clinging stubbornly to the space like it had every right to be there. Three months. Three months of cold shoulders and calculated avoidance, and yet the second you walked into a room, his pulse spiked like he was some lovestruck pledge.
He wanted to regulate the house because if he couldnât control his own heartbeat when you walked into a room, he had to control everything else.
His phone buzzed on the deskâSan sending him a picture of Mingi dramatically clutching the fridge door with the caption, [Rule #4: No mocking the captainâs fragile ego.] Hongjoong flipped the phone face-down with a muttered curse. Heâd always been good at compartmentalizing, at locking away inconvenient desires in neat little boxes labeled Later or Never. But you? You were the exception that unraveled every rule, the glitch in his system he couldnât debug.
A sharp knock at the door snapped his head up. "I swear to god, Yunho, if youâre here toâ"
Park Seonghwa stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with deliberate quiet. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his usually immaculate blazer wrinkled at the elbows. He didnât glance at Hongjoongâs tense posture or the way his knuckles were still white against the desk. Instead, he pulled a cream-colored envelope from his pocket and dropped it onto the polished surface between them.
"Youâre dealing with a ghost, Hongjoong," Seonghwa said, voice flat. "Iâm dealing with a legal contract." The paper crinkled as Hongjoong flipped it open, skimming the dense corporate language until the final line leapt out: Failure to comply with marital arrangements by December 31st will result in forfeiture of all inheritance rights.
Seonghwa exhaled through his nose, loosening his tie like it was choking him. "My father is giving me six months to marry into the corporate line, or Iâm cut out entirely."
Hongjoongâs jaw clenched. This wasnât just about moneyâSeonghwaâs entire identity was wrapped up in that legacy. "Whoâs the unlucky debutante?"
"Lee Jiyeon." Seonghwaâs lip curled at the name. "Finance VPâs daughter. Same age as Mingiâs little sister, if that makes you nauseous."
The hypocrisy was almost impressive. Seonghwaâs father had three mistresses Hongjoong could name off the top of his head. "Weâll find a loophole," Hongjoong said automatically, already scanning for soft spots in the contractâs wording.
A bitter laugh. "There isnât one. Unlessâ" Seonghwa hesitated, running a thumb over the embossed family seal. "Unless I prove Iâm already in a serious relationship. But we both know my dating history reads like a fucking champagne commercial."
Hongjoong exhaled through his nose. Outside, Mingiâs dramatic wailing echoed up the stairsâsomething about unfair tyranny. He tuned it out, focusing on the sharp lines of Seonghwaâs shoulders, the way his knuckles whitened around the envelope. This wasnât just stress. This was panic.
"You need a placeholder," Hongjoong realized aloud. "Someone credible enough to stall."
Seonghwaâs smile was razor-thin. "Preferably someone whoâd make my fatherâs monocle pop out." He glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen, where San was now loudly debating the ethics of Rule #2 with Yunho. "But your circus is currently on fire."
Hongjoong let out a dry, humorless chuckle, finally leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms. "The circus is always on fire, Seonghwa. Iâm just the guy holding the matches."
He looked down at the contract again, the cold weight of corporate greed practically radiating off the heavy cardstock. It was the ultimate irony. Here he was, trying to force his fraternity into a state of clinical detachment to keep them from crashing and burning, while his best friend was being legally suffocated by a family that viewed love as a poor return on investment.
"A placeholder," Hongjoong repeated, the wheels in his mind already turning. He was a fixer by nature; give him a crisis and heâd give you a strategy. "It can't just be some girl from a mixer. Your dad has investigators on retainer, Seonghwa. Heâll sniff out a fake relationship in twenty-four hours if she looks like she belongs in a champagne commercial with you. You need someone... disruptive. Someone who needs the arrangement as much as you do, so she won't crack under the pressure."
"And where exactly do I find a girl willing to play sacrificial lamb to the Park empire?" Seonghwa asked, running a hand through his dark hair, completely exasperated. "Most girls on this campus would jump at the chance to marry into the name. I don't need a gold-digger who's going to try and turn the fake contract into a real one."
"We'll find her," Hongjoong said firmly, his eyes darkening with that familiar, calculating spark that made him the undisputed captain of the house. "But right now, I need to handle my own perimeter."
Seonghwa pushed off the doorframe, his eyes scanning Hongjoong's face with a sudden, knowing intensity. The panic in his expression faded, replaced by the sharp, protective intuition of a best friend. He tilted his head toward the window, where the faint sound of your car engine revving in the driveway echoed through the glass.
"You're talking about finding loopholes for me," Seonghwa murmured, his voice dropping into a quieter, heavier register. "But you're bleeding out right here. You think you can control this house with a piece of paper, Hongjoong? You're trying so hard to play the dictator because you're terrified that if you let your guard down for even a second, she'll walk right back in and burn down everything you've built."
The words hit exactly where Hongjoong was weakest. His jaw tightened, a hard, defensive wall dropping over his features. "I'm doing what's best for the house."
"No," Seonghwa countered smoothly as he turned the doorknob, looking back over his shoulder with a pitying smile. "You're doing what's safe for your pride. But out of the two of us, you're the one giving your future away willingly. At least I'm being forced into my cage."
The door clicked shut, leaving Hongjoong alone with the silence.
Safe for his pride.
Hongjoong pushed away from the desk and walked over to the window, pulling back the heavy curtain just in time to see your car pull out of the TEEZER house driveway. He watched the taillights disappear around the campus bend, his throat tight.
He could still feel the phantom sensation of your breath against his ear from only ten minutes ago. I donât act. I know. You knew him. You knew that beneath the leather jacket, the captain's title, and the unyielding rules, he was just a man who used to hold you until the sun came up, whispering promises into the dark that he was now too cowardly to honor in the light.
He looked down at his desk, where a copy of THE NEW RULES sat waiting to be filed.
Rule 3: Absolute emotional detachment.
Hongjoong picked up a black marker, his hand steady even as his heart hammered violently against his ribs. He gripped the paper, his mind flashing to the mocking, beautiful laugh youâd left behind in his kitchen. If this was going to be a war of malicious compliance, he was going to make sure he survived it.
He walked over to his office corkboard and pinned the manifesto right at eye level.
"Let's see who bows first," he muttered into the empty room.
The bass from the Alpha Sigma mixer was vibrating through the floorboards of the off-campus venue, a heavy, rhythmic thud that Hongjoong could feel in his teeth. He was standing on the mezzanine balcony, a lukewarm solo cup sweating in his hand, his eyes scanning the sea of sweaty, dancing bodies below like a hawk mapping a hunting ground.
"You look like you're about to authorize a drone strike," Yunho said, leaning his forearms on the wooden railing next to him. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the crowd with an easy, untroubled grin. "Relax, Hyung. San is checking IDs at the door, and Mingi hasn't broken anything in at least forty minutes. The house is perfectly compliant."
"Compliant," Hongjoong muttered, his voice a low gravel under the music. "Right."
He wasn't looking at San, or Mingi, or the pledges. He was looking at you.
You were standing near the makeshift bar under the dim red neon lights, wearing a top that caught the light every time you laughed, your hair down and falling over your shoulders. And you were laughing at something a tall senior from the lacrosse team was saying, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm.
Hongjoongâs grip on his solo cup tightened until the plastic groaned.
For the past seven days, you had followed The New Rules with terrifying, clinical perfection. You hadnât texted him at 2 AM. You hadnât shown up at the house to study. When you passed him on the quad on Tuesday, you didn't even look his way; you just kept walking, your shoulder brushing right past his like he was nothing but a stranger taking up space on the sidewalk.
It was exactly what he had demanded. And it was driving him completely, unevocably insane.
If you can't text me back, then look me in my face. It played like a taunt in his head. You weren't hiding behind a screen anymore. If he wanted your attention, you were forcing him to come down from his castle and take it in broad daylightâor under the suffocating heat of a crowded red-lit room.
"Hey, isn't thatâ" Yunho started, but before he could even finish your name, Hongjoong set his cup down on the railing with a sharp thud.
"I'm going down," Hongjoong said coldly.
"To check the perimeter?" Yunho called out, his smirk widening as Hongjoong pushed past him.
"To enforce decorum," Hongjoong shot back, his leather jacket cutting a path through the crowded stairs as he descended into the heat of the floor, his eyes locked entirely on the target.
The lacrosse player was mid-sentenceâsomething about his summer internship in Monacoâwhen Hongjoong materialized at your elbow like a pissed-off shadow. His presence didnât ripple; it ruptured the air, cutting through the bass-heavy thrum of the party with the precision of a scalpel.
"Greek life matter," Hongjoong announced, not bothering to look at the guy, his voice low and edged with something that wasnât quite authorityâmore like territorial possession wrapped in bureaucratic bullshit. "Sheâs needed."
The lacrosse player blinked, his tanned forehead wrinkling. "Uh, we were kindaâ"
"Now." Hongjoong didnât raise his voice. He didnât have to. Three years of running this campus had honed his tone into a weapon that made even seniors flinch.Â
The guy hesitated, glancing at you for confirmation. You shrugged, sipping your drink with deliberate slowness, the ice clinking like a countdown. "Guess Iâm being summoned," you murmured, your voice dripping with saccharine compliance. "Duty calls."
Hongjoongâs jaw ticked as the guy wandered off, shooting one last confused look over his shoulder. The second he was out of earshot, Hongjoong pivoted toward you, his leather jacket creaking with the movement. "Youâre violating house decorum."
You didn't lower your cup. You just tilted your head back against the wood paneling of the hallway, letting your eyes slowly track the hard line of his jaw up to his dark, dangerous eyes.
"House decorum?" you echoed, your voice barely louder than a whisper, yet carrying perfectly over the muffled bass vibrating through the walls. "Remind me, Captainâsince when does a Sigma Chi mixer count as TEEZER house property? Last I checked, my presence here doesn't violate a single piece of your precious fine print."
Hongjoong stepped closer, entirely unbothered by the fact that anyone walking down the hall could see him crowding you into the shadows. He placed one hand on the wall right beside your head, his leather sleeve brushing against your bare shoulder. The heat coming off him was immense, a sharp contrast to the cold condensation on your fingers.
"You know exactly what you're doing," he hissed, his face inches from yours. He smelled like his signature expensive cologne and the bitter edge of black coffee. "Youâre making a scene. You've spent the last hour treating this place like your personal audition tape, and you're doing it right in my line of sight."
"I'm socializing," you corrected smoothly, meeting his glare with a level of calm that you knew was actively draining his battery. "Isn't that what we're supposed to do when we're absolutely emotionally detached? I haven't sent you a 2 AM text. I haven't asked to borrow a shirt. Iâm practicing perfect compliance, Hongjoong. I'm leaving you alone."
You brought the cup to your lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip while looking at him over the rim.
"Unless," you murmured, lowering the cup until it rested against his chest, right over his hammering heart, "you're having trouble following your own rules."
Hongjoongâs breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a secondâa desperate, telling slip in his armorâbefore snapping back up. His fingers curled against the drywall, the plaster groaning under the pressure.
"Don't flatter yourself," he growled, though his voice lacked its usual clinical weight. It sounded rougher. Desperate. "I wrote those rules to protect the house."
"Then go protect it," you whispered, using your free hand to gently tap his cheek, a mocking, affectionate gesture that felt like a slap to his pride. "Go find Seonghwa. Go check the budget. Because right now, you look a lot less like a dictator and a lot more like a hypocrite."
You didn't wait for his response. You ducked under his arm, your hip deliberately brushing against his thigh as you slid past him. You walked down the hallway, the heels of your shoes clicking rhythmically against the floorboards, leaving him standing alone in the dim, neon-lit corridor with his hand still pinned to the wall and his chest heaving.
Behind you, Hongjoong let out a low, ragged breath, his fist slamming quietly against the wood.
He was losing. And the worst part was, he hadn't even realized the game had officially begun.
The rain hadn't just started; it had broken over the campus like a dynamic assault, sheets of heavy water hammering against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the student unionâs multi-purpose room. It was 11:45 PM on a Thursday, four days after the Sigma Chi mixer, and the cavernous space was entirely dead except for the low, hum of a single vending machine and the sharp, rhythmic clack of your laptop keyboard.
The tables around you were a disaster zone of floorplans, vendor invoices, and color-coded seating charts for the upcoming Greek Gala. Because you were the student senate liaison and Hongjoong was the Interfraternity Council president, the university administration had forced the two of you into a shotgun marriage of logistics.
Across the table, Hongjoong sat behind his own laptop, the blue light of the screen catching the dangerous, exhausted sharp angles of his face. Heâd shed his leather jacket hours ago, leaving him in a black ribbed tank top that showed off the tense, coiled muscles of his shoulders every time he reached for a highlighter.
Neither of you had spoken a word of substance in three hours. It was professional compliance at its most toxic.
"The catering invoice is missing the security deposit line," Hongjoong said, his voice a low, gravelly friction that seemed to scrape against the quiet of the room. He didn't look up from his screen. "Did you file it?"
"Itâs in the blue folder right in front of your face, Captain," you replied smoothly, not pausing your typing for a single beat.
Hongjoongâs fingers froze over his trackpad. Slowly, he raised his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours through the dim light. The silence between you didn't just linger; it suffocated. The storm outside seemed to fade into a dull, white noise, leaving nothing but the high-voltage current running between your chairs.
"I asked you a direct question," he murmured, his tone dropping into that quiet, dangerous register that usually signaled an execution.
"And I gave you a direct answer," you said, finally stopping your fingers to look back at him. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms, completely unbothered by the predatory focus of his stare. "It's right there. Unless your little rulebook doesn't allow you to look at things that are convenient for you."
Hongjoong closed his laptop with a sharp, controlled snap. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, invading your space across the paperwork. "You've been pushing your luck for a week."
"I've been doing my job," you corrected, tilting your head. "And I've been following your rules. No calls. No distractions. Absolute emotional detachment. I'm practically a saint, Hongjoong."
"You're a menace," he hissed, his jaw clenching so hard a small muscle jumped beneath his cheek. "You stand in my hallway looking like that, you touch my chest in front of forty people, and then you come in here and act like we're just two bureaucrats shuffling paper. Youâre trying to make me look like a fool."
"No," you whispered, leaning in just enough that he could see the cold, mocking amusement dancing in your eyes. "I'm letting you see exactly what you gave up when you decided your pride was worth more than my time. You wanted a robot, Hongjoong? You got one. Enjoy the clinical efficiency."
A sudden, violent crack of thunder shook the glass panes behind you, the buildingâs overhead fluorescent lights flickering once, twice, before dying completely.
The room plunged into near-total darkness, saved only by the eerie, ambient glow of the emergency exit signs and the rhythmic flash of lightning outside.
In the shadows, you heard the sharp drag of a chair against the linoleum. Before you could even blink, a heavy, calloused hand wrapped around your wrist, his grip hot and unyielding as he yanked you out of your seat.
Hongjoong's grip on your wrist was iron, his fingers pressing into your pulse point like he needed the proof of your heartbeat to believe you were real. In the storm-darkened room, the only light came in fractured burstsâlightning flashing across his sharp cheekbones, the whites of his eyes burning with something feral. You barely had time to suck in a breath before he wrenched you forward, your chest colliding with his so hard the impact rattled your teeth.
"Tell me why," you hissed, palms braced against his ribcage, fingers curling into the thin fabric of his tank top. The words weren't a question; they were a blade pressed to his throat. "You ended it like I was a liability. Was I just another loose end for the great Captain to tidy up?"
Hongjoongâs breath came in ragged bursts, his other hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, fingertips digging into the base of your skull. "Because I was losing my goddamn mind," he snarled, the admission ripped from him like a confession under torture. "Because I stayed up until sunrise memorizing the way you laughed when you were half-asleep. Because I couldnât look at the goddamn budget spreadsheets without wondering what youâd say about them." His voice cracked, raw and furious. "The rules were never for them. They were for meâto stop myself from tearing apart every boundary I ever built just to get you back."
Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the desperate twist of his mouth for one searing second before darkness swallowed you both again. You could feel the wild thrum of his pulse where your thumb brushed his collarbone, the heat of his skin branding you through his clothes.
Somewhere in the chaos, your knee hit the edge of the oak desk. Hongjoong didnât pauseâhe crowded you against it, his hands dropping to your hips to lift you onto the surface in one brutal motion. Paperwork scattered to the floor in a rain of spreadsheets, his forearm braced beside your head as he leaned in, his nose skimming your jaw. "You win," he growled, the words vibrating against your throat. "I broke my own rules. Now tell me to stop, or I swear to god, Iâllâ"
You bit his lower lip. Not a kissâa punishment.
Hongjoong made a sound like a gutted man, his fingers digging into your thighs hard enough to leave marks. The desk creaked dangerously as he surged forward, his mouth crashing into yours with three months of pent-up fury. He kissed like he foughtâall precision and teeth and calculated violence, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that bordered on starvation.
Rain lashed the windows in relentless sheets, the stormâs rhythm syncing with the sharp hitch of his breath when your fingers twisted in his hair. He shuddered, his hips pressing forward instinctively, the hard line of him dragging against your thigh in a way that made you both gasp.
"Tell me you thought about this," you demanded, arching into him as his mouth moved to your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse.
Hongjoong laughedâa dark, ragged thingâand wrenched your shirt collar aside to bite down on your shoulder. "Every goddamn day," he admitted against your skin, his voice wrecked. "Every time I walked past your dorm. Every time I heard your voice in the goddamn library." His hands slid under your thighs, hauling you flush against him as he ground into the heat of you. "I wrote those rules because I knewâ" His breath hitched when your nails scored down his back. "âone look from you, and I'd fold."
The admission hung between you, suspended in the charged air before you shattered it by yanking his tank top up over his head. His chest was a map of taut muscle and shallow breaths, his skin fever-hot under your palms. Lightning flashed, illuminating the desperate way his pupils swallowed all but a sliver of gold around them.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate grind that tore a groan from his throat. Hongjoong's forehead dropped to yours, his breath coming in uneven bursts as his hands flexed on your hipsâhalf restraint, half surrender. "You don't get to be smug about this," he muttered, even as his fingers slipped under the waistband of your jeans.
"I'm not," you lied, arching into him. "I'm just proving a point."
His mouth crashed into yours again, all teeth and tongue and three months of pent-up frustration. The desk groaned under your combined weight, pens skittering to the floor as he crowded you back onto the scattered paperwork. His hands were everywhereâtugging at your clothes, skimming up your ribs, thumbing over your nipples through the fabric until you gasped into his mouth.
Hongjoong dragged his lips down your throat, his breath hot against your racing pulse. "Tell me you thought about this too," he demanded, his voice rough with want. His teeth grazed your collarbone, his hands sliding under your thighs to hike your skirt up around your waist.
"Every damn time you walked past me in the library," you admitted, tangling your fingers in his hair. "Every time you pretended not to stare."
He groaned against your skin, his hips rolling against yours in a slow, deliberate grind that made you both shudder. The thick ridge of him pressed against your core, separated only by layers of denim and restraint. "Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. "I tried so hard to hate you."
The confession hung between you, suspended in the charged air before you shattered it by yanking his belt open. His breath hitched as your fingers brushed the hard line of him through his briefs. "Too bad," you murmured, dragging your nails down his stomach just to watch him tremble. "Because I think you like me."
Hongjoong's hands tightened on your thighs, his fingers digging into bare skin where your skirt had ridden up. "I don't like you," he growled, even as he rocked into your touch. "I'm fucking obsessed with you."
The raw honesty of it punched through your chest. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the desperate hunger in his eyesâgold swallowed by black, his pupils blown wide. You could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips, the way his breath stuttered when you palmed him through the fabric.
He didn't wait for permission. One hand fumbled between your bodies, popping the button of your jeans with practiced ease. His fingers slid beneath the waistband of your panties, calloused fingertips dragging through slick heat. "Still this wet for me?" he rasped, his voice wrecked. "After everything?"
You arched into his touch, biting back a moan as his thumb circled your clit. "Shut up," you gasped, tugging his briefs down just enough to free him. The first brush of his cock against your inner thigh sent a shudder through both of you.
Hongjoong exhaled sharply, his forehead dropping to yours. For a heartbeat, he hesitatedâeyes searching yours in the fractured light. Then the storm outside roared, shaking the windows, and whatever restraint he had left snapped. He lifted your hips, the head of his cock dragging through your folds before he thrust in with a single, brutal stroke.
The desk groaned beneath you. Hongjoong swore violently, his arms trembling as he braced himself above you. "Fuck," he choked out, his hips stuttering. "You feelâ" His words dissolved into a groan when you clenched around him.
Rain pounded against the glass in relentless sheets, the rhythm syncopated with the sharp slap of skin as Hongjoong set a punishing pace. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your neck. Every snap of his hips was a confessionâthree months of denial unraveling with each desperate thrust.
"You thought you could walk away," you gasped, nails scoring down his back. "But you were always coming back to me."
Hongjoong growled low in his throat, biting down on your shoulder as his fingers dug into your thighs. "Shut up," he panted, though the way his hips stuttered betrayed him. Lightning flashed, illuminating the sweat-slicked planes of his chest, the wild hunger in his eyes.
You laughedâa breathless, triumphant soundâand arched against him. "Make me."
His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and tongue and the copper tang of blood where you'd bitten him earlier. The kiss was a battleâmessy, frantic, aliveâand when you moaned into his mouth, he shuddered like a man coming undone.
Hongjoong's rhythm faltered when you rocked up to meet him, your legs locking around his waist to drag him deeper. "Fuck," he gasped, forehead dropping to yours. "I can'tâ" His voice broke as you rolled your hips, dragging him impossibly closer. "I'm not gonna last."
"Then don't," you whispered against his lips.
Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the wrecked expression on his faceâeyelids heavy, lips parted, every muscle straining with the effort of holding back. His hips stuttered, his fingers digging into your thighs as he lost the fight for control. With a ragged groan, Hongjoong buried his face in your neck and came apart, his body shuddering against yours in violent, helpless waves.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the rain pounding against the windows and your mingled breaths. Then, slowly, Hongjoong lifted his head. His fingers traced your jawline with a tenderness that contradicted the possessive grip he'd had on your hips moments ago. In the dim emergency lighting, his pupils were still blown wide, his lips swollen from your teeth.
"You're impossible," he murmured, but the words lacked any real bite. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, catching the faint smear of blood where you'd bitten him. "You ruin everything."
You arched an eyebrow. "You're welcome."
The overhead lights flickered once, twice, then buzzed back to life with a harsh fluorescent glare. Hongjoong flinched, his body tensing as reality crashed back in. The desk was a disaster of scattered papers and discarded clothes. His hands were still braced on either side of your hips, his skin damp with sweat.
Outside, the storm raged on, but inside, the air was thick with something heavierâsomething irreversible.
Hongjoong exhaled sharply through his nose, his gaze darting to the door, then back to you. For a split second, you saw itâthe panic. The frantic, fleeting urge to rebuild the walls before anyone noticed they were gone. His fingers twitched against your thigh, like he couldn't decide whether to pull you closer or push you away.
"You're thinking too loud," you said, tracing the tense line of his jaw.
His breath hitched. "I'm calculating damage control."
You laughed, low and knowing, and watched the way his pupils dilated at the sound. "Too late for that, Captain. The damage is done."
Hongjoong didnât move for a long three seconds. The harsh, hum of the fluorescent lights overhead felt like an interrogation, exposing the raw, red marks your nails had left across his shoulders and the dark bruises his fingers were already leaving on your thighs.
Slowly, the mechanical gears of his brain tried to clank back into place. He pulled out of you with a low, wet sound, immediately turning his back to pull up his briefs and fasten his belt. The sudden absence of his heat made the air-conditioned room feel freezing.
"We need to clear this out," he said. His voice was no longer the rough, wrecked rasp that had begged you to hold him tighter a minute ago. It was flat. Corporate. The Captain was trying to put his armor back on, piece by jagged piece. "Someone could walk in. Security does rounds at midnight."
You sat up on the edge of the desk, your clothes rumpled, watching him with a cool, dangerous detachment that made his hands slightly tremble as he gathered the scattered gala papers from the linoleum.
"Damage control," you murmured, adjusting your skirt. "Right."
He didn't look at you. He couldn't. "I'm being practical. What happened here... it changes the logistics. But the house still needs to function."
"The house," you repeated, a cold, mocking smile twisting your lips. You slid off the desk, your heels hitting the floor with a sharp, final click. "You just spent an hour burying yourself inside me, telling me you're fucking obsessed with me, Hongjoong. And the second the electricity turns back on, youâre worried about the logistics?"
Hongjoong froze, a stack of invoices clutched in his hand. His jaw clenched so hard the bone looked sharp. "I have a responsibility to eight men who depend on me to keep this house from sinking. I can't let a personal... distraction..."
"Don't finish that sentence," you interrupted, your voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register that effectively cut the air out of his lungs. You walked up to him, yanked your tote bag off the chair, and looked him dead in the eyes. "You want to play the cold king who hides his mistakes in the dark? Fine. Sleep with your rulebook, Hongjoong. Because from this second on, you don't even get to look me in my face."
You turned on your heel and walked out of the multi-purpose room, the heavy double doors swinging shut behind you, leaving him completely hollowed out in the blinding white light.
The coffee maker hissed like a wounded animal at 6:03 AM, spitting steam and grounds across the counter. Hongjoong didn't flinch. He'd been standing there for seventeen minutes already, palms flat against the Formica, staring at the fridge where his manifesto hungâthe ink slightly smudged now at the edges from where someone had splashed vodka on it during last night's party.
San shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, and immediately froze at the sight of Hongjoong's rigid silhouette against the dawn light. "Uh. Morning?"
"Kitchen closes at 9 PM," Hongjoong said without turning. His voice was scraped raw. "There's a mold culture growing in the sink that could qualify for its own PhD. Clean it."
Mingi, trailing behind San, choked on his own spit. "It's literally sunriseâ"
"Now."
The sharpness of it made Mingi stumble back a step. His gaze darted to San, who just shook his head in silent warning. Yunho leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching Hongjoong's stiff shoulders with the focus of a bomb squad technician.
"You look like you got hit by a bus," Yunho said casually. "Or fucked by one. Those scratches on your neck areâ"
Hongjoong whirled. The coffee pot shattered against the wall inches from Yunho's head.
The silence was atomic.
San grabbed Mingi's elbow and hauled him backward out of the kitchen. Yunho didn't move. He just tilted his head, studying the fresh, ragged marks peeking above Hongjoong's collarâthe same ones disappearing beneath his shirt.
"You're bleeding," Yunho said mildly.
Hongjoong's knuckles whitened around another mug. "Get out."
Yunho didn't. He stepped closer instead, lowering his voice. "She's not answering your texts, is she?"
The ceramic cracked in Hongjoong's grip.
Across campus, you sipped iced coffee in the library courtyard, laughing at something your study partner said. You hadn't checked your phone once. Not when it buzzed at 3:17 AM. Not when it lit up with a seventh call at sunrise. The screen faced down on the table, buried under your economics textbook like a corpse.
Back in the kitchen, Hongjoong's throat worked silently. He turned the mug in his handsâonce, twiceâbefore setting it down with unnatural precision. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit." Yunho grabbed a rag to wipe coffee off the wall. "You reek of her perfume. And before you snap againâ" He held up a hand when Hongjoong's shoulders tensed. "I don't care. But you look like you got run over by the feelings bus, and it's fucking with the house vibe."
The fridge hummed. Somewhere upstairs, Mingi's panicked whisper carried down the stairwellâ"Dude, we are not going back in there."
Hongjoong stared at the manifesto pinned to the fridge door. Rule #3 glared back in bold font: NO EMOTIONAL ATTACHMENTS. The paper was pristine. His knuckles were split.
Seonghwa chose that moment to walk in, crisp dress shirt rolled to the elbows, a manila envelope tucked under his arm. He took one look at the shattered coffee pot, the tension strung tight between Yunho and Hongjoong, and sighed. "Christ. Do I need to separate you two?"
Hongjoong didn't turn. His voice came out flat. "Kitchen's closed."
"Not for me." Seonghwa dropped the envelope on the counter with deliberate weight. "Legal team found three loopholes in my father's contract. Thought you'd want to see them."
The silence stretched. Yunho wiped coffee off his jaw, eyes darting between them. "I'll just..." He jerked a thumb toward the exit, abandoning the rag as he fled.
Seonghwa waited until the door swung shut before speaking again. "You look like hell."
Hongjoong's fingers flexed against the countertop. "Not now, Seonghwa."
"It's 6 AM," Seonghwa said evenly. "You're bleeding through your shirt." He reached for the envelope, sliding it closer. "The clauses circled in red? They're actionable. My father can't enforce the marriage if I prove financial independence."
Hongjoong didn't move. His gaze remained locked on the fridge, where Rule #4âNO OVERNIGHT GUESTSâhung crookedly next to a Polaroid of last semester's formal.
"You're not listening," Seonghwa observed. He stepped closer, voice dropping. "Look at me."
The orderâthe exact tone Hongjoong himself used during house meetingsâmade his shoulders tense. Slowly, he turned. The morning light caught the shadows under his eyes, the raw scrape of teeth marks disappearing beneath his collar.
Seonghwa exhaled sharply. "Christ. Did you even sleep?"
Hongjoongâs fingers twitched toward the manifesto. "We have a chapter meeting at noon. The alumni liaison is comingâ"
"Youâre spiraling," Seonghwa interrupted. He jabbed a finger at the envelope. "My father is blackmailing me into an engagement. And youâ" His gaze flicked to the fridge, to the fresh nail marks on Hongjoongâs knuckles. "Youâre self-destructing over a girl who wonât even look at you."
Hongjoongâs jaw clenched. "This isnât about her."
"Bullshit." Seonghwa grabbed the manifesto, shaking it once. The paper rattled like a surrender flag. "You wrote these rules to punish yourself. Because you couldnât handle wanting her." He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "She walked out because youâre a coward. Not because of the house. Not because of the rules. Because you wonât admit you love her."
The hiss of the burner was the only sound left in the kitchen.
Hongjoong stared at Seonghwa, his chest rising and falling in shallow, sharp increments. For a fraction of a second, the Captain persona entirely fractured, leaving him looking exactly like what he was: a twenty-two-year-old kid who had built a fortress out of pride, only to realize heâd locked himself inside it alone.
"Watch your mouth," Hongjoong whispered. The threat was empty, his voice too thin, too wrecked to carry any real malice.
Seonghwa didn't even blink. He dropped the manifesto back onto the counter, the paper fluttering against the stainless steel. "Iâm the only one in this house who isnât afraid of you, Hongjoong. And right now, you look pathetic. Youâre trying to manage my crisis because youâre completely incapable of handling your own."
"I am fixing your life!" Hongjoong suddenly roared, his hand slamming down on the counter so hard the remaining mugs rattled. The outburst seemed to drain the last of his artificial energy. He dropped his head, his damp fringe falling into his eyes as his shoulders slumped. "I am fixing it because I can't... I can't fix this."
"You haven't even tried," Seonghwa said softly, the harsh edge leaving his voice, replaced by the heavy, grounding weight of a brother. He reached out, his hand gripping Hongjoongâs tense shoulder, squeezing tight. "You didn't fix anything with her. You just ran damage control until she decided she was done being treated like a hazard."
Hongjoong closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, all he could see was the way you looked under those unforgiving fluorescent lights a few hours ago. The cool, absolute finality in your eyes when you told him he didn't even get to look you in the face.
You hadn't just walked out of the student union. You had taken the air in the room with you.
"She won't even look at me, Seonghwa," Hongjoong confessed, his voice barely a breath. The admission felt like drawing blood. "I called her seven times. She turned her phone off."
"Then stop calling her like a coward from the safety of your office," Seonghwa said, pulling his hand back and adjusting his cuffs, his stately composure perfectly restored. He picked up his manila envelope, tucking it back under his arm. "Go find her. Tear that stupid piece of paper off the fridge, walk across campus, and bow down. Because if you don't, someone else is going to give her the worship she actually deserves."
Seonghwa turned on his heel, his pristine loafers clicking against the tile as he exited the kitchen, leaving Hongjoong alone with the wreckage of the coffee pot and his own suffocating thoughts.
The crumpled manifesto hit the trash bin with the finality of a gunshot. Hongjoong didn't pause to watch it landâhe was already striding past the gaping faces of Mingi and San in the living room, out the front door, into the brutal clarity of morning sunlight. His knuckles throbbed where the paper edges had bitten into his skin. He didn't care.
You were sprawled on the union steps with your study group, highlighters strewn across your notebook, when a shadow fell across your page. The chatter around you died mid-sentence. You didnât need to look up to know who stood thereâthe scent of his cologne (bergamot and something burnt, like heâd been chain-smoking all night) preceded him.
"Move," you told your friend, nudging her knee aside without glancing up. "You're blocking my light."
A beat of silence. Then Hongjoong dropped to his knees on the concrete in front of you, his hands braced on either side of your sprawled legs. The collective inhale from your study group was audible. His forehead pressed against your thigh, his breath hot through the denim.
"I donât care about the house," he said, voice rough. The words werenât whispered; they rang clear across the steps. "I donât care about the rules. Tear me apart if you want, but donât make me go back to pretending I donâtââ His fingers flexed against the concrete. "Iâm completely undone without you. Please."
Your highlighter rolled off the notebook. Someoneâs phone clattered to the ground. Hongjoong didnât move, his shoulders bowed under the weight of surrender, the morning light catching on the fresh scratches peeking above his collar.
You closed your notebook with a snap. "Get up."
He didâimmediately, like your voice was a leash around his throat. His eyes were wild, gold swallowed by black. You stood, shouldering your bag, and walked past him without a word. He followed like a shadow, his fingers brushing yours once, twice, before you let him tangle them together.
By the time you shoved him through your apartment door, his composure had fractured entirely. He crowded you against the wall, his mouth desperate on yours, his hands shaking where they gripped your hips. "Tell me you're mine," he demanded between kisses that tasted like salt and sleepless nights. "Tell me I didn't ruin this."
You bit his lower lip hard enough to make him groan. "Shut up and worship me properly."
He did. Everywhere. His mouth traced the arch of your foot, the delicate bones of your ankle, the soft skin behind your knee. He lingered there, teeth scraping, until your thighs trembled. "You own me," he whispered against your inner thigh, his breath hot. "You have since the first time you laughed at my rules."
When his tongue finally slid between your legs, he moaned like he was the one being unraveled. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you open as he licked into you with slow, deliberate strokes that had your back arching off the bed. "FuckâHongjoongâ"
"Say it again," he growled, lifting his head just enough to watch your face as his thumb circled your clit. "Say my name like I'm yours."
You came with his name on your lips, his fingers fucking you through it, his eyes locked on yours like he was memorizing the way you fell apart for him.
Laterâmuch laterâwhen he was buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips moving in slow, grinding rolls that made you both gasp, he choked out the words he'd been swallowing for months: "I love you. I love you, I love youâ" Each confession punctuated by a thrust that stole your breath. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorryâ"
You silenced him with a kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as he trembled above you. His pace faltered, his rhythm breaking apart as he came with a ragged groan, his body collapsing against yours. For a long moment, he just breathed against your neck, his lips brushing your pulse point between exhales. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were red-rimmed, his lashes damp. "I didn't ruin this?" he whispered.
You traced the curve of his bottom lip with your thumb. "You ruined everything else. But not this."
His laughter was rough, relieved, as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. Your legs tangled together, your head pillowed on his chest where his heartbeat still raced beneath your ear.
A week later, sunlight streamed through the cafe windows, catching the steam rising from your lattes. Hongjoong's arm was draped over the back of your chair, his fingers absently playing with the ends of your hair as you quizzed him on midterm material. He answered every question wrong on purpose just to make you groan.
The bell above the door jingled. Seonghwa looked like he hadn't slept in daysâhis usually pristine dress shirt wrinkled, his tie loosened. He collapsed into the chair across from you with the grace of a collapsing building.
"They're flying her in next week," he said without preamble, rubbing his temples. "Legal team found another clause. If I don't formally meet her by the end of the month, my trust fund defaults to my cousin."
Hongjoong's fingers stilled in your hair. You exchanged a glanceâhis raised eyebrow asking permission. You nodded.
You leaned forward, stirring your latte. "I have a friend," you said casually. "Brilliant girl. Triple major, works three jobs. She's exactly the kind of girl your parents would hate."
Seonghwa's head lifted slowly. "Define 'hate.'"
"She's loud," you counted off on your fingers. "Has tattoos. Once threw a drink at a senator's son for grabbing her ass. Needs rent money."
Hongjoong snorted into his coffee. "Perfect."
Seonghwa's tired eyes sharpened. "You're joking."
"She's also fluent in three languages and can debate political theory better than your father's lawyers," you added. "Imagine the look on his face when you bring home a scholarship student who outsmarts him at dinner."
Hongjoong's fingers trailed down your arm, pride evident in the way his thumb circled your wrist. "Pay her to be your fake girlfriend. Your parents will combust."
Seonghwa exhaled sharply through his nose. "This is insane."
"So was Hongjoong's rulebook," you countered, smirking when Hongjoong nipped at your earlobe in retaliation.
Seonghwa's eyes flickered between you bothâthe way Hongjoong's hand now rested possessively on your thigh, how you leaned into his touch without hesitation. Something in his expression shifted. "You're serious."
"Deadly," Hongjoong said. He nudged your coffee closer to you, the gesture almost subconscious. "She's right. Your parents want a docile society girl who'll smile and breed heirs. Bring them a hurricane instead."
You twisted in your seat to face Seonghwa fully. "I'll text her tonight. She'll want contracts drawn upâpayment, boundaries, termination clauses."
Seonghwa stared at you. "You've done this before."
"Not personally." You smirked, tapping your nails against your cup. "But I know someone who spent six months pretending to date a senator's daughter for tuition money."
Hongjoong choked on his coffee. "That was you?"
"Different lifetime." You waved a hand. "Point is, my friend will eat your parents alive and enjoy it. But she won't do it for free."
Seonghwa exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples again. When he looked up, there was something dangerously close to hope in his exhausted gaze. "How soon can I meet her?"
"Tomorrow." You pulled out your phone, already composing a text. "She works the morning shift at the campus coffee kiosk. Come hungryâshe'll poison you if you order anything basic."
Seonghwaâs hand froze halfway to his forehead, his knuckles locking as he stared at your screen. "Define basic."
"Caramel macchiatos, anything with extra whip, and talking down to her while sheâs holding a steaming metal pitcher," Hongjoong answered for you, his chest vibrating against your back as he chuckled. He leaned his chin on your shoulder, entirely unbothered by the fact that they were in public or that his best friend looked like he was about to have a stroke. "Trust her, man. If she says the girl is a hurricane, you better start boarding up your windows."
A slow, tentative exhale slipped past Seonghwaâs lips. The crushing weight that had been bowing his shoulders for weeks didn't vanish, but for the first time since his father had dropped that legal ultimatum on his desk, the panic in his chest receded, replaced by a cold, calculating curiosity.
"Contracts," Seonghwa repeated, the word tasting familiar and solid on his tongue. "I can do contracts. Boundaries, timelines, financial compensationâIâll have my personal attorney draft a non-disclosure agreement by tonight."
"Don't bother," you said, sliding your phone back into your bag with a decisive click. "She writes her own terms. Just bring your checkbook and an open mind, Park. You're about to meet the best thingâor the absolute worst thingâthat's ever happened to your family name."
Seonghwa stood up, the wrinkles in his blazer suddenly seeming less like a sign of defeat and more like armor after a battle. He adjusted his tie, his regal, untouchable composure locking back into place like a shield. He looked at Hongjoong, then down at you, a faint, genuine glint of amusement finally breaking through the exhaustion in his dark eyes.
"If she manages to make my mother spill her tea at dinner next week," Seonghwa murmured, picking up his manila envelope, "Iâll pay her double her asking price."
"Consider it done," you smirked.
With a final, lingering nod, Seonghwa turned and walked out of the cafe, his posture straight, his stride carrying the familiar, commanding authority of the richest man on campus. The glass door jingled behind him, letting in a brief gust of warm summer wind.
The second he was gone, Hongjoong turned his head, his lips instantly finding the sensitive skin right beneath your ear. He nipped at it softly, his fingers digging into your thigh under the table with a possessive, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch.
"A hurricane, huh?" he whispered against your skin, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always made your pulse spike. "You really like orchestrating chaos in my house, don't you?"
"I'm just fixing your friends, Captain," you murmured, tilting your head back to give him better access. "Someone has to look out for the TEEZER boys now that your little manifesto is in the dumpster."
Hongjoong groaned softly, wrapping his arms fully around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest. He didn't care about the rules, he didn't care about the standings, and he certainly didn't care about the onlookers in the cafe. He was completely, irrevocably whippedâand as he pressed a deep, bruising kiss to your lips in the bright morning light, he knew heâd spend the rest of his life gladly bowing down to the only girl who had ever refused to be a placeholder.
DISCLAIMER | this is no way of a true representation of any of the members. This is purely fiction and for the enjoyment of the reader and not to be taken seriously.
a/n ; Hi.. Hello.. Is this thing on..? Sorry guys for the late update, Iâve recently changed jobs and havenât had the time to finish up but I promise more is coming sooner than you think!!
Spacer from @celcero !!
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pairingïčąateez x fem!reader
genreïčąsmut, hurt with comfort, part 1 of 3. frat!au. friends to lovers (eventual smut focused on the main love interest san). kinda reverse harem. usage of alcohol, nicotine, and weed (not by reader). mutual flirting with dubious intent, [author note: while there is a bet involved, all physical interactions are initiated through mutual attraction. no sexual assault occurs.] suggestive dialogue, sexual tension, predator/prey dynamics, deceptive motives, kissing + making out, toxic masculinity/peer pressure, mild objectification, usage of pet names (princess, pretty, good girl, doll, darling, etc). biting/marking, body worship, unprotected sex, missionary, praise kink, mentions of multiple orgasms, aftercare.
synopsisïčąif thereâs no label, itâs only fair for everyone to take a bite. youâre considered a prize in the predatory world of the frat house. when you show up to their party unannounced, you unknowingly become the center of a high-stakes bet. caught in a dizzying hunt between the charming frats, youâre forced to navigate a maze of lust and deception, all while wondering if the man you actually want will finally claim you before someone else wins the game.
word countïčą19.3k
⊠SERIES MASTERLIST ⊠PLAY THE VINYL RECORD
âyou slept with him?â
giselle had already interrogated you for an hour, but the vibe shifted the second you accidentally let it slip that youâd been doing some rather questionable activities lately. the look on her face was pure gold, because you didnât just sleep with anyone; you slept with SAN. the campus sweetheart, the man with the lethal dimples, and a key member of that infamous pack of pseudo-frat boys who seemed to live like thereâs no tomorrow.
âi didnât know what else to do! he had those big, sad eyes and that adorable pouty lip, andââ
âoh, sure, you were basically held at gunpoint,â yunjin chimed in, her voice dripping with the same judgment as she bit into her cookie. she looked like she wanted to gag just thinking about you breathing the same air as that group. âand where? please tell me it wasnât on your bed, because i will literally light it on fire before i sit on it.â
it was no secret: your best friends hated men. usually, you were right there with them, but san was the glitch in the matrix; he wasn't like the others. while his seven friends thrived on cheap beer, clouds of weed smoke, and the constant hunt for female validation, he was... pure. he didn't drink or smoke, as he stayed sober and clean, while the rest of the house turned into a nat geo documentary about primal needs. he was an angel in the devilâs den, and you still hadn't figured out what he was still doing there.
ân-no! heâs never been here, i promise. the bed is clean,â you stammered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. âwe did it in his...â
âin his what?â
âin his... car.â
âwhat?!â
the screech that left giselleâs throat was deafening. they wanted the when, why, and how immediately. to them, you were clearly gone for him, astronomically down bad, head over heels, despite your denials of the word 'love.' they found your delusion cute, even if they secretly wished youâd pull a simba and run away and never come back.
âlook, itâs fine! we arenât even dating,â you defended, waving a hand dismissively. âweâre keeping it casual. just hooking up, you know?â
âyeah, because just hooking up usually results in hickeys so massive that nasa could mistake them for a new galaxy.â yunjin threw her hands up, pointing at the purple marks blooming across your collarbone. youâd tried on the high-coverage foundation, but even the best formula couldn't hide the evidence of his animalistic hunger.
you went silent, your fingers drifting to the sensitive skin where san had staked his claim. the memory was barely twenty-four hours old and still vibrated behind your eyelids. it hadn't been the plan, not at all. you were supposed to be practicing your driving, a simple lesson getting used to switching gears and doing left and right turns. but one lingering look led to a touch, which led to a bruised lip, and before you knew it, the windows were fogged with steam, and the car was rocking on its suspension. your panties were probably still wedged under the back seat. some details were definitely too much for the girls to handle.
suddenly, your phone screen lit up, catching everyoneâs eyes.
âoh, itâs san,â you murmured, reading the notification bar while your friends leaned in like they were filming an episode of gossip girl. for two people who wanted you nowhere near the frat house, they were incredibly nosy.
san: last night was amazing. youâre amazing. iâm so lucky to have you in my life. <3Â
your best friends didnât like the hearts in your eyes, or how your cheeks started to gain rose-red color, a soft smile curling at the corners of your mouth. oh no, not on their watch. you were not going to be another victim of the frat-boy cycle.
âcut him off.â giselle didnât even hesitate. âgirl, ghost him and never talk to him again. and no, i donât care how good that dick is!â
âbut listen to me, he isnât like themââ
âhe is, and you know it. iâm sorry, but stop being delusional.â yunjin was there to prove the point even further, leaning forward with a look of genuine concern. âhe probably only offered to help you drive so he could get you alone. make you one more body count on that list. he's part of that house, babe. they breathe weed smoke and toxic masculinity.â
you wanted to scream that they were wrong. that san was the one who made sure you were comfortable, the one who stayed stone-cold sober just to make sure everyone got home safe. sure, his friends were a chaotic mess of red flags and empty bottles, but he was the calm in their storm, their guardian angel at some point.
âheâs actually a good guy,â you whispered, though it felt like talking to a brick wall.
âmaybe he is,â giselle sighed, rolling her eyes as she collapsed back onto her pillow. âbut good guys donât stay good when theyâre surrounded by seven devils. the association alone is a crime.â
the room went quiet for a moment, the heavy 'man-hating' energy of the sleepover clashing when you looked back down at his text, your thumb hovering over the screen. you knew the risks, and you knew your friends were just trying to protect your heart, but they didn't see the way he pouted when he was sleepy or the way heâd patiently explained the brake-to-gas transition while his hand rested gently over yours.
âokay, enough!â giselle groaned, throwing a stuffed animal at your head to break your trance. âi am officially tired of the boy talk. my brain is rotting. if i hear the name san one more time tonight, iâm sleeping in the bathtub.â
âhonestly, same,â yunjin laughed, grabbing a face mask from her bag. âno more men. pass me the snacks and put on a horror movie where the frat guy dies first.â
you giggled, finally tucking your phone under your pillow. the debate wasn't over, but for now, the girls were settling in, and despite their warnings, you knew exactly who youâd be dreaming about.
âso you fucked her?â
the question cut through the haziness of the room with WOOYOUNG sprawled out on his bed, one arm draped over his forehead while he held a joint in the other. a thin, grey ribbon of smoke curled toward the ceiling, carrying that familiar scent that clung to every corner in the house. san was next to him, as he didn't even blink. he just kept his eyes tracked on the plushie he was tossing upward: up, catch. up, catch.
âi wouldnât use that term.â
âthen what term should you use when you put your penis in her vagina?â
wooyoung was always the first to pry into his best friendâs business, because keeping a secret in this environment is like trying to hold onto sand â impossible and pointless. the frats had a reputation to uphold. they were the kings of the one-night stand, the legends of the blurred morning after. and while you were drop-dead gorgeous, no doubt about that, everyone knew you weren't exactly the type to fit into their world.
âlook, i like her, okay?â san finally snapped, catching the plushie mid-air and hugging it tight to his chest. he turned his head on the pillow, looking at wooyoung who was staring blankly at the ceiling fans.
âi like her,â the stoner mimicked, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he took another puff. exhaling slowly, the smoke obscuring his features for a second. âman, youâre far gone. but câmon, give me the details. did you finally get her out of those clothes? how many times did she cum? i bet sheâs a screamer, isnât she?â
san groaned, burying his face into the plushie. âwooyoung, shut up. it wasnât like that. it was... it was actually really good.â
âit was really good,â wooyoung chuckled, his voice dropping into a filthy and playful tone. âthatâs code for we tried every position in the book. did you have her against the window? i saw your car earlier... your windows had rather impressive hand prints for just giving someone a driving lesson.â
san felt the heat creep up his neck, the memory of your hands tangled in his hair making his heart do a clumsy skip. he didnât want to tell wooyoung that heâd spent half the time just worshipping your skin, or that the way you looked at him made him want to burn the whole frat house down just to keep you safe from the chaos that occurred every second.
âwe were in the backseat,â the man admitted quietly, his grip tightening on the toy.
âthe classic,â wooyoung hummed, tapping ash into a tray on the nightstand. his eyes were red-rimmed and heavy, but his smirk was so smug. âjust be careful, lover boy. the girls she hangs out with will have your head on a pike if you break her heart. and as for the guys here... theyâre gonna give you hell for going soft.â
âi donât care,â san said, and for the first time that night, he sounded completely sure of his decision. âlet them talk. sheâs worth the headache.â
âso, what position did you really have her in? did you do that thing where youââ
âwooyoung, seriously, stop,â san groaned, but his defensive stance was interrupted by the door swinging open so hard it hit the wall. YUNHO strolled in, looking way too energetic for someone who survived on nicotine and energy drinks. MINGI was dragging along behind him, looking like heâd just woken up from a three-hour nap after having his dick sucked.
âparty tomorrow night,â yunho announced, clapping his hands together. âwe need to finalize the invite list. we were thinking of some freshmen, so any suggestions?â
wooyoung took a slow drag of his joint and pointed a lazy finger at san. âhow about sanâs girlfriend? sheâs pretty and smart, on top of her major, and gets a scholarship.â
âshe is not my girlfriend,â san snapped, sitting up so fast the plushie tumbled to the floor.
âgirlfriend?!â mingi yelled, his voice booming through the thin walls of the house.
within seconds, the hallway sounded like a stampede. the floorboards groaned under the weight of four other men racing toward the noise. SEONGHWA was the first to lean against the doorframe, followed by a skeptical-looking HONGJOONG, a judging JONGHO, and YEOSANG, who looked like heâd just been handed the best tea of the semester.
âwhat girlfriend?â hongjoong asked, crossing his arms. âsan, really? the guy who spends his friday nights cleaning the kitchen while weâre out?â
it was a disaster. in this house, the word 'girlfriend' was a myth, a legend told to frighten the freshmen. they did hookups, situationships, friends with benefits, but they didn't do feelings. the mere mention of a committed title was enough to start a departmental investigation.
ânone of your business,â san muttered, trying to look anywhere but at their smirking faces. âsheâs no one important, just a girl in our university.â
âno one important doesn't get you out of the house to give her driving lessons,â wooyoung chirped from the bed, ruining san's life with a single sentence.
âbring her tomorrow,â jongho suggested, âif sheâs just a girl, it shouldnât matter if she attends the party.â
âno,â san said firmly. âsheâs not coming here.â
he knew exactly what would happen. theyâd tease and try to corrupt you, or worse, theyâd make you realize that being associated with a frat boy, even a 'good' one, was a social death sentence. he wanted to keep you tucked away, a private piece of peace in his chaotic life. something for his eyes and hands only.
âheâs protecting her,â seonghwa noted, a smirk spreading across his face. âhow romantic.â
âiâll bet fifty bucks sheâs here by midnight,â mingi whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
âoh, so we are doing it like this, huh?â yunho grinned. âi bet a hundred that san caves and brings her just because he can't stand the thought of her being home alone while heâs here.â
san watched them start to shake hands and pull out their phones to type something in their note apps. he wanted to keep you as his little secret, but the vultures had picked up the scent, and they were hungry for a show. wooyoung laughed so hard he started coughing, leaning back, his head hitting the pillow as he let out a slow, haunting cloud of smoke. he looked through half-lidded eyes, his grin turning into something far more predatory because the innocent teasing was officially over.
âif sheâs not your girlfriend, and sheâs no one important...â his best friendâs voice dropped into a smooth purr that made the hair on the back of sanâs neck stand up. âthen you wouldnât mind if i asked her out, right? i mean, sharing is caring after all.â
sanâs body went rigid, eyes widened in pure shock. âdonât even think about it, woo.â
âwhy not?â mingi piped up, as he leaned against the dresser. âyou know the rules. nothing is official until you make it. and if youâre too scared to claim her, itâs a fair game. sheâs a pretty little thing. i wouldnât mind seeing if sheâs as good as you say she is.â
âiâll bet i can get her number before the party even starts,â yunho added, his competitive streak flaring up. he wasnât even high or tipsy, just fueled by the pure adrenaline of the hunt. âhell, iâll bet i can get her in my bed by next weekend.â
to them, you were a prize, a challenge to be won. the good boy of the group had finally found something worth hiding, and that only made the rest of them want to tear the secret apart and see what the hype was about.
âstop it. all of you,â san hissed, his protective instincts were screaming. he knew these men; he knew they were charming, reckless, and could talk almost any girl into a bad decision with a single smile and a hit of whatever they were smoking.
âoh, heâs getting mad,â wooyoung cackled, pointing a shaking finger at san. âlook at him! heâs actually catching feelings. but sannie, you know how this works. if she comes to the party tomorrow, sheâs in our territory.â
seonghwa, who had been quiet until now, let out a chuckle. âthe bet is on, then. fifty bucks to the first person who gets a kiss. a hundred for a make out, three hundred if you get her in bed, and⊠san, if you want to keep her, you better step up your game.â
looking around the room at his seven best friends, the people he called brothers, and for the first time, they looked like the monsters your best friends warned you about. they were laughing, throwing out names of positions and places theyâd take you, treating your name like a coin in a poker game.
everything here is a gamble, and everyone has decided that they are playing to win and keep the streak, so will san do a call or fold?
the following morning, san slipped out of the house early, the scent of beer and lingering smoke clinging to the walls behind him. he needed air, time to think and process everything, as he wandered into the nearby park. the boys were ruthless once the bet was placed, like sharks in a feeding frenzy, and he knew he couldn't protect you if you set foot inside that place tonight.
pulling out his phone, his fingers trembling slightly as he dialed your number.
"hi, princess," he said the moment you picked up, forcing his voice to drop into that honey-sweet register he reserved only for you. "how are you? did you have fun with giselle and yunjin?"
âiâm good⊠still sleepy.â he could hear the sleepiness in your voice, that soft and raspy tone that usually made him melt. you told him about the movies, the gossip, and how you baked chocolate-chip cookies, and how the girls had just left thirty minutes ago to study, since fashion and music majors never truly rested.Â
"im glad you had fun," he said, offering a pained smile to the empty park. he took a shaky breath, the silence stretching a second too long.
"is everything okay?" you asked, noticing the weight in his exhale.
âso, listen to me,â san started, pacing back and forth in front of a wooden bench, his free hand shoved deep into his pocket. âthereâs a party at the house tonight. itâs going to be a mess, okay? the guys are going to be drunk and high, the music is going to be way too loud, and honestly... itâs just not a good time for you to come over. iâll come over to yours later if you want, we can go get food, just... stay home tonight, please?â
he held his breath, praying your protective friends had rubbed off on you enough to make you say no.
âactually sannie,â you said, your voice sounding confused but intrigued, âwooyoung texted me a few hours ago. he invited me to tonight's party, saying you were being shy about asking me and that i should definitely show up around eleven.â
san stopped dead in his tracks. the world seemed to freeze as his blood ran cold. oh god. fucking hell, wooyoung did the fuck not. that bastard actually did it. he remembered his best friend staring at his phone at 3 am, ignoring the beer pong game with mingi and yeosang, a wicked and rather too pleased grin on his face.Â
âhe texted you?â sanâs voice was full of betrayal. âwhat exactly did he say? and did you... did you answer him?â
âi told him iâd think about it,â you replied, completely oblivious to the fact that you were currently the stakes in a high-stakes poker game. âhe seemed really nice, though. he told me he wanted to finally meet the girl whoâs been keeping you so distracted.â
"please, (name)... don't go.â
"why? it's not like you are my boyfriend or anything."
the words hit him like a physical blow to the stomach. it was the truth, since he hadn't claimed you. he hadn't given you a reason to choose his word over an invitation from his best friend. the trap was set for its prey to fall into. wooyoung wasn't just being a wingman; he was moving the chess pieces to win the bet. if you showed up tonight, youâd be walking straight into a den of seven men who had turned your existence into a competition.
"look, i just have a bad feeling. i donât want you near people who have vodka and jagermeister mixed into their dna. believe me, iâm doing this for your own good."
"and i have a good feeling and would like to go. what's the worst that can happen?"
the worst? sanâs mind raced through the horrors. the predatory looks, the nasty comments masked as flirt. wooyoung trying to charm his way between your legs, mingi or yunho trying to see how much you could drink. the risk of someone slipping something into your cup, the cameras, and the total lack of respect for boundaries once the bass started thumping.
he opened his mouth to tell you that his friends had put a price on your head. he wanted to tell you about the fifty bucks for a kiss and the hundred more for a night in their bed.
but the words died in his throat. if he told you, heâd lose you because youâd see what kind of people he associated with. if he told you, heâd betray the only "brothers" he had. he was trapped between the angel on his shoulder and the devils in his house.
"just trust me," san pleaded, his voice cracking, "don't come."
âsan, youâre acting weird. itâs just a party,â you laughed softly, and the sound of your innocence made his stomach flip. âitâs not like iâm going to go and fall in love with your friends. i just want to see you⊠so, i'll be there around eleven," you said softly before hanging up.
san stared at his phone, the screen reflecting his panicked face. what was he supposed to do now? maybe make sure you stick with him the whole time, or he can even pick you up from your place and try to convince you otherwise, but you sounded determined to attend the party.
tossing your phone onto your unmade bed, you let out a heavy sigh. san was sweet, he really was, but sometimes his protectiveness felt less like care and more like a cage. why was he so against this? half the campus was going to be there, not just his inner circle of friends. youâd been seeing each other for months: going on dates, sharing meals, and, yes, having the kind of sex that made your toes curl, but he still hadn't put a label on it. he hadn't asked you to be his girlfriend, and if he wasn't going to claim that title, he didn't really get to veto your saturday night plans.
you weren't talking to other men; your loyalty was firmly with him, but you were young and bored. the thought of sitting in your room while the rest of the university was dancing and drinking sounded miserable. a party was exactly what you needed to feel like you again, not just as sanâs secret.
and you definitely weren't telling giselle and yunjin. if sanâs reactions were this, theirs would be enough to destroy planet earth. theyâd probably stage an intervention or lock you in your room to "save you from your own bad taste," but they didn't understand the pull san had on you, and they certainly didn't know how charming wooyoung could be over a simple text.
is it so wrong to just want to have fun? you thought, biting your lip, turning your attention to your closet, pulling hangers aside, because the worst that could happen in your mind was a hangover and maybe your hair smelling like cigarettes, but hardly the apocalypse san was painting. if he were so worried about you being around strangers, well, youâd just have to stay close to him, or wooyoung, or any of the other seven guys who seemed perfectly capable of being human for one night.
your biggest problem wasn't a bad feeling or some mysterious frat house drama. your biggest problem was deciding between the tiny black slip dress that showed off the faint, fading marks on your neck or some of your skirts and tops. but you reached for the dress. if san wanted to keep you a secret, he was going to have a very hard time doing it tonight. you were going to show up, have fun, and prove to him that you could handle the frats.
arriving just like cinderella, you texted your prince charming that you were outside, and less than thirty seconds later, the heavy door swung open. san stood there, looking slightly frazzled, his dark hair pushed back and a simple black t-shirt hugging his frame, alongside some cargo pants. but then he looked at you⊠you looked incredible. his gaze traveled from your heels up to that tiny black dress, lingering on the soft glow of your skin. he looked like a man who had just seen a ghost, or an angel, and that alone made him want to turn you right back around and walk you home.
"hi, san." you smiled as he stepped out onto the porch, closing the door slightly to muffle the bass-heavy music.Â
"you... you actually came," his hand instinctively reaching out to hover near your waist. "you look amazing. i mean, wow. but i thought... i thought we agreedâ"
"we didn't agree on anything, sannie," you giggled, stepping closer to adjust his collar just to see him flush. "and thanks, you look good, too⊠but you look like you've seen a ghost. are you okay?"
"i'm just... nervous. so, stay close to me, okay?â he let out a ragged sigh, his thumb finally brushing the small of your back as he guided you inside. âitâs already getting rowdy in there."
it was 23:38 when you came, the party was in full swing, the pre-game long forgotten in favor of body-to-body dancing and the scent of expensive cologne and cheap tequila. you were an enigma walking through a sea of unfamiliar faces, a girl who didn't quite fit the frat-girl stereotype but was somehow the most captivating person in the room. as you moved through the crowd with san, conversations seemed to stall. heads turned, and the eyes of the other seven men in the house locked onto you like hunters ready to shoot the naive and innocent deer.
san was doing his best to keep his body blocked against yours, acting as a human shield, eyes darting around the room like a hawk. he was on high alert, and for good reason, until a hand landed firmly on his shoulder.
"there she is."
wooyoung appeared out of the haze like a fever dream. he was leaning against the wall with a cherry lollipop tucked into the corner of his smirk. his blonde hair was perfectly styled and straightened with a little black highlights, and he wore a pale pink sweater unzipped just low enough to show the lines of his collarbones and a glimpse of his chest, accompanied by black denim with a shiny belt. he looked like candy: sweet and completely addictive.
"(name), right? nice to finally meet you, pretty girl," stepping into your personal space, the scent of citrus perfume and a faint trail of weed swirling around him. he didn't wait for an answer before his eyes traveled down your body and back up, his expression one of unadulterated approval. "enjoying yourself, i hope?"
sanâs grip on your waist tightened. "woo, not now."
"oh, don't be such a buzzkill, sannie." wooyoung was being cocky, and before san could react, the blond slipped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you away from your shielder. his touch was warm, his thumb brushing against your arm in a way that felt far too familiar for a stranger. "a girl this gorgeous shouldn't be tucked away in a corner all night. don't mind if i show her around, do you? she hasn't even seen the balcony view yet."
you looked at san, who looked like he was about to combust, and then back at wooyoungâs sparkling eyes. the thrill of the attention was too good to pass up. "sure," you giggled, leaning slightly into his side. "show me the way."
you started to walk away before san could even find his voice. just as you reached the edge of the hallway, wooyoung paused. he threw his head back, looking over his shoulder at san, taking the lollipop out of his mouth with a slow pop, licked his lips, and put it back in as he winked.
san stood frozen in the middle of the crowded room, completely disturbed. he watched his best friendâs hand slide a little lower on your back as you disappeared into the crowd. for the first time, he realized that "sharing is caring" wasn't just a joke to his friends; it was a warning that if you donât care about something of yours, someone else would.
wooyoung led you through the house like a king walking through his own palace. every step on the staircase was occupied by someone smoking or making out, but the crowd seemed to part for him. he kept a hand on the small of your back, his touch light but possessive, guiding you through the sweaty mass of the living room.
"so, what do you think?" he asked, leaning in close so his lips brushed the shell of your ear, "do we live up to the rumors?"
you glanced at a guy passed out on a beanbag and then at the overflowing trash cans near the kitchen. "well, the house smells awful, and you definitely bought the cheapest alcohol available, so yeah, iâd say the rumors are true."
that made him chuckle, his eyes crinkling as he looked at you. "cheeky, aren't ya? i like that. usually, girls are too busy trying to impress me to notice the mess."
he steered you away from the noise, up to the second floor, sliding open the glass doors that led to the balcony he mentioned earlier. the air out here was crisp and cool, a contrast to the suffocating party inside. above you, the sky was a clear indigo, the moon hanging in a partial eclipse, and the view was really spectacular.
wooyoung leaned against the railing with his back, the pink of his sweater glowing under the moonlight. he reached into his pocket and put his lollipop inside a wrapper, only to pull out a small pouch, as his nimble fingers began to roll a joint. you leaned your elbows on the railing, side-eyeing the way he focused on the task, his tongue poking out just slightly as he licked the paper.
"you ever tried?" he asked, not looking up, though he could clearly feel your gaze.
"no," you admitted, shifting your weight. "not much into that kind of stuff."
"ah, i see." finally looking at you, as he lit his lighter, the flame illuminated the sharp features of his face for a second before he took a slow drag. he exhaled a thin plume of smoke toward the moon. "you live up to the good girl archetype, then."
you narrowed your eyes at him, the cool breeze fluttering the hem of your dress. "was that supposed to be a compliment?"
wooyoung stepped closer, the scent of citrus and sweet smoke swirling around you. he leaned down until he was level with your face, his gaze dropping to your lips before coming back to your eyes.
"of course, pretty," he whispered, charming his way out. "good girls are fun, but iâve always wondered what it takes to make them break."
he held the joint out toward you, a silent invitation, his thumb grazing your knuckles as he waited. inside, you didn't know that sanâs eyes were scanning the crowd frantically, looking for the girl he was so terrified of losing to the very man currently making your heart race.
you stared at the glowing tip of the joint, the rebellion bubbling up in your chest finally winning over anyoneâs warnings. itâs just a party, you told yourself. you took it from his fingers, trying to look as cool as he did, but the thick smoke hit the back of your throat like a freight train. immediately, you were bent over, a hand clamped over your mouth as you let out a series of light and pathetic coughs.Â
wooyoung threw his head back, a melodic laugh spilling out of him. âaw, there, there. youâve got those big and teary puppy eyes now,â he cooed, taking the joint back before you dropped it. âyouâre worse than when san tried to take a puff for the first and last time.â
âshut up,â you wheezed, wiping a stray tear from the corner of your eye. âi havenât smoked before, and this is⊠itâs strong.â
âonly the best for this house.â
his free hand reaching out to steady you, his palms resting at your waist. the heat from his hand seeped through the thin fabric of your dress. the sexual tension was enough to choke on, heavier than the smoke between you. wooyoung leaned in, his face inches from yours, his eyes dropping to your mouth with a look that said he was about to win the bet right then and there, playing you like a fine instrument, melting your defenses with nothing but a look.Â
âyou have a little bit of a smudge right here,â his voice so smooth as his thumb brushed the corner of your lip. he was closing the distance, his breath warm against your skin, and you were almost ready to let him, until the glass door slammed open with a violent thud.
âhey, woo! we need the keys to the suv, we gotta go get more alchoââÂ
yunho froze mid-sentence, his tall frame nearly blocking the entire doorway. mingi stumbled in right behind him, shirtless and draped in enough silver chains to sink a boat. he let out a low whistle, sliding his black sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to get a better look at you.Â
âwoah, did we accidentally invite a k-drama lead?â
wooyoung didn't move his hand from your waist, but his jaw tightened with a flash of pure annoyance. he let out a frustrated exhale, rolling his eyes as he let go of you.Â
âthatâs (name). sanâs plus-one for the night.â
âsan has a plus-one?â yunho grinned, stepping onto the balcony and effectively killing the intimate vibe wooyoung had spent twenty minutes building. he looked so handsome in his ripped jeans and unbuttoned white shirt, his black jacket swaying as he moved. âwell, san is currently busy trying to find a mop because someone puked in the foyer. weâll take over from here.â
mingi didn't even wait for a response. he stepped in close, the jewelry around his neck clinking. âyou donât wanna hang out with this boring stoner all night, do you? come on, me and yunho are going on a booze run. we need a womanâs touch to make sure we don't buy more battery acid.â
âyeah, come on. weâve got a car waiting and the night is young. don't let woo bore you to death with his good girl talk.â yunho had gently taken your hand, his large palm engulfing yours, before wooyoung could protest, he gave them the car key. mingi stood on your other side like a literal wall of muscle. they began ushering you back toward the house, and you looked back at the blonde, giving him a small shrug as the two tall men practically swept you off the balcony.Â
the stoner stood alone, fuming inside like a volcano. putting the joint back in its place in his pocket, as he switched it with the lollipop, shoved it into his mouth, and bit down with an aggressive crack. he watched them lead you away, his eyes narrowed as he planned his next move. the game was just getting started, and the twin towers had just upped the ante.
walking between them felt like being caught between two skyscrapers. you had to tilt your head back just to meet their eyes, handsome jawlines that seemed to defy gravity. yunho kept the mood light, cracking jokes about the absolute state of the kitchen, while mingi was biting his lower lip every time his eyes raked over your curves.
"so, didn't know you were san's plus one. he never brings anyone here," mingi said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest as you followed them down the quiet upstairs hallway. you hadn't realized how massive this house was; every staircase and door seemed to lead to a place twice as big as the previous.
"mmm, iâm surprised he even invited someone at all," yunho hummed. he reached for a door handle and swung it open, revealing a room that caught you off guard. it was huge, centered by a king-sized bed and a massive gaming setup glowing with blue and purple led lights. posters of spiderman and vintage guns lined the walls, a strangely human touch in a house you thought only cared about booze and bodies.
"actually, wooyoung invited me," you admitted softly as both of them stopped dead in their tracks, turning their heads slowly to look at you with mirrored expressions of amusement and confusion.
"oh,â yunho asked, raising an eyebrow, because they expected you to be invited by san, not by someone else, but of course it was the cocky bastard. âdid he really?"
before you could process the change in vibe, they moved. it was coordinated and effortless, like theyâd done this a thousand times before. yunho stepped behind you, closing the bedroom door with a soft click, while mingi stepped into your personal space, forcing you to back up until your back hit yunhoâs chest. bigger hands came up to rest on the tops of your shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of your collarbone. mingi was right in front of you, looming over you with that toned chest, his heavy silver chains clinking as he leaned down.
"wooyoung has always been greedy," mingi whispered, his black sunglasses now on top of his head, so that you could see the hunger in his eyes. "but i think he's biting off more than he can chew."
can't blame the stoner, though. look at you, youâre smoking hot, and they canât decide if they want to take you out for those drinks or just stay right here and see how loud you can get. would you scream, or are you more of the quiet ones? have you ever squirted before? do you want to know what the difference is between an average guy and two big guys when it came to size in pretty much every aspect of the human anatomy?
"we haven't even had a drink yet," yunho murmured against the shell of your ear, his breath hot, and you could smell the mint bubblegum he probably had, "we're perfectly sober and perfectly capable of taking care of you."
you felt a dizzying rush of adrenaline. your heart was hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. the attention was intoxicating: to be wanted by two men who looked like theyâd been carved out of marble was every girl's secret fever dream.
"youâre trembling," mingi reached out, his large hand cupping your jaw, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. "is it because youâre nervous, or because you like having both of us this close?"
they were sweet-talking you, their compliments falling like honey by telling you how lethal you looked in that dress, how your scent was driving them insane... a part of you, the part that had been feeling neglected by san's refusal to put a label on things, absolutely thrived under the tension.
if there's no ring on the finger, iâm a free agent, you thought, but then, the good girl in you flinched. you thought of san's frantic plea for you to stay home and how sweet he was to you. your morals were a heavy weight, pulling at your conscience even as your body leaned into the warmth of the two men surrounding you.
"youâre thinking too much," yunho whispered, his hands sliding down your arms to catch your wrists. "weâre just talking, princess. unless... you want more?"
"i... i should probably find san," you stammered, the name a little too heavy on your tongue.
"san?" yunho chuckled, the vibration of his chest hitting your shoulder blades. "san is a good guy. a really good guy. but heâs not here right now, is he? and like you said... he didn't even invite you."
mingi reached out, his finger hooking under the thin strap of your dress, tugging it just a millimeter lower. "san doesn't have to know everything. and weâre very good at keeping secrets. and in this house, we don't like to see someone as beautiful as you going to waste.â
you looked from mingiâs gaze to the closed door behind yunho. the temptation was a chance to be the center of the universe for the two most popular guys on campus. but the thought of the guilt waiting for you in the morning, and the look on sanâs face if he ever found out, made your heart stutter in a way that wasn't just excitement. but as yunhoâs hand found your waist and mingiâs gaze dropped to the lace of your dress, the guilt felt miles away.Â
"just one ride," the taller whispered into your ear, his hands squeezing you. "we'll be real careful with you, i promise."Â
your head was spinning. maybe that one puff of weed had actually done something, or maybe it was just by being sandwiched between two giants. youâd never even considered a threesome before; the thought usually passed quickly. but here, with mingiâs thumb dragging across your bottom lip and yunhoâs breath hitching against your neck, you were ready to experiment.
you were nervous, sure, but it was a delicious kind of fear. they were big, capable, and the way they looked at you made you feel like something precious they were about to carefully unwrap⊠or destroy.
mingi tilted his head as he began to close the final few centimeters between your mouths. your eyes fluttered shut, your heart performing a frantic drumroll against your ribs â knock, knock.
"hyung, you here?"
the door creaked open before anyone could react, the wood hitting yunhoâs back with a light thud. the sudden movement sent a chain reaction: yunho bumped into you, and you were shoved forward right into mingiâs bare chest.
yunho whipped his head around, his face a mask of pure irritation, only to see jongho standing there. the youngest looked completely unfazed, his expression calm as he blinked at his hyungs. from his angle, you were completely hidden behind yunhoâs broad frame; all he could see was mingi looking disheveled.
"am i interrupting something?" jongho asked, his voice steady and almost dry.
"jjong, weâre a little busy right now," yunho grunted, trying to block the doorway again.
but jongho didn't move. he stepped into the room, and everyone in the house knew who was the strongest â he could probably snap a baseball bat with his bare hands, and none of the older guys wanted to find out what happened if they actually crossed him. more than that, he was a spoiled and manipulative genius who always got his way.
"san-hyung is downstairs looking like heâs about to have a heart attack," the youngest said, his eyes finally landing on you as you peeked out from behind yunho. a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "and i think iâd like to talk to our guest myself in private."
"hey, wait a minuteâ" mingi started, but jongho just raised an eyebrow.
"mingi-hyung, didn't you say you were going on a drink run? the girls downstairs are complaining about the warm beer. so go." it wasn't a suggestion, more like an order wrapped in a flat tone.
the wolf and the dog exchanged a look of pure defeat. they knew when theyâd been outplayed. with a frustrated sigh, mingi put his sunglasses back, and yunho stepped aside, both of them lingering for a second to catch one last glimpse of you before trudging out like two kids whoâd just had their favorite toy confiscated.
jongho waited until the door clicked shut before he turned to you. he didn't loom like the others; he just stood there with an air of absolute authority that was arguably more intimidating. and he was kind of adorable, wearing dark indigo denim jacket that matched his denim jeans, layered over a white tee, paired with a backwards navy baseball cap.
"you should be more careful," he murmured, stepping closer and reaching out to straighten a stray strand of your hair. "those two don't know how to play fair. luckily for you, i'm much better at keeping secrets."
he offered you his arm, a grin spreading across his face as he prepared to lead you away, leaving his hyungs to pick up whatever leftovers were left of the party, meaning the plenty of girls waiting for their chance, while he took the prize for himself.
jongho didnât actually have any intention of making a move on you. while the others were losing their minds over the bet, he was mostly just participating to watch the absolute absurdy of it all. despite being the youngest, he was the only one who seemed to have a fully functioning brain tonight. sure, he had his girls, mostly friends-with-benefits situations that were low-stress and high-reward, but he wasn't about to act like a starving bear.
he noticed how glazed your eyes were, the weight of the night finally catching up to you. "you okay?"
"yeah, i think so... sorry, what is your name?" you asked, leaning slightly against the wall for support.
"jongho," he replied shortly, though not unkindly.
he led you up to the third floor, where the bass from the party felt more like a distant hum than a physical assault. it was a quiet hallway, mostly unused, leading to a spare room that felt like a sanctuary. he pushed the door open to reveal a space stacked with extra furniture and a mini-fridge that was, surprisingly, fully stocked. he grabbed a cold soda and handed it to you.
"this is where i hide when the girls my hyungs bring home start getting too loud, since it gets annoying at some point," he gestured toward the couch that was buried under a mountain of sprawled blankets. "sit, make yourself comfortable."
you sighed in relief and plopped down onto the pile of blankets, only to jump nearly three feet into the air when a muffled âow!â came from underneath you.
you scrambled back, teleporting behind jongho and gripping the back of his shirt. "do you murder people in this house? don't tell me you guys are ghostface wannabes and thereâs a body under thereâŠâ
jongho sighed, looking more tired than scared. he reached down and pulled back a thick duvet, revealing a very disheveled, very annoyed-looking guy with blonde hair.
it was yeosang. heâd been hiding out here for hours because wooyoung had been trying to pressure him into doing body shots off some random girl's stomach in the kitchen. the sleeping beauty was a sweetheart, really, a bit of a clueless himbo at times who just wanted to be left alone. he was technically part of the bet, but only because he didn't want to listen to the others nag him. actually doing something behind san's back sounded like way too much effort and drama for his taste.
"hyung? what are you doing here?" jongho asked.
yeosang rubbed his eyes, blinking up at you with a look that was more confused puppy than sex maniac. he looked like an adorable maltese for some reason. "hiding from wooyoung."
he sat up, his blonde hair sticking out in every direction, before putting his white cap on, matching the backward style of jongho. he looked at you, then at the soda in your hand, then back at jongho. "is the party over? is san cleaning everything alone again?"
"no," the youngest replied, "but i think she would like some peace and quiet after spending time with yunho and mingi."
yeosang looked at you with sympathy, something you didnât expect from someone of their status. "sounds exhausting. you can hide here, too, if you want. i have snacks in the drawer and i promise i won't do anything funny⊠too tired for that stuff."
the more you talked to yeosang and jongho, the more the "scary frat" facade crumbled. they were actually pretty chill, and for a second, you felt like you were back at a slumber party rather than whatever this was. you decided to take yeosang up on his offer to hide, even helping them pick out a movie on the tv. seriously, even the storage room had a flat-screen. you wondered just how much money these guysâ parents were funneling into this house.
you ended up sandwiched in the middle of the couch. yeosang was to your right, jongho to your left, both manspreading a little, their knees occasionally brushing yours. you and yeosang were shamelessly sharing a bag of popcorn while jongho sat with his arms crossed, pretending he wasn't invested in the plot.
"i didn't take you for the type of guys to watch disney movies," you commented, staring at the screen where lightning mcqueen was begrudgingly repaving the road in radiator springs.
"it's a classic, and i like the soundtrack," yeosang sounded very serious, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth.
watching the movie made you feel a weird pang of nostalgia. you missed being a kid, but mostly, you just wished you were doing this with san. wait... san? you checked your phone and realized it had been over an hour and a half since wooyoung swept you away, and the whole strange fiasco started from having guys hitting on you every second.
"hey, i'll be right back," you said, shifting to get up. "where's the bathroom on this floor? i don't want to go back downstairs into that war zone."
"end of the hall to the left," jongho said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "don't get lost. the hallways up here are like a maze."
"thanks," you giggled, sliding out from between them.
you slipped into the hallway, as you found the door easily enough, but just as you reached for the handle, it swung open, and you froze.
standing there with long, raven hair that looked like silk, eyes that were sharp yet somehow incredibly soft. he was dressed in a way that felt both elegant and effortlessly swaggy, like heâd just stepped off a runway. the man stopped when he saw you. a beautiful smile spreading across his face as he took in your dolled-up appearance. heâd been waiting for his turn all night, watching his friends fail one by one from the sidelines. but now, in this empty hallway with no wooyoung to interrupt and no twin towers to hover... he had you all to himself.
"well," his voice smooth as he stepped out, effectively blocking your path to the door. "i was wondering when the star of the show would make her way up to me."
âexcuse me?â you were utterly confused, because⊠the star of the show? you just wanted to use the bathroom before your bladder decided to quit on you. ânevermind, can you please move so i could use the bathroom? it's kind of an emergency.â
seonghwa chuckled, a sound that felt way too sophisticated for a house that currently smelled like spilled tequila. he stepped aside with a graceful sweep of his arm, his eyes crinkling at the corners. âof course. i wouldnât want to be responsible for a tragedy.â
when you finished and stepped back out, you jumped a little to find him still standing there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. he looked like a vampire prince guarding his loverâs coffin.
âkind of creepy to wait, donât you think?â you mumbled, though you weren't actually scared, as he had an aura that somehow felt strangely safe.
âmaybe,â he admitted, pushing off the wall. âbut guests aren't usually permitted on the third floor. what were you doing up here anyway?â
âi was with jongho,â you said quickly. you didnât dare mention yeosang; if this guy was the type to report back to hq, you didn't want to get the blonde himbo in trouble for slacking off on his hosting duties.
âyou were with jongho?â seonghwa repeated, his eyebrows shooting up.
âyeah?â
âokay,â he said, shrugging his shoulders as if that explained everything. âwell, now youâre going to be with me.â
before you could think, seonghwaâs hand found yours. his grip was firm but surprisingly gentle, his fingers laced through your own. he led you back toward the stairs, and as you descended, the wild life hit you again. the house was in full tilt now â people were wasted, dancing on furniture, and the air needed spiritual cleansing.
but the man didn't loosen his grip for a second, using his free hand to navigate through the crowd, keeping his body between you and the more rowdy guests. he leaned in close, his raven hair brushing your temple. âweâre heading toward the dj booth, okay? itâs easier to breathe there.â
he scanned the room as you moved. to the left, it was wooyoung, still looking irritated as he shared a joint with yeonjun and soobin. no, not going back to the competition. then he looked to the right and saw san, who was a little miserable, currently arguing with some guy who was trying to juggle empty glass bottles. thank you, next, he whispered to himself. the backyard was an option, the pool area was usually the final boss of any frat party, but at least the air wouldn't be recycled carbon dioxide.
the second the sliding glass doors opened, the temperature dropped. the backyard was illuminated by strings of fairy lights and the glow of the pool, where a few couples were already skinny dipping, their laughter echoing off the water. it was colder now, and you immediately began to tremble as the wind hit your bare shoulders.
seonghwa noticed instantly. without a word or a second of hesitation, he slipped his jacket off, draping it over you, the warmth of his body still clinging to the lining. you looked up at him, feeling small in his oversized coat. it was honestly unfair. how could a man be this beautiful? he was a frat boy, for god's sake. he was supposed to be a red flag, but right now, he felt like the only person in the house who actually knew how to take care of you.
âbetter?â he asked, giving you a small and reassuring smile.
âyes, thank youâŠâ you dragged out the last word, trailing off as you looked up at him. so many attractive strangers had crossed your path tonight that you felt like the lead in a k-drama with a plot that was getting way too complicated to follow.
âseonghwa,â he said, nodding his head slowly as if he could read the confusion in your eyes. âmy name is seonghwa.â
even his name was pretty. you felt a little shy suddenly, the weight of his jacket on your shoulders acting as a warm reminder of his presence. âiâm (name),â you whispered, feeling like you had to introduce yourself properly, completely unaware that your name had been the only topic of conversation in that house since three in the morning.Â
you guys spent a few minutes just chit-chatting; he was flirting, you could tell, but he did it in such a... lovely way. it wasn't cocky like wooyoung or overwhelming like the twin towers. it was subtle, woven into his questions about whether you were actually having a good time, if the noise was too much, or if anyone had bothered you. he sounded like a true host, genuinely concerned with whether his beloved guest was satisfied, but his eyes told a different story. they lingered on your lips just a second too long every time you spoke.
he led you over to a deckchair that sat a bit like an outsider, tucked away in a shadowed corner far from the splashing of the pool. you sat down, the silence of the night wrapping around you, and for a second, you didn't know what to say, but he did.
âdo you mind if i do this?â he asked softly, breaking the silence.
âdo what?â you whispered back.
he didn't answer with words. instead, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering there before gently caressing your cheek. his touch was cool and smooth, making your breath hitch. seonghwa leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you were paralyzed when he finally captured your lips with his. you let out a soft gasp, surprised by the boldness of it, but within seconds, you were melting. it wasn't the hungry kiss you might have expected from a frat boy; it was sweet and incredibly soft.Â
you found yourself moving in sync with him, your hands reaching up to grip the lapels of his jacket that still draped over your shoulders. seonghwa groaned softly into your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist to lift you as you ended up straddling his lap on the deckchair, the fabric of your dress riding up as you pressed closer to his warmth. his tongue swiped against yours, slow and possessive, as the make-out session felt more intense under the dim lights.
you were lost in him, your hands tangling in his raven hair, pulling him closer as you felt the solid muscle of his thighs beneath you. you didn't know about the bet, unaware that at this very moment, every guy in that house was technically down a hundred and fifty bucks. seonghwa had played the long game, waiting for the perfect moment to strike while the others played checkers.Â
as his hands traveled down your back, pulling you flush against him, you forgot all about the crowded house, the good girl persona, and the realization hit you like a bucket of ice water. the haze of the party, the weed, and the thrill of the chase evaporated the second you felt seonghwaâs hand slide up your thigh. you weren't supposed to be here, more so, you weren't supposed to be making out with a raven-haired stranger while san, the boy who actually cared about you, was inside worrying himself to death.
you pulled away abruptly, your chest heaving. seonghwaâs lips were swollen and red, a faint sheen of spit making them look even more inviting in the moonlight. he looked confused, his dark eyes searching yours for the reason behind the sudden pull.
"whatâs wrong, darling?"
"iâ... uh, iâ"Â
you couldn't even find the words. your brain was a mess of strawberry soda and guilt. the faint taste of expensive wine on his tongue lingered in your mouth, and for some reason, the alcohol made you feel like you were parched.
"you are what?"
"i'm thirsty," you managed to choke out, making seonghwa chuckle. that made you feel like a child caught in a lie. he didn't push you, instead, he stood up from the deckchair. you were still perched in his lap, so you wrapped your legs around his waist for a split second as he rose, feeling the solid strength of his body before he gently set you down on your feet.
"come on, then," he said, taking your hand again. "letâs get you something to drink."
leading you back into the house, navigating you through the mess the kitchen had become, and pulled you toward the massive fridge. he knew you weren't a heavy drinker; heâd tasted the sweet, non-alcoholic soda on your lips during the make-out session. he bent down, his back turned to you as he scanned the bottom shelf.
"would fanta or cola do? or i think thereâs some more of that strawberry stuff in the back..." he whispered to himself, reaching for a bottle. "wait, do you want ice with that orâ"
he turned around, a can in each hand, and a question on his lips. the kitchen was empty. his expensive jacket was draped neatly over the marble counter, but you were gone. seonghwaâs eyes scanned the room, his jaw tightening as he realized heâd just been played. the gentleman of the house had lost his prize in the three seconds it took to pick a soda.
just who decided to be a thief this time?
the music in the living room suddenly shifted, the bass dropping into a remix that made the floorboards vibrate with a new kind of energy. and there, tucked into the shadows of the hallway leading to the dj booth, was the culprit â hongjoong.
he had his hand clamped firmly around your wrist, his whole vibe screaming "iâm doing you a favor". he didn't look like the others, well, at least the half, because the orange haired man had the same calming energy jongho and yeosang have. he looked like the captain of a sinking ship who was determined to be the last one standing.
"alright, sunshine. you've had enough for tonight," he muttered, pulling you into the darkness of the booth before seonghwa could even think to follow. "it's time you actually have fun."
what the fuck was even happening? you felt like a ragdoll being tossed between a pack of extremely attractive nutcrackers. one second, you were melting into the raven-haired prince of the backyard, and the next you were being yanked through a sweaty crowd by the guy in charge of the music. you werenât even drunk, and you couldn't decide if that made the situation better or infinitely worse.
san was right. he was so, so right. you should have stayed in your pajamas, eating takeout and binge-watching some comfort show. but as the bass vibrated through the floorboards of the dj platform, rattling your very bones, any lingering anxiety was drowned out by the volume.
hongjoong was in his element. neon buttons glowed under his quick fingers as he tapped out rhythms, his headphones pushed back off one ear so he could hear the crowdâs roar. he was bumping his head to the beat, focused energy radiating off him. for a moment, you actually felt safe here, tucked away on this elevated platform where the ocean of people couldn't reach you.
looking down from this height, the scale of the party was terrifying. the house was a literal club, and you found yourself wondering again where the hell these guys got the money for a place with a professional-grade dj booth and tiered platforms. you scanned the crowd for a familiar face, but the others were gone. wooyoung was probably lost in a cloud of smoke somewhere; yunho, mingi, and seonghwa were likely still hunting for you; and jongho and yeosang were probably still hiding in their quiet sanctuary.
as for san... he was nowhere to be seen. you imagined him playing bouncer or frantically cleaning up a broken bottle in some corner of the house.
after a few more minutes of well-done and smooth transitions, hongjoong flipped a switch to play a pre-mixed set. slumping back into his chair, his chest heaving as he threw his head back and took a long, burning sip of what looked like whiskey. he finally turned his attention to you. he wasn't looking at you with the same hungry competition the others had. he was just... curious. taking in the tiny dress, the way you were trembling just slightly, and the fact that your lipstick was definitely smudged from your detour with seonghwa.
heâd seen the beginning of the night, and how wooyoung had practically snatched you out of sanâs arms. then youâd vanished into the house, becoming a ghost until he happened to walk into the kitchen and saw you standing there like a deer in headlights.
"you're not what i expected," he muttered, the whiskey raspy in his throat. "i mean, you're really pretty, i get why they're all acting like idiots over you."
taking another sip, his gaze drifting back to the crowd. "but i see why san wanted you to stay away. you don't belong in a place like this. you're not exactly innocent, but this house... it's a meat grinder, sunshine. and tonight, you're the only thing on the menu."
he wasn't flirting; he was being honest, which was somehow more intimate than anything that had happened. reaching out, his thumb brushing a stray smudge of lipstick from the corner of your mouth, his touch surprisingly tender.
"you look like you're about to burst into tears or pass out," the dj noted, a small, lopsided smirk tugging at his lips. "so, do you want me to keep you up here where it's safe, or are you ready to go find your boy and get the hell out of this circus?"
the moment hongjoong mentioned san, the dam finally broke. your eyes welled up, the neon lights blurring into streaks of pink and blue. you felt small, overstimulated, and utterly exhausted by the relentless pursuit of these men who seemed to be playing a game you didn't have the rulebook for.
"i just want to find him," you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked at hongjoong. "this party is... itâs lit, i guess, but⊠you guys are exactly why i usually hate men. what is actually wrong with you people?"
"hate the game, not the players. it does things to the ego.â hongjoong didn't take offense, just looked at you with a knowing sort of pity, the whiskey glass clicking against his rings. âbut if you're looking for san, he's probably in the gaming room, the one with the pool table and the arcade setups, or his actual bedroom. second floor, last door on the left at the very end of the hall. he usually retreats there when it gets too much to handle."
you blinked, wiping a stray tear with the back of your hand. "you have a gaming room too?â god, you are going to start stealing their jewelry and selling it on ebay, those guys are unnecessarily rich. you turned to leave, determined to bolt toward the stairs, but hongjoongâs hand snaked out and caught your wrist again. his grip wasn't aggressive, but it was firm.
âyou sure you want to go alone?â he asked, glancing at the chaotic sea of people below. âi can walk you. honestly, iâm kind of worried about you. you look like youâre one bad interaction away from using those heels as a lethal weapon.â
you gulped, looking down at your sharp stilettos, well, he had a point. the house felt like a gauntlet now, and you didn't want to run into yunho or seonghwa again, or anyone else that was not san. it was not because they weren't attractive, but because your heart was already at its capacity. âyouâll actually help me find him?â
âi could use a break anyway,â he muttered, hopping down from the platform. âso, lets go.â
the walk through was like one of the rings in hell. hongjoong led the way like a captain cutting through a storm. you checked the gaming room first: a massive space filled with neon signs and the clinking of pool balls. you saw some familiar faces through the haze of smoke; hyunjin was leaning against a wall looking ethereal, while felix and jeongin were laughing over a game of air hockey. a few girls from your major were there too, looking far more composed than you felt. but san wasn't there.
âbedroom it is,â hongjoong said, pointing toward the dark hallway on the second floor. just then, his walkie-talkie buzzed, the crowd was getting restless without a dj. âcrap. i gotta get back. you think you can make it the last five meters?â
âyeah,â you murmured, giving his hand a quick squeeze. âthank you, hongjoong.â
he gave you a polite nod and disappeared back into the crowd. finally, you were so close. you could see the door at the end of the hall, the one san had probably locked to keep the world out. you took a step, your heart leaping in anticipation, but before you could reach the handle, a hand shot out from the shadows.
your wrist was snatched, and before you could even scream, you were spun around. your back hit the wall with a muffled thud, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp puff. it was dim in this corner of the hallway, the only light coming from the flickering strobe lamps downstairs. you looked up, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribs.
âfound you, dollface."Â
the voice purred. it was low, cocky, and dripped with that signature bratty confidence that could only belong to one person.
âwooyoung?â you breathed, your pulse skyrocketing.
he was leaning over you, his blonde hair glowing in the shadows, his face inches from yours. he looked devastatingly handsome, alluring if anything else, and a part of you wanted to push him away and run to san, but another part of you was currently being influenced by the magnetism of these men. he hadn't touched you anywhere but your wrist, and even that grip was loosening into a caress, but the way he looked at you made your knees weak. the stoner occupied the space around you, his arm braced against the wall by your head, trapping you so you donât even think about escaping.
it felt like a twisted otome game, and you were currently stuck on the most difficult route. you were so close to the san ending, however, your choices led you back to the wooyoung ending. his eyes dropped to your lips, his smirk growing wider as he realized he finally had you alone, far away from any other distractions and disruptions.
"you've been a very busy girl tonight," he whispered, his thumb tracing the pulse point on your wrist. "i turn my back for one second and you're off with the twin towers, then making out with mister dracula in the garden. you're quite the little social butterfly, no?"
"i was just looking for san," you breathed, though the way wooyoung was looking at your neck made it hard to focus on your mission.
"san is boring," wooyoung countered, tilting his head. the lollipop stick poked out of the corner of his mouth as he gave you his signature cocky smirk. "he doesn't know what to do with a girl like you. he's too busy being a good guy to realize that you're starving for someone to actually take what they want."
he leaned in closer, the tip of his nose brushing yours. "i don't play by anyoneâs rules, dollface. and i definitely don't like sharing my toys once i've picked them out."
your heart hammered against your ribs. you knew san was just behind that door at the end of the hall, but with the blond pressing into you and his eyes promising every kind of trouble, the door felt miles away.
for some fucked up reason, you didn't push him away. maybe the attention was a drug, and wooyoung was leaning in to deliver the highest dose yet.
"but iâ... i'm with san," you tried to defend yourself, the words sounding weak even to your own ears.
"but youâre not," he countered instantly, "if you were his, you wouldn't be wandering my house looking like a frantic little stray. if you were his, i wouldn't even be allowed to look at you, let alone do... this."
he pulled the lollipop from his mouth with a wet pop and pressed the sticky, apple-flavored candy against your lips to hush you. you stared at him, eyes wide, as he watched you with a terrifying yet pleasant smile. you parted your lips just enough to take a small and tentative suck of the candy. it was sickly sweet, and the heat in wooyoungâs eyes flared. he was thinking about indirect kisses and if it count, about the fact that your mouth was now coated in his taste.
his hand, the one that had been caging you against the wall, moved. his fingers began to play with the ends of your hair, twirling a strand slowly before his palm grazed the shell of your ear. he was high, but the weed only seemed to sharpen his focus.
"look at you," he praised, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper as his other hand slid down to find the curve of your waist to hold you in place, "so obedient. such a pretty little thing. you have no idea what youâre doing to me, do you? you've got every man in this house ready to tear each other apart just for a glimpse of this."
he leaned in, his breath hot against your neck, cologne mixed with the alcohol. "seonghwa might think he won because he got a little taste in the garden, but heâs a gentleman, and i'm not. i don't want just a taste, princess. i want the whole thing."
his fingers hooking under your chin to tilt your head back. he pulled the lollipop from your mouth and carelessly flicked it onto the floor, as it clattered against the hardwood. wooyoung stepped even closer, shoving his leg firmly between your knees, forcing your stance open as he pinned you against the wall with his body. his mouth crashed against yours, and it wasn't like the polite kiss seonghwa had given you. this was rough, desperate, and tasted of sweet apple and smoke. his tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you with a hint of arrogance that made your head spin.
you were melting into him, your fingers clutching at the soft fabric of his sweater as his leg pressed higher, the movement making your breath hitch into the kiss. seonghwa might have secured his money, but wooyoung was determined to leave a mark on your soul that san would never be able to scrub off.
the darkness of the hallway felt like a heavy velvet curtain, swallowing the two of you whole and muffling the distant rhythm of the party downstairs. thank god it was dark, because the way you were falling apart under his touch was embarrassing. you were barely anyone in this social circle, noone special, just a girl with a soft spot for a guy who couldn't commit⊠but you weren't just a girl; you were sanâs girl, and in this house, that made you the ultimate trophy. whatâs not yours is always better. it's the oldest temptation in the world, the forbidden fruit that tastes twice as sweet because of the guilt, and wooyoung was a man who lived for the taste of things he wasn't supposed to have.Â
the frat was beyond caring about the bet or the money at this point; he was driven by the need to mark you as his own. his kisses turned angry and hungry, a desperate struggle for dominance as his tongue tangled with yours, deep and demanding.
"fuck," he groaned into your mouth, his hands finally losing their patience, leaving your haird to travel down, as his palm burned through the thin fabric of your dress until he reached the hem.
you let out a muffled moan into his mouth when you felt his cool rings graze the bare skin of your thigh. he didn't hesitate, his fingers hooking into the silk and dragging it upward, exposing you to the chilled air of the hallway just for a second before his warm hand replaced it. he was all over you, knowing exactly where to press, digging into the soft flesh of your hip as he hitched your leg higher over his own, pinning you so tightly against the wall that you could feel the frantic thrum of his heart against your own chest.
"youâre so intoxicating," he growled against your lips, his voice jagged with edge of lust. "san has no idea what heâs wasting. he treats you like youâre made of glass, but i know you want to be touched like this, don't you? you want someone to stop asking for permission."
his hand slid higher under the dress, as his teeth nipped at your bottom lip, then moved down to trail wet, biting marks along your jawline. he was messing with your brain, his scent and his heat overriding every moral code youâd walked in with. he was filthy, whispering praises and promises into the crook of your neck that made your toes curl inside your heels. his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your throat, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark so dark that it would tell everyone exactly whose hands had been on you.
the sexual tension rolling off him was suffocating, a tension that made the air feel like it was vibrating. he was a predator who had finally cornered his prey, and he was taking his time savouring the kill. every time you tried to catch your breath, he stole it back, his mouth relentless, his hands wandering into places that made you feel dangerously exposed.Â
wooyoung was making you his, piece by piece, right under san's nose, and the fucked up part was that you were leaning into it, your fingers tangling in his hair, begging for what san had never dared to give you. fuck the bet, fuck the already broken rules, fuck the hundred dollars⊠all he wanted was to fuck you, and you were seconds away from letting him do it right there against the wall.
but suddenly, the spark was gone.
the weight of wooyoungâs body was ripped away so violently that you stumbled forward, your hands grasping at empty air. a sickening sound echoed in the narrow hallway as the blonde was shoved aside, his back hitting the opposite wall with a force that made the framed pictures rattle.
you blinked, your vision blurry and your lips swollen, expecting to see anyone, but ⊠san, whose chest was heaving, hair disheveled, and eyes blown wide with a mixture of disgust and pure devastation. he had been looking for you all night, searching every corner of that crowded and sweaty house, only to find you pinned under his best friend. the betrayal was written in the lines of his face. he looked hurt, like his heart had been physically cracked open, but he didn't give himself time to process the pain.
wooyoung stayed leaning against the wall, rubbing his arm where the shove had left a dull ache. he didn't look guilty; he just stared at san with a defiant look, his chest still pumping with the leftover adrenaline of the make-out session. your brows furrowed, your heart dropping into your stomach as you looked at wooyoung, your mouth opening to ask if he was okay, but before a single word could leave your lips, a hand clamped around yours.
"we are leaving," sanâs grip was tight, not enough to bruise, but to show he wasn't letting you go for anything in the world.Â
he didn't look at wooyoung, didn't even look at you. he just turned and dragged you down the stairs, weaving through the drunken crowd like a man on a mission. the noise of the party was a dull roar in your ears, a background hum to the frantic beat of your own heart. you felt the cool night air hit your face as he yanked open the front door and slammed it shut behind you. the silence of the driveway was deafening. san was already rummaging through the pocket of his jeans, the metallic jingle of his car keys sharp in the quiet night as he headed for where he has parked.
you stood there, your dress wrinkled and your lipstick smeared, unable to even process what was happening. the transition from the filthy heat of wooyoung to the icy fury of san was too much. you were caught in the middle of a war you didn't even know was being fought.
san opened the door for you, and didn't say a word as you slid into the passenger seat, and he didn't wait for you to settle before he was around the other side, throwing himself into the driver's seat. he started the engine, the roar of the car filling the small space, but he didn't put it in gear.
instead, he sat there, taking a few deep breaths, the sound of his lungs struggling for air the only thing cutting through the tension. a disappointed sigh escaped him as he ran both hands down his face, dragging the skin tight before throwing his head back. his skull hitting the headrest sounded like a punctuation mark. finally, he turned his head to look at you, taking in your trembling frame and your confused, teary eyes.
"this is why i didn't want you here," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his anger. "or anywhere near them. because my fucking god, (name). i told you to listen to me and you didn't. you just do whatever you want because youâre so sure you can control it. youâre so sure you know them."
"san, iâ"
"i was worried sick!" he shouted, his hands slamming against the steering wheel. "i turned around for five seconds and you were gone. iâve been pacing this house, checking every room, thinking someone might have spiked your drink, drugged you... and then i find you in that hallway with him?"
you felt the sting of his words, the guilt of the make-out session with wooyoung still hot on your skin, but the confusion was winning.
"i didn't know things would go that way!" you shot back, your voice trembling as you fought to defend yourself. "i was just trying to have fun. i didn't know iâd be snatched up every thirty minutes by someone else. and i still don't understand why youâre so overprotective, itâs just a party, san. itâs normal for guys to flirt!"
san let out a dry and very bitter laugh, as he looked at you, his eyes full with a truth that was about to shatter everything.
"you think that was flirting? you think they just happened to find you attractive at the same time?" he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a deadly warning, "they fucking made a bet about you, (name). the second you walked through that door, you weren't a guest. you were another doll to be toyed with. they've been betting money and putting their goddamn egos on the line for your body. who could get a kiss, who could get you in bed... it was a bet."
the world felt like it stopped spinning. the air in your lungs turned to lead as the pieces of the night finally clicked into place â the way wooyoung snatched you, the way seonghwa waited by the bathroom, the way mingi and yunho hovered. it wasn't attraction, it was just for the thrill of the game.
"a bet?" you whispered, the word tasting like ash. "they... they were betting on me?"
san turned away, unable to look at the heartbreak on your face. "three hundred, that was the price for their best friend's girl."
suddenly, the guilt was gone, and you felt pathetic. you felt used, and most of all, you felt betrayed by the one person who was supposed to have your back.
"and you kept that away from me?" you demanded, your voice rising through choked out sob. "you knew they were treating me like a piece of meat for money and you didn't tell me? you just let me walk into that house like a lamb to the slaughter?"
"i was trying to protect you!"
"no, san!" you cried, a tear finally escaping and rolling down your cheek. "you weren't protecting me. you were protecting your pride. you let me look like a fool while your friends took turns seeing how much they could get away with. you let me stay in the dark while they were doing this behind your back. god, i feel so disgusting."
the car was vibrating with the force of your shared breathing, a heavy, suffocating silence following the revelation of the bet. the tears were coming fast now, hot and thick, blurring the dashboard lights as you curled into yourself. you felt like a prize in a game you never signed up for, and every touch youâd enjoyed, every smirk from wooyoung and every soft word from seonghwa, even being sandwiched between yunho and mingi, now felt like a stain. you have to realize that only three of them kept their hands off you, and you donât even know if it was genuine or just for tonight.
"i was going to tell youâŠ" sanâs voice broke, his fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. "i swear, i tried, but you wouldn't listen! you were so determined to prove me wrong, that you didn't give me a single second to explain why i was actually terrified."
"you should have said it anyway!" you shouted back. "you let me go in there. you let me... i let them touch me, san. i let wooyoungâ"
"don't," he snapped, as he threw the car into motion, the tires screeching against the asphalt as he tore out of the driveway. "don't talk about him. don't talk about any of them."
"where are we going?" you asked through a hiccup, your voice small and broken.
"i'm driving you home," he said. his eyes fixed forward, because he didnât want to take a look back. he didn't want you near that house, or even remembering the address, and he damn sure didn't want you anywhere near his "brothers" ever again. "i'm taking you back to your apartment and i'm making sure you forget you ever set foot on that street."
he was driving with in silence, both of you too scared to say something that will dig an even deeper hole. san loved you so much and he knew he was at fault. he should have been firmer, should have told his brothers to go to hell the moment the bet was mentioned, but heâd tried to play the middle ground and lose you in the process.
"i'm sorry," he whispered after a few blocks, his voice thick with unshed tears. "iâm so sorry i didn't keep you safe, i just... i just wanted one thing in my life that they couldn't touch."
"you don't have me, san," you murmured, looking out the window as the city lights streaked by. "you never made us official, and they saw an opening."
sanâs grip on the wheel tightened. he didn't say anything for the rest of the drive, because you were right.
when he finally pulled up to your building, and parked the car, before letting you out, he turned to you, his eyes burning with sorrow, because he didn't want to fight anymore.
"i'm not letting you go upstairs thinking you're just some bet."
before you could respond, he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was a world away from wooyoungâs filth or seonghwaâs grace. this was raw, and completely, utterly yours. it was the kind of kiss that demanded a label, a sweet treat he was never going to let anyone else take a bite again. you let out a broken sob into his mouth, your hands finding his chest, and as the kiss deepened, the anger began to melt into a desperate need to erase every other touch you'd felt.
but as you pulled away and weakly smiled at him, even stepping out of his car⊠you couldnât forgive him that easily.
the walk from the car to your front door was agonizing, because he followed you like a kitten getting attached to the person who showed him kindness once. the second you stepped inside your apartment, you turned around, ready to unleash every bit of remaining rage, even if he kissed you to tone it down,
"you're a total psycho, you're an idiot for keeping that from me, and you're aâ"
your words were cut off by the sudden, overwhelming force of his body crashing into yours. wrapping his arms around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to pull you into his very ribcage. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath shaky and hot against your skin.
"im sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry for shouting, for raising my voice, and for letting you go in there."
one of his hands moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair and stroking it tenderly. the good boy facade was completely gone, replaced by a man who was genuinely terrified of losing the only thing that made his life bearable.
"i thought i lost you tonight," he muffled into your shoulder. "i watched them circle you like some maniacs and i felt like i was stuck. they don't understand. they think everything is a joke... but you're the only part of my life that's real. i'm so tired, (name). i'm tired of being their goody two-shoes friend while they disrespect the one person i actually care about. i'd choose you a million times over them. i just want to be here⊠with you."
you felt your resolve crumble. pulling back slighlty to look at him, seeing the honesty in his glassy eyes. he wasn't the perfect and composed san right now. he was hurt, possessive, and deeply, deeply in love with you.
"don't ever keep something like that from me again," you breathed, your hands reaching up to cup his face.
"i'll spend the rest of my life making sure you know exactly what you're worth to me. and it's a hell of a lot more than a hundred dollars."
he leaned in then, his lips meeting yours in another kiss that was so emotional, and filled with a silent plea for forgiveness. as he backed you up toward the bedroom, his hands never leaving your skin, you knew the night was far from over. he was going to reclaim every inch of you, erasing the ghost of every other man's touch until there was nothing left but him.
"i will make you mine.â
"and how would you do that?"Â
"by showing you.â
he has never been here before but he knew where the bedroom was. living in a house as big as a mansion has its perks when it comes to orientation.Â
san didnât wait for another word, leading you to the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as he sat you down. he started with your shoes, kneeling on the floor like a devotee at an altar. sliding the heels off, his thumbs grazing the arches of your feet before he looked up at you. the eye contact was unyielding, because he wasn't just looking at you; he was looking into you, searching for the girl heâd almost lost to the devil.
"iâm going to wash every part of that house off you.â
he stood up and began to undress you, but it wasn't a rushed fumbling. it was pure body worship, as he worked the zipper of your dress down with steady fingers, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered: the slope of your shoulders, the dip of your collarbone, the delicate curve of your ribs. he lingered over the spots where you felt most vulnerable, his lips soft and warm, murmuring praises against your skin that made your heart swell.
"youâre so beautiful, (name). so perfect⊠i don't deserve to even look at you," he whispered against your stomach, his breath hitching as he felt you tremble.
he let you undress him then, your fingers shaking as you pulled his shirt over his head and fumbled with his pants. as his shirt hit the floor, you took in the sight of him: the broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his torso, his toned chest and stomach. you had seen him like this countless times before, but now he was entirely yours. his touch remained sacred as his lips found yours in a kiss that tasted like a regret for the sins he committed.
moving down your body, his jaw grazing your throat. he paused when he saw the faint, darkening mark on your neck, the one wooyoung had left. san wasnât angry at you, but he had to reclaim what was his. his tongue swirling over the bruised skin before he began to suck and bite, replacing with a hickey that was deeper, and fueled by a love that wooyoung couldn't even comprehend.
you let out a broken moan, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. he moved lower, his mouth worshiping your breasts and then the soft skin of your stomach. you felt your eyes flutter shut, the pleasure and the overwhelmedness finally catching up to you, but san wouldn't let you hide.Â
"eyes on me, angel," he commanded softly, "i want you to see whoâs holding you. i want you to know exactly who you belong to⊠so look at me."
you forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze while he positioned himself over you making you fully lay down, as he braced himself on his forearms, framing your face with his hands, since he wanted to see everything. every flush of your skin and every flutter of your eyelids. his cock was twitching against your thigh, heavy and wanting, but he waited until you nodded, until you pulled him down for one more lingering kiss.
san sank into you slowly, as he filled you, and didn't move right away, just stayed there, buried deep. you let out a shaky breath, your nails digging into his biceps.
"you feel so good," he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "so beautiful, you're the only thing that's ever felt right, baby.â
he began to move, and it was the most honest thing you had ever felt. his thrusts were slow and deliberate, reaching deep enough to make your toes blunt against the sheets. every time he pushed into you, he tilted his head to kiss you again and again, as if he was trying to breathe his own soul into you.
"that's it, look at me," he whispered, you forced your eyes open, meeting his blown-out pupils. "i've got you, yeah? i've got you, angel. no one else is ever going to touch you and see you like this.â
his fingers interlacing with yours and pinning your hands beside your head, keeping you open and vulnerable beneath him. he started to pick up the pace, but his gaze never wavered. watching the way your throat worked as you swallowed a sob, the way your chest heaved, and the way your skin flushed.
âs-san⊠ahh-â a truly blissful symphony of your moans and whines graced his ears.
"you're so beautiful," he praised, because it was so hard for him not to worship your divine being. "angel, you're so precious to me. i don't think you even understand. you're my everything, princess. i wonât let anything happen to you again."
the way he said it with this bleeding sincerity in his tone, was what finally broke you. the tears started to spill over, tracking down on your face. you were crying because you were overwhelmed by the weight of being loved this much. you were crying because, for the first time all night, you didn't feel like a prize or a paycheck. you felt so incredibly cherished and adored.
"i love you," you choked out, your voice breaking as you arched your back into him, seeking more of his warmth. "i love you so much, san."
his breath hitched, and for a second, he stopped moving entirely. san looked at you with such aching tenderness that it hurt to look away.Â
"i love you more," he promised, leaning to kiss the tears away from your cheeks. "more than anything."
his rhythm become a little desperate as he felt you tightening around him. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, as he praised you through every heavy breath. the eye contact afterward was relentless. every time he moved, he watched your reaction become a cocktail of pleasure and pain. he called you every sweet name heâd ever kept bottled up â his girl, his angel, his princess, his entire world.
the pace picking up as you realized then that san didn't just want your body; he wanted your peace, trust, and your heart.
"mine," he whispered against your lips, the word final and absolute. "forever mine."
he let out a choked sound, finding his rhythm, his movements becoming more urgent but never losing that slow and worshipping edge, even if he reached his peak, his body shaking with the force of it, his voice a broken whisper in your ear. san wasn't just making love to you⊠he was rewriting the night, scrubbing away every lingering shadow of the fratness.
you couldn't hold back anymore. your back arched off the mattress as your climax finally crashed over you, wave after wave of intense, toe-curling pleasure that felt like it would never end.your juices spilled out, coating him, the wet and slick sound that only fueled his own undoing. your pussy squeezed him, gripping him so hard he couldn't help but chuckle. san was so sensitive, that he came deep inside you as he emptied himself into you, wanting to feel every last contraction of your body as you held onto him like he was your only life support. this wasn't the first time tonight, and it wouldn't be the last.Â
you had lost count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time heâd made you come. his stamina was insane, fueled by very possessive energy that kept him going long after most men would have collapsed. yet, through every round, he remained careful. it was the most passionate vanilla sex youâd ever experienced.
"one more, angel, just one more," managing to somehow say it, tone teasing as he didn't stop, even as your body began to tremble with the aftershocks of your nth orgasm. he kept the pace steady, his large hands sliding under your hips to tilt you upward, deepening the connection between your bodies until the stars were dancing behind your closed eyelids.
"eyes on me, baby. don't go anywhere," his thumbs hooked into your hips, "look at how you take me. look at how perfect you are⊠you were made for me, (name). only for me."
the praise was a constant hum against your skin, interspersed with wet kisses that claimed your lips, your jaw, and the sensitive hollow of your shoulder. he was worshiping you with a filthiness that felt sacred â his words were dirty, his touch was demanding, but his eyes were overflowing with a devotion that made you feel like a real angel. every time you thought you reached your limit, he woud find a new angle, and murmur another good girl or thatâs it, princess until you were spiraling all over again.
the final peak was a slow-motion collision. you felt the tension coil at the base of your spine, a spark that traveled through every nerve until you were arching your back, a silent scream caught in your throat. san felt it too; his movements became frantic, his breathing hitching into grunts and whines.
"my sweet angel," he groaned, his voice a broken prayer. "just like that, give it all to me."
as you shattered for the final time, san followed you as he filled you completely, his body shuddering with the force of his climax. he didn't pull back even an inch; instead, he pushed deeper, burying himself against your cervix as his spent muscles spasmed. he stayed there, making sure every last drop of his release stayed exactly where he wanted it.
finally, his strength gave out. san collapsed on top of you, his heavy and muscular frame pinning you into the mattress. he was a dead weight, chest heaving against yours, but you didn't mind the pressure. you needed to feel the crushing reality of him to convince yourself that the nightmare of the party was finally over. your own chest was rising and falling in frantic bursts, your lungs burning as you tried to catch your breath.Â
san tilted his head, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead as he found the strength to plant a shaky kiss on the side of your neck. "you did so good for me, baby," he whispered. "mm, you're safe. i'm right here."
you reached up, your fingers trembling as you stroked his hair, pulling him even closer if that was even possible. the tears were still there, leaking from the corners of your eyes. you loved him so much, a love that was messy and protective and finally, finally official.
san stayed there for a long time, just breathing you in, until he started to calm down and eventually, he shifted, groaning as he braced himself on his elbows. when he slowly pulled out, the sudden loss of him made you let out a soft, confused whimper.
"w-what?" you breathed, reaching out blindly for him, your mind still a hazy mess of dopamine and exhaustion.
"shhh, i'm not going anywhere, angel," he murmured, a sweet expression on his face that was a far cry from the possessive man who had just dismantled you. he looked almost shy, his bottom lip tucked slightly as he brushed a stray hair from your damp forehead. "iâm going to take care of you. also... where is your bathroom?"
you pointed wordlessly toward the door, watching him as he padded across the room. you had been with guys before, but aftercare had always been just a concept. usually, it was a quick reach for a phone or a clumsy apology before they fell asleep. nobody had ever looked at you with this much tenderness after the fact.
a few minutes later, he was back, gently coaxing you off the bed. you felt like jelly, your legs trembling so much you probably would have hit the floor if he hadn't caught you. he carried you to the bathroom. you didn't have a bathtub, just a standard shower, but san turned it into a sanctuary.
the man who had spent the last hour destroying your cervix and marking his territory was now behaving like a complete sweetheart. preparing the water at a perfect temperature, keeping you steady against his chest. he was so thorough and so gentle in helping you clean yourself. even started blowing bubbles at you until you were giggling despite your exhaustion. san was an adorable, muscular toddler who happened to be deeply in love with you.
once you were both clean and dry, you managed to dig out an oversized shirt for him. well, as oversized as a shirt could be for someone with his build. it clung to his biceps and chest in a way that made your heart skip, but he didn't complain. he looked comfortable, and entirely at peace in your space.
san insisted on changing your sheets, tossing the messy ones into the laundry basket while you sat on the edge of the bed in your robe. he wouldn't let you lift a finger. finally, he pulled the duvet up over both of you, cocooning you in a nest of warmth, smelling like your shampoo and body wash.
he spent the next hour just holding you, his fingers tracing the intricate lines of your palms as if he were trying to memorize your future. his lips were never far from your skin, pressing kisses here and there, telling you how heâd felt the very first time he saw you â how heâd known even then that you were trouble for his heart. he talked about the pain of watching you near his friends tonight, the suffocating fear that they would ruin the one beautiful thing he had.
you felt secure, tucked into him, your fingers tracing the hard lines of his biceps. you still couldn't quite believe he was all yours, that one of the frats had finally broken all the rules for you.
"san?" you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.
"hm?" he hummed, his chest vibrating against your ear as he tightened his hold.
"what are you going to do about your friends?"
he didn't tense up this time, just pulled you closer, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as he spooned you, his strong arms acting as a literal shield against the rest of the world. he took a deep breath, the scent of your shampoo calming the last of his spiked up nerves.
"probably move out," he admitted, sounding a little unsure. "or at the very least, have a very serious talk about boundaries and what the word no actually means. i can't be in that environment anymore if it means they think they can treat you like that."
the quiet room was a contrast to the chaos youâd escaped, the only sound being sanâs heartbeat beneath your ear. as the adrenaline finally ebbed away, a small seed of worry poked through the haze. you wondered about the shattered friendships, the tension in the house, and the weight he was carrying just to keep you safe.
"stop overthinking, baby." sensing your shift in mood, san tightened his grip, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head. "don't worry about me. none of that matters right now."
he began to ramble again, a soft stream of consciousness designed to drown out your racing thoughts. he talked about the most mundane things such as how he wanted to take you to that cafe by the river next weekend, how heâd seen a sunset a few days ago that made him think about a picnic date, and how he couldn't wait to just wake up next to you without a single place to be.
you felt yourself beginning to drift, your limbs turning to lead as his voice acted as a tether to a world where everything was finally okay.Â
"you're my everything," he whispered into the crown of your head, "sweet dreams, my love."
with one final kiss on your hair, he let out a soft, contented sigh, closing his eyes, his body finally going slack against yours, his heart full with the simple joy of knowing that he had finally won the only game that ever mattered. for the first time in months, he was happy and whole now that he was finally resting beside his one and only.Â
by the time you woke up, it was already afternoon the very same day. you found san in the kitchen, still wearing the oversized shirt youâd given him, stretching tight across his back, the hem barely reaching his thighs, and it's now that you noticed the dolce & gabana boxers. he looked like a devoted husband, humming to himself as he tossed pasta in a pan, spending the last hour in your kitchen to prepare a simple meal for you.
"good morning, sunshine," he murmured, turning with a smile so bright it felt like he was fighting with the sun itself. "i wanted to make sure you ate something before i had to go."Â
you sat at the dining table, resting your head on your palm, as he served you a plate, and then giving you a kiss on your cheek.
"i just... i don't want you to go back there," you whispered, reaching out for the pepper, "yunjin is going to kill me when she finds out i let you sleep in my bed. sheâll probably burn the bed with both of us in it. "
he then watched you enjoy the pasta, sipping you water, giving you everything you need, and even washing the dishes afterwards. gosh, canât he propose already? unfortunately, all good things come to an end, that resulted in him putting his clothes from yesterday and standing infront of your door.
"you know you can stay here.â
"as much as iâd love to hide out here forever and play house, i have to go back." pressing a quick peck on your lips, but his gaze turning serious as he pulled back and walked away to the elevator. "i'll call you the second iâm done. i promise, just let me handle this."
the frat house was silent when san stepped through the front door. which was strange, because he had expected the usual blaring music, and the smell of alcohol, and maybe mingi passed out on the couch. instead, and the smell of weed was replaced by a lemon floor cleaner. everything was spotless, even the shoes were lined up by the door.Â
the first person he saw was jongho. the youngest was in the kitchen, his muscles straining against a tight gym shirt as he shook his protein bottle.
"hey, hyung," jongho said, his voice neutral. he didn't look guilty, because he hadn't been part of the betting pool, but he looked exhausted by the tension. "good to see you're alive."
san didn't smile. "where are the others?"
"hongjoong-hyung and seonghwa-hyung are cleaning the backyard. wooyoung-hyung... heâs in his room, hasn't come out since he did his chores couple of hours ago," the youngest replied, taking a sip of his shake. "as for the others, i donât know. theyâre laying low. "
"then tell them to get in the living room."
one by one, the boys filtered in. hongjoong and seonghwa looked disheveled, their clothes damp from the cleaning. yeosang was zoning out, mingi and yunho hovered near the back, looking like kicked puppies, jongho was the only one who looked at him in the eye without flinching. the only one missing was woyooung.
san stood in the center of the room, his arms crossed ovee his chest. he didn't yell. he didn't throw a punch. he just looked at them with a cold, piercing disappointment that was far more terrifying than anger.
"iâve known and trusted you guys for years," san began, his voice low and dangerous. "i didn't think i had to explain to my best friends what the words stop and no meant. or that my girlfriend wasn't some trophy or prize to snatch. i thought i knew who you were, but the second i turned my back, you turned a girl i care about into some twisted game, and for a more than a hundred bucks⊠thatâs what her dignity was worth to you?"
"san, weâ" mingi started, but sanâs gaze snapped to him, silencing him instantly.
"no. iâm talking. you don't get to defend it. you put money on her body and used the trust i built with her to try to get a score."
he cut him off because they failed him. not as brothers, but as men.
"you all sat in a circle and talked about her like she was some property." you planned how to corner her. if i ever, and i mean ever, hear any of you mention something sickening or breathe in her direction without my permission, you're losing a tooth⊠i was going to move out today. the only reason iâm not is that i want to see if any of you are actually worth keeping as friends.â that resulted in shocked faces with widened eyes, âdo i make myself clear?"
the room went radio silent. unusually, apologies came in stammers: sincere from some, awkward from others. but he didn't stay to listen to the justifications, as he turned his back on them and walked upstairs.
later as it became evening with the sun setting down, san was in his bedroom, the blue light of his computer screen reflecting in his eyes as he tried to lose himself in a game. the tension in his shoulders was still there, because he didn't forgive them, not yet. egos were bruised, both theirs and his, trust was lost, but thatâs just how the frat world work, or rather the menâs world.
knock, knock. knock, knock. the rhythm was unmistakable, because it was a code. san didn't look away from the screen as the door creaked open. wooyoung slipped inside, his movements cat-like, checking before doing anything. he didn't say anything at first, just walked over and sat on the edge of san's bed. a cola-flavored lollipop was tucked into the corner of his mouth.
"whatcha doin'?" wooyoung cleared his throat, the candy clicking against his teeth.Â
san ignored him, his fingers clicking rapidly on the mouse.
"you still mad?" wooyoung tried again. "is it free-to-play? the game, i mean."
the good boy countied to ignore him by tapping on the keyboard.
"sannie? come on. talk to me."Â
"i'm busy, wooyoung."Â
"look, sannie," the blond sighed, his shoulders dropping. he reached up and pulled the lollipop from his mouth with a soft pop. "iâm sorry. i really am. i didn't mean to cross a line like that. i thought we were all just having fun, âya know? i thought youâd be into the competition too. it was just a frat thing, we have done this before⊠well we, not you."
san paused the game. the silence in the room became absolute as he spun his gaming chair around to face his best friend. "she isn't a frat thing, woo. sheâs my girlfriend. so if you ever touch her again like you did in that hallway, i don't care how long weâve known each other. iâll not tolerate shit like this."
"girlfriend, huh? moving fast, but okay. i get it, you are putting boundaries."
âsheâs the person i love. do you get that?â
wooyoung stared at him, blinking from time to time, processing the information. "yeah, i get it. iâm sorry, man. won't happen again, i promise. she's all yours⊠so, we're good?"
san looked at him, searching for the lie, but wooyoung looked sincere enough. "we are⊠for now."
they talked for a few more minutes, a tentative peace offering made between two people who had been inseparable since high school. wooyoung stood up, popping the candy back into his mouth. "glad weâre cool. iâm gonna check on yeosang now. see ya at dinner."
"yeah. see you."
the frat walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. as soon as the wood clicked into the frame, the apologising mask fell. wooyoung stood in the hallway, biting down hard on the lollipop, the artificial cola flavor bursting across his tongue as the candy shattered into tiny shards.Â
his eyes darkened, fixed on nothing. he could still feel the phantom presence of your body against the wall, the way you had tasted of sweet apple and surrender. he had told san what he wanted to hear, but his heart was doing something entirely different.
he wasn't sorry, not at all. he told san he was feeling awful, that he was just doing his usual thing, and he promised his best friend that heâd back off. but as he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked back at the closed bedroom door, he knew he was a liar. the bet was over, sure. san had the title and the official status. but wooyoung had the memory of how easily you melted for a bad influence, and if he had to play the long game, to be supportive⊠heâd wait for the cracks or any opening if lady luck was on his side.
pulling out his phone, scrolling to a photo heâd snapped of you earlier that night when you didn't know he was looking.Â
"tsk, official my ass," wooyoung whispered to the empty hall, his thumb tracing the screen over your face. "we'll see how long that lasts, doll."
uneven thudding in his chest, a rhythm he hated, a weakness he hadn't planned for. it was a glitch in his system that occurred every time he closed his eyes and saw your pretty face.
san was the paradigm, the golden standard of a man who believed that love was a framework of protection and official labels. he lived by a set of rules that made him feel safe, as if the world was a map he could finally navigate on his own.Â
you were the enigma, the puzzle that didn't fit into the fratâs predatory architecture. a riddle wooyoung couldn't solve, and the paradox of your surrender in that hallway was driving him to the brink of insanity.
the house was filled with stigmas. the collective disapproval of a society that saw them as nothing but high-status predators, and wooyoung had always worn that reputation like a badge of honor.
he turned and walked away, this time as a man who was no longer playing for money, but for keeps. his thumb grazed his lower lip, still tasting the ghost of your sweetness, and his eyes were full with a hunger that would make sanâs heart stop. his best friend could keep the title, wooyoung was going to take the girl⊠after all, he had never been a good loser.
reblog with tags, comment and show love to this fic, or i will unalive you in your sleep <33
Neither of them had actually slept with the neural-link on before.
Part of Hongjoong figured it was probably a bad idea. People with connections like theirs were rare, so it wasnât like there was a lot of free-flowing information out there about how it worked. Even though theyâd been sharing a neural-link for years at this point, something could easily go wrong if they abused it.
But another part of himâthe insatiable part of himself that he usually tried to pretend wasnât there until Seonghwa would inevitably point out that it was thereâwas curious what it might feel like. Would they find themselves in each otherâs minds even in sleep? Would they share the same dream?
What a trip that would be.
Mercenaries Hongjoong and Seonghwa can share their thoughts with each other, and they're feeling a little bit frisky.
Hongjoong wasnât sure what it was that had changed.
He and Seonghwa never activated their neural-link outside of a contract. It was merely a toolâa piece of a equipment installed in their systems designed to bring themselves entirely in sync for the purpose of the mission.
Neither of them had chosen this life for themselves, but honestly, Hongjoong didnât really mindânot like he had in the beginning. Joining minds with another used to be unbearableâpainful, even. Sharing space in his head with an entire person outside of himself was more than just uncomfortable. It felt wrong, like he didnât fit inside his own skin anymore. A strangerâs thoughts always at the forefront of his consciousness, a never-ending stream of raw, unfettered emotion that wasnât his ownâit all served as too much most of the time. It scorched through his veins without his own permissionâwilled him to complete tasks in ways he wouldnât normally find himself doing. So unfamiliar, so visceral.
But those first few gigs were a long time ago now, and Hongjoong had since decided that there was something extremely cathartic about the process of joining with another like the neural-link allowed. They would essentially become one and the same. Two separate units with a perfectly combined purpose. And when they both stopped fighting the connection and instead allowed themselves to fall in line with it, they were a duo of catastrophic proportions.
It really didnât take long for two trained killers to unseat the balance of power in the corporate underworld and overthrow the most well-protected fixers that had previously deemed themselves untouchable. And maybe they had been, up until Hongjoong and Seonghwa had arrived at their doorstep.
They rarely failed a mission. Both of them couldnât have more different ways of thinking, but they both agreed on this: failure was never an option.
They were a force to be reckoned with, and fear followed their names in the streets.
They also agreed that, while there was a certain heady thrill to the neural-linkâa certain exhilaration that flooded their senses in a way that bordered on addictingâit was nice to sink into the calm and privacy that followed once they had finally disconnected from the feed at the end of a long night of silencing corporate overlords.
But tonight was a little different.
Hongjoong wasnât quite sure what it was. There wasnât necessarily a reason for itâat least not one that he was ready to put a name to yet. It happened quietlyâunceremoniouslyâwhen the two of them walked through their respective front doors and just⊠didnât turn it off.
Youâre lonely. The familiar strike of an unfamiliar thought pressed against his mindâone that didnât belong to himâenveloped in a knowing smirk he could almost physically see in front of him.
It definitely wasnât loneliness. Certainly not.
He just didnât feel like sitting by himself in the dank quiet of his one-bedroom apartment in the back corner of some forgotten, run-down neighborhood in one of the crueler parts of the city. The kind where people frequently went missing, and nobody really asked questions when it happened.
That is quite literally the definition of loneliness, dumbass.
But there was something wrapped around this intrusive thoughtâsomething that told Hongjoong he wasnât the only one who felt this way. This brought him⊠well, not comfort, but something akin to it. It made his lips upturn into a barely-there smirk of his own.
The two of them couldnât harbor secrets from one another. It just wasnât a possibility with a life like this.
Seonghwa lived on the other side of the city, about as far away from Hongjoong as he could be, though not intentionally. Hongjoong could pinpoint exactly where it was even though heâd never been there, as familiar to his mind as his own home was. He could see the tall windows along the exterior walls, the impossibly large chandeliers draped across the ceiling, the overtly expensive artwork situated in the exactly-right spots throughout the excessively large rooms of the penthouse. Seonghwa evidently preferred to spoil himself with the riches that their occupation afforded them. Hongjoong could also live in a penthouse at the top of one of the tallest skyscrapers dotting the landscape if he so wanted, but really, he couldnât be bothered to want it. He wanted for nothing. He was satisfied with what he had.
At least thatâs what he told himself.
God, thatâs actually a little bit sad. Are you jealous of me, love? Want to come live in one of my many fancy bedrooms? I could give you a kiss goodnight every night. Could even give you a good fuck every now and again; God knows you need it.
The tone wasnât quite mocking as much as it was fondâbut it was still certainly a bit of both; Seonghwa rarely knew how to draw a line between the two. Hongjoong scoffed with a small shake of his head as he lowered into the only available seat on his worn leather couch; the rest of it was covered in boxes heâd never bothered to unpack from when he moved in a while back, as well as a growing pile of dirty laundry. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes sitting on the table next to the couch, lit one with the lighter in his pocket, and sucked a long drag into his lungs.
He was resolutely not jealous and resolutely not in need of a good fuck. Truthfully, he should probably just turn off the neural-link and then get off on his own; he knew it would make him feel better, and it would also shut Seonghwa up.
Jesus, donât you fucking dare touch yourself while Iâm still here.
Hongjoong couldnât help the widening of an amused smirk across his face. He watched as Seonghwa maneuvered around the penthouse, passing several gaudy paintings on the walls until he sunk down into a long white couch made of high-grade leather, a wine glass in hand. Hongjoong could taste it on his lips when Seonghwa pressed the glass to his mouth and took a small sip, the sweet flavor of dark silk hitting his tongue.
Hongjoong allowed the thought to slip through, What happened to giving me a good fuck?
A mixture of things flared all at once, none of them belonging to him, and it was rather overwhelming as they passed through him one after another. Hongjoong was pretty quick to realize that maybe he shouldnât have tried being so cheeky.
Do you want a good fuck, my dear Hongjoong?
âNot from you,â Hongjoong mumbled through a long exhale, and then he sank further into the couch and let his eyes wander closed. This was usually where he slept most nights, as he could never be bothered to buy himself a proper bed. It didnât matter anyway, because he was usually so exhausted after a day like today that he could probably crash wherever he wanted and he would be out cold within minutes. And thatâs exactly what he intended to do, still clad in an oversized denim jacket frayed over a simple tank top with a pair of tight leather pants and long combat boots that he hadnât bothered to kick off. Everything he wore was black. Everything he always wore was black.
Donât tease me like that. Seonghwa smirked into his glass, tipping it back for another, longer sip. You know Iâve never been above fucking my colleagues.
Hongjoong did know this. He knew it very well, almost on a personal level. When you share a mind with someone else, sometimes things pass through that were never meant to, and Seonghwaâwell, he was never really one for boundaries to begin with, very much an open book with hardly a fear or insecurity. So Hongjoong had seen thingsâhad felt them in his memories like they were his own.
Truly, it was surreal in a perverted kind of way. Not enjoyableâdefinitely not; that seemed like crossing some kind of line that he shouldnât, like some kind of sick and twisted version of voyeurism, and he wanted no part in it. Hongjoong was not into watching others have sex.
Youâre a fucking liar. Seonghwaâs coo felt like it pressed right up against his ear; Hongjoong could hear the echo of a dark chuckle in his mind even though Seonghwa didnât actually laugh.
Shut the fuck up, Hongjoong snapped back inside the confines of his mind. He crossed an arm over his chest and readjusted his position on the couch to make himself a bit more comfortable, then he inhaled another drag of his cigarette and continued in another thought, We have an early start tomorrow. Let me rest.
Whatever you say, honey.
And still, even when the thoughts grew quieter, the noises of the city gradually dissolving into the back of their minds, neither of them turned off their neural-links.
There were a lot of unspoken words in that momentâa lot said without actually being said.
Neither of them had actually slept with the neural-link on before.
Part of Hongjoong figured it was probably a bad idea. People with connections like theirs were rare, so it wasnât like there was a lot of free-flowing information out there about how it worked. Even though theyâd been sharing a neural-link for years at this point, something could easily go wrong if they abused it.
But another part of himâthe insatiable part of himself that he usually tried to pretend wasnât there until Seonghwa would inevitably point out that it was thereâwas curious what it might feel like. Would they find themselves in each otherâs minds even in sleep? Would they share the same dream?
What a trip that would be.
Hongjoong didnât usually dream, though. Most nights were just endless blips of blackâhis brain too worn thin to come up with stories of its own, he supposed. He wondered if Seonghwa usually dreamed.
Sometimes.
A hushed thought, so far away he felt it more than heard it.
Hongjoong hummed, already riding that line between being awake and falling asleep. It was odd, the sensation of Seonghwaâs presence during this brief moment of vulnerability. Almost like he was actually there.
In a lot of ways, he was.
Hongjoongâs dreams that night didnât make a lot of a sense, although they rarely did anyway. Mostly splotches of color and strange sounds; sometimes a face would show, but no one familiar presented themselves, at least that he could tell. It was a restless sleep, probably because his mind was working overtime to keep up with the thoughts of two different people for such an extended period of time. He had mods installed to help compensate for how overworked his brain would beâit was just part of sharing a neural-link with someone elseâbut it didnât seem to matter when he woke up feeling even more tired than he normally would the following morning.
Seonghwa, on the other hand, was blasting him with one of the most lurid images heâd ever seen inside his own mind. So real, so tangible, like he could reach out and touch it. Hongjoong could feel every vivid moment of it like he was inside of Seonghwaâs skinâa strangerâs face, a body pressing in close, someoneâs hand traveling down the length of his body and leaving behind a scorching trail in their wake. He could feel the way that Seonghwa was turned onto his stomach under his silk sheets, shallow puffs of air pushing through his lips with a dangerous fire coiled low in his abdomen, one spark away from lighting into a conflagration.
Hongjoongâs eyes flew wide open alongside a quiet gasp, now hyperaware of a similar sensation inside his own body. It was visceral in such a strange way, because it was such a familiar feeling but it was also being overlaid with a sensation that was not; he was feeling it the way that Seonghwa would be feeling it, which was entirely different from his own experience with arousal. To Hongjoong, it was usually a slow-burn, a quiet thrum in his bloodstream he could carry for hoursâand often did, for the sake of the mission, and for the sake of his own pleasure if he was being honest with himself. He liked the denial. The anticipation.
It was rare that the feeling ever grew hot enough to burn outside of his control.
But Seonghwa was overwhelming him with a flash-fireâan explosive excess of energy that felt like it could melt through the very link that connected them.
It was devastating. Catastrophic.
âFuck,â he hissed through a groan, his voice coarse from sleep, and he splayed his hands wide on either leg and slid them down his thighs, desperately trying to avoid the part of him that was suddenly aching for it the most. God knows how his body might react if he let himself have itâhow Seonghwaâs body might react. âJesus, Seonghwaâwake up.â
There was a small voice in the back of his head that reminded him that he could simply turn it off. He could end this right now before Seonghwa even stirred, and then he could move on and never mention it again.
But Hongjoong knew he wouldnât be able to hide this from Seonghwa when they inevitably reconnected; Seonghwa was too good at reading him, and Hongjoong was not good enough at hiding.
Hongjoong hesitated.
It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he liked what he was feeling. Absolutely not. Because he didnât.
He didnât.
But the searing bliss curled in his stomach mixed with the image in his mind of Seonghwa mindlessly rutting against his mattress was doing things to Hongjoong, if the strain inside his pants was any indication. He tightened his grip on his thighs, sucking in a deep breath of air with his eyes on the ceiling.
Hongjoong did not like to watch.
He was a professionalâone of the most notorious mercenaries in the city. He was better than this.
But God, it felt so damn erotic, so damn good.
It was almost unfair.
The hand in the dream traveled back up, a slow and intentional dance of fingers, and then hooked around the nape of Seonghwaâs neck, compelling him forward with a firm tug and snapping closed any distance between his body and the strangerâs. A soft sound pushed through Seonghwaâs lipsâa barely-there whimperâand he mumbled something indistinguishable into his pillow. Although the noise was practically nonexistent, Hongjoong heard it loud and clear inside his mind. It ignited into an instant wildfire, consuming Hongjoongâs entire abdomen and filling it with a flood of desire, and he clenched his jaw defiantly.
He should put a stop to this.
Why wasnât he putting a stop to this?
Hongjoong felt the change the moment that Seonghwa shifted slightly, the stark images fading from both of their minds in a matter of one quick breath. The heat seemed to dull but remained at a low simmer, if only because Hongjoong had been so goddamn affected by itâand Seonghwa noticed it right away. His hands curled into fists, and a long exhale pushed past his lips.
JoongâŠ
Fucking hell, was Seonghwa moaning his name?
A languid smirk pulled at the corners of Seonghwaâs lips, and Hongjoong felt the otherâs eyelids slide open just enough to let the soft morning light of the room into his eyes. Enjoying the view, love?
God, no; he definitelyâmost definitelyâwas not.
Seonghwa chuckled to himself and stretched, his palms pressing flat against the headboard for a moment until he relaxed again. Hongjoong kind of hated that he knew that Seonghwaâs erection was still in full force underneath the weight of his body.
I thought you didnât like watching?
All at once, Hongjoong was flushed red all the way to his chest. His mind raced, trying to come up with some kind of explanationâsome kind of reason to justify what heâd clearly been caught doingâbut he knew there was nothing that would be good enough to get him out of this. I tried to wake you, he thought instead, but it was a pathetic excuse.
Seonghwaâs smirk only widened, his thoughts relaying with an enticing kind of danger laced throughout, Youâre so fucking lucky that I find it hot or youâd be in big trouble, honey. He arched an eyebrow alongside a devilish smile, and then he offered a low chuckle, a dark sound that made Hongjoongâs eyes pinch shut in another attempt at resisting the want that tried to rise up inside of him. God, part of me wishes I stayed asleep so I could find out later just how desperate you were for it. I just know you wouldnât be able to hide it from me. How far do you think you wouldâve taken it?
Hongjoong would like to be able to say that he was a good enough man to walk away from this before things got too out of controlâhe was a killer but not a complete monster. He respected Seonghwa. He was probably the closest thing Hongjoong had to a friend, and the last thing he wanted to do was ruin that over a stupid moment of weakness during an instance of accidental voyeurism.
But with that one, simple question, none of that seemed to matter anymore; Hongjoongâs mind latched onto the idea fervently once it was circling around in his head, and like a traitor, it fired off question after question without his permission, filling his thoughts with so many vivid images that would probably find themselves permanently etched behind his eyelidsâand Seonghwaâs by extension.
Would Seonghwa be able to feel Hongjoongâs touch in his sleep? Would he whisper quiet, needy entreaties into his pillow, or would he remain entirely pliantâunaware and completely at Hongjoongâs mercy? Would he wake partway throughâor would Hongjoong remain the only witness to what occurred, until later when they reconvened for a mission and everything came flooding out through the neural-link?
Would Seonghwa enjoy being used like that?
Would he like finding out after the factâseeing it for himself through the connection that tethered them?
Seonghwaâs thoughts heavily implied that he would.
Wait, noâno, absolutely not. Seonghwa couldnât like the idea of any of that, or Hongjoong might just lose his goddamn mind.
Fucking hell.
Hongjoong was not a pervert. He was not into watching Seonghwa get off in his sleep. He was not into the idea of touching Seonghwa in his sleep. He was not at all interested in Seonghwa sexually.
He was not.
Seonghwa giggled loudly, high-pitched and titillating. I didnât think you could surprise me anymore, but you are so much dirtier than I thought youâd be. Fuck, I bet you wonât be able to stop thinking about this, will you?
A smattering of curses illuminated inside Hongjoongâs mind, sitting right at the tip of his tongue. He needed to get a hold of himself. He needed a cold showerâneeded to think about literally anything else right now.
But what exactly had he expected? He had gone to sleep last night with the neural-link onâthey both hadâand now it felt like he had merely tempted fate. It felt like a trap that he had willingly walked into, and now that the binds were tied around his wrists, he was frozen, unsure of whether or not to submitâunsure of whether or not he wanted this.
But how could he resist it when the roaring heat in his stomach was coursing through his bloodstream like magma, burning him alive from the inside out, screaming at him to let himself have it? How could he resist it when Seonghwaâa man with full access to his mind, his emotions, and all of his inner workingsâwas teasing him, getting under his skin, trying to rile him up and get a reaction out of him like this?
The outcome of this was inevitable. There would be no escaping it.
It was a temptation carved out of sinâa special kind of delicious torture the devil crafted just for him, perhaps as repayment for all the souls Hongjoong had sent his way over the years.
Hongjoong was so utterly fucked.
But Hongjoong was also incredibly stubborn, so he exhaled loudly through his nose and twisted uncomfortably in his seat on the couch, refusing to let himself give inâpushing out every single unremitting thought that told him he had already caved.
Why are you fighting it, Joong? I can feel just how much you want it.
It was so much worse because Hongjoong could feel with perfect clarity how much Seonghwa wanted it, too.
The flash-fire that had dulled since Seonghwa awoke was once again at its peak, if not stronger now that Seonghwa was directing it at him intentionally, and it was almost pathetic how quickly Hongjoongâs willpower crumbled underneath the tantalizing pressure.
As if to punctuate his prior thought, Seonghwa rolled his hips, pressing them deep into the mattress and sending a jolt of pleasurable sensation up his spineâand subsequently tearing an involuntary sound from Hongjoongâs lips.
It was like being touched, even though nobody was actually touching him. It was so satisfying in a cruel kind of way.
Hongjoong should really turn off the neural-link.
But he didnâtâand neither did Seonghwa.
Hongjoong hissed through a breathy groan, âThis is your fucking fault. You were dreaming.â He was clawing frantically at his pants, and it was all he could do to resist pulling his hands inward toward his center.
Not above fucking colleagues, remember?
Seonghwaâs smirk was beginning to really get on Hongjoongâs nerves, and he couldnât actually even see it.
Seonghwa went on, I donât really remember the dream, to be honest. Wanna tell me about it? And then there was another intentional roll of his hips against the mattress.
âFuck, Seonghwa,â Hongjoong mumbled through a flutter of his lashes. âShit.â
Youâre so vocal. Itâs fucking hot.
âSeonghwaâŠâ The name passed through his lips in a low breath, and it crossed his mind that it sounded more like a plea than he had intended. He knew Seonghwa would pick it up through his mindâwould be able to hear it like he was actually sitting hereâand he felt the pang of adrenaline light up inside of Seonghwaâs chest like a live wire, causing him to sigh into his pillow.
God, you sound so good saying my name like that. Itâs kind of addicting.
âYouâre a menace,â Hongjoong breathed. His heart hammered inside his ribcage, and his breathing had grown shallow alongside the want he couldnât tame. Between the two of them, it was like an endless echo; Seonghwa would feel the gratifying warmth of sensation, and it would bleed into Hongjoongâs mind, and then that would replicate itself back onto Seonghwa. It was intoxicating. Overwhelming. Dangerous.
Hongjoong didnât know how he was going to put a stop to thisâif he was going to put a stop to this.
Seonghwaâs mind hummed into his own, Is it okay if I touch myself? Your desire feels so good, I justâI want to touch myself.
Hongjoong huffed incredulously. It felt a little late to be asking for permission, but he was honestly just as much at fault for what was happening, if not more.
And he could walk away from this at any time.
He really, really should walk away. It would just complicate things unnecessarily. Doing what he does for a living is so much easier if he doesnât care.
But it was just sex, right?
Albeit paralytic, stupefying mind sexâbut still sex just the same.
Hongjoong allowed his eyes to slide closed, and he released a long breath from his lungs to try to recenter himself. âYouâre an asshole.â
But Seonghwa would be able to feel the capitulation to his tone, the resignation as he turned his full attention on the heat stirring inside of him. He was not going to touch himselfâbut he wasnât going to stop Seonghwa if thatâs what he wanted to do.
But Iâm your favorite asshole, right? Seonghwa tried to suppress the wide smile, but it wouldnât matter if he had, because Hongjoong could feel it either way.
Hongjoong allowed the images of Seonghwaâs movements to play behind his eyelidsâwatched as Seonghwa flipped onto his back and then sat upright against his pillows, watched as a hand snaked underneath the hem of his sweatpants and then slid them down over his hips, watched as his cock bounced free before settling against his abdomen. A long smear of off-white dribbled down the side, and Hongjoong tried to muffle the sound in his throat, but he didnât know why he bothered when Seonghwa would know regardless.
It wasnât the first time heâd seen Seonghwaâs cock through the neural-link. Hell, it wouldnât be the first time heâd seen it in real life either. But never in this contextânever with intent. He wasnât even looking at it himself, with his own eyes, and he still felt saliva pooling under his tongueâfelt an itch to draw a tongue across the tip to sample his flavor.
God, the need was insatiable.
Hongjoong could sense the moment that Seonghwa latched onto his sudden wave of desire, and he watched as Seonghwa swirled a finger over his tip, collecting what he could of his slick. The sensation was featherlight, a little bit ticklish, and it made Hongjoong twitch. Seonghwa lifted his hand and hovered it right in front of his face, rubbing his long fingers together and getting a feel for the stickiness between themâallowing Hongjoong to take a healthy look at the shininess of it, the way it clung to his fingers when he spread them apart. Then Seonghwa pushed his soiled fingers through the seal of his lips. Hongjoong knew it was coming, and yet his eyes still fluttered as the bitter saltiness hit his tongue, a low exhale escaping him despite himself.
Fuck, he tasted good.
Hongjoong wished he could taste him in real lifeâwished he could force Seonghwa to taste himself by pulling a curious tongue over his slit.
Hongjoong blinked several times, quickly trying to shove that thought from his mind.
Seonghwa suddenly chuckled, a sultry laugh in the back of his throat, and thatâs when Hongjoong realized heâd lowered his own pants and underwear down and around the point just above the tops of his boots, exposing his swollen cock to the air. Heâd been so enraptured with what was happening that he hadnât even realized he was going to do it until it was already done.
But he wasnât going to touch.
Not because he liked the denial. No, it was to make a pointâbecause he certainly did not enjoy thinking about Seonghwaâs cock.
Seonghwaâs lip caught in his teeth around another obnoxious smile. I donât think Iâll ever be able to get enough of you running circles around yourself like this.
Regardless of how obstinate he was being, Hongjoong quickly realized he probably wouldnât have to touch himself when Seonghwa wrapped a firm hand around his cock and began languidly stroking himself. Seonghwa sighed with his relief, and Hongjoong huffed around the air suddenly stuck in his throat when his own cock jumped against his stomach.
âOh, fuck,â Hongjoong exhaled, all breath, and Seonghwa hummed in response.
That feel good?
The comment was nothing but a tease; Seonghwa knew that it would feel good, because if it felt good to him, it would also feel good to Hongjoong. It was like there was no choice in the matterâit simply was.
Hongjoongâs curiosity flared.
He slid a hand up his body and underneath the cotton of his shirt, pulling it up across his chest, and goosebumps cascaded across his skin where it was nipped by the cool morning air. He hesitated for only a moment before he flicked a fingernail across one of his nipples, and he huffed at the spark of sensation that skittered out across his skin. He was particularly sensitive there, and his exploration was rewarded by the echo of Seonghwaâs responding moan inside his mind. An explosion of warmth billowed inside Hongjoongâs abdomen; it was a beautiful sound, even to his stubborn ears.
âSo pretty,â he whispered in kind, and Seonghwa moaned again as a little thrill was sent fluttering through his body, which only spurred Hongjoong forward. He twisted his nipple between two fingers and muttered, âGod, youâre driving me crazy.â
Seonghwaâs grip around himself tightened, growing more intentional as the pleasure built inside of him. Yeah? You like watching me touch myself? You like the way it makes you feel? He actually said those words aloud into the quiet of his bedroom, and they nearly tore Hongjoong in half with the fire that immediately split through him. He groaned in response, and his free hand curled into a fist on top of his thigh just as he began bouncing his leg with fervent need. Everything inside of him was screaming at him to take itâto wrap a hand around himself and join in.
âI really want to kiss you,â he hummed instead, and the words surprised him as soon as they came out, but he didnât regret them. He meant it. He wanted to feel the hot press of Seonghwaâs lips against his own; he wanted to dive deep into Seonghwaâs mouth, claiming every inch as his own with his tongue. He wanted to feel that claim reciprocatedâwanted to feel just how much Seonghwa burned for subjugation with each unforgiving scrape of teeth around his lips.
I really want to fuck you.
Hongjoong huffed a laugh. Leave it to Seonghwa to make a nice sentiment crudeânot that the intentions behind his own thought were all that chaste either.
He noticed as Seonghwaâs eyes slid closed and his mind began to wander as he continued the relentless movements of his hand, eventually landing on a rather familiar imageâa body pressed all along his front, fingers trailing down, down, down across his body. Hongjoong quickly put together that Seonghwa was recalling his dreamâso he did remember the dream after allâbut he wasnât imagining a stranger anymore; Hongjoong saw his own face looking back at him, a wolfish grin curling his lips upward and a dark glimmer in his eyes, his own hand tracing languid patterns down the landscape of his chest. It was strange to see himself in this light, but that hardly mattered; Seonghwa was getting off to a fantasy involving himâand fuck, that was so much hotter than it had any right to be. The heat magnified inside of Hongjoong with this realization, and he couldnât resist the moan that pushed itself into existence.
âFuck, Seonghwa,â he breathed. âDonâtââ He couldnât get the sentence past his lips, but his mind automatically filled in the blank, Donât stop.
Hongjoong pulled his shirt up even higher with one hand and then lifted the other to his neck so that it could follow the same movement that Seonghwa was imagining, his fingers slowly trickling from the dip of his throat down over his sternum, across his abdomen, over his naval, and then veering off to curl over the point of his hip where he latched on with a firm, assertive grip.
Shit, youâre so sensitive, Seonghwa groaned, and he squirmed under the replicated sensation across his own torso. The pace of his hand grew faster, tighter, chasing a gratifying shiver through Hongjoongâs body. I donât think Iâm going to be able to keep my hands to myself the next time I see youâfair warning.
âNext time you see meâ âanother moan dripped from Hongjoongâs lips despite himself, and he bit his lip around it to muffle the soundâ âwe should really try to focus on the mission.â
Seonghwa scoffed with his disapproval. Iâll murder every one of those bastards, and then I will fuck you right over their corpses, Hongjoong. You know I will.
The idea of that was far more enticing than Hongjoong was ready to admit; he tried not to dwell on it, but the image that manifested in his mind was so damn filthy that he couldnât push it aside. It didnât help that Hongjoong could feel Seonghwaâs voracity in his chase for a release, could taste the avidity of his words in his mouth, could feel the building ecstasy rising higher and higher as Seonghwa grew closer and closer to the cliff.
Gonna fill you up so full, Seonghwa hissed. The words sounded breathy with unguarded want, uncontained and stifling as they echoed inside Hongjoongâs mind, and he let himself drown in them as they kept on coming. You like the sound of that? I know you do. You canât lie to me, love. Youâre a terrible liar. There was a brief pause as a pleasured whine escaped Seonghwa, then the litany went on, You want me to fuck youâwant me to fuck you so good and hard. Iâll take care of you, honey; Iâll make sure that my name is all youâll ever be able to think about whenever you touch yourself from now on.
Seonghwa was right.
Hongjoong wanted to be absolutely ruined by him.
Hongjoong wasnât in the right state of mind anymore to think about the implications of that; he was moaning without any kind of restraint now, the heat in his pelvis turning to molten lava in his veins. It was beginning to crestâjust starting to dance across the tightrope before the two of them would spill right over the edge.
Beg me for it, Joong.
A command. A threat. The words felt ice cold, and he could almost feel the contrasting heat of Seonghwaâs breath pressing up against his throat as he exhaled them into the air of his bedroom. It sent a needy shiver down the column of Hongjoongâs spine. What it would be like to feel that commanding hunger pressing against him in real life.
A shuddering gasp tore through Hongjoongâs jaws, and his toes curled in his boots.
He was right there, so fucking closeâŠ
But Seonghwa wasnât letting either of them fall off the tightrope.
Hongjoong honestly hadnât expected this whatsoeverâthe restraint. Seonghwa was teetering right along that edgeâevery breath coming out in stifled staccatos, a moment away from the collapseâbut he was refusing to take it.
The sensation stole the breath right out of Hongjoongâs lungs, left him physically squirming in his seat on the couch, a series of âah, ah, ahâs slipping through his mouth unbidden. And it just wouldnât end, the finality right out of reach where Seonghwa could so easily just fall and let it crash right through them both.
But he was an asshole. Hongjoongâs favorite, admittedly, but an asshole nonetheless.
âS-Seonghwaââ Hongjoong could barely breathe, could barely do anything, his body reeling, his mind feeling entirely numb to anything except the sensation of being on the brink. It was excruciating and exquisite at once. It made him want to screamâmade him want to tear his own hair outâbut all he could do was sit there and take it.
It was incredible.
It was maddening.
Seonghwa was moaning right along with him, a long stream of high-pitched sounds falling from his jaws as he pulled himself up and down at a devastating pace, somehow expertly holding himself just before the finish line. Hongjoong would neverâcould neverâand yet it was happening to him anyway because of Seonghwa.
Hongjoongâs back arched off the couch, his entire body covered in a slick sheen of sweat, and he clutched so tightly to his own skin between his fingers that he was beginning to leave little crescents around his hip; a whine was ripped from Seonghwaâs mouth in response to the sharp, insistent pain this elicited, and he threw his head to the side as he squirmed underneath it. Hongjoongâs cock bobbed helplessly against his abdomen, an impressive amount of pre-cum coating the entire tip and pooling against his stomach, where it was all beginning to drip down either side of his ribcage. His eyes had long since disappeared into the back of his head, and he wasnât sure the last time he had actually inhaled because he began to feel the dull burn in his lungs that demanded a breath of oxygen.
Hongjoong could easily push himself over the edge. He could seize control by wrapping a hand around himself and finishing what Seonghwa started.
But he didnât.
It had nothing to do with the fact that he was being difficult and everything to do with the fact that this was what Seonghwa wanted. He wanted to hold Hongjoong hereâwanted him to feel the insatiable burn of denial as it inexorably branded itself into him like some kind of torturous and intoxicating claim.
And at this point, who was Hongjoong to deny Seonghwa anything?
Beg, Hongjoong.
An ultimatum that couldnât go ignored. Seonghwa couldnât bring himself to speak the words past the roaring sensation in his pelvis, but he didnât have to; Hongjoong could feel them in his soul.
âPleaseâŠ!â Hongjoong hissed, and then he screamed into the abyss of his mind as loudly as he could, as desperately as he could, Fuckâfuckâplease let me cumâshit, I fucking need it, pleaseâŠ!
And just like that, Seonghwa let go.
A long, loud groan from somewhere deep within him echoed off the walls of Hongjoongâs apartment, and then another one came right after. His vision whited out as both his and Seonghwaâs climaxes rolled through him simultaneously, and it was catastrophic and overstimulating and euphoric. His release coated his stomach in long sprays of white, and it just kept coming and coming. There was so much of itâso much more than he was used to, like his body didnât know what to do with all of the pleasure coursing through him. His whole body trembled, his thighs and abdomen convulsing as he clenched down around the life-altering sensation, and his mind remained blissfully blank for an indeterminate amount of time, aware of nothing except the white-hot euphoria that seared through him without mercy.
Distantly, he could recall the way Seonghwaâs mouth dropped open around a soundless moan, the violent shudders that ripped through Seonghwaâs body, the ribbons of milky white that were painted across Seonghwaâs shirt.
Eventually, after several seconds of silence had passed, Hongjoong finally started coming back to himself. He blearily probed around his mind for Seonghwaâs presence and found that he was in a similar state of complete and utter dereliction. It seemed that the orgasm had hit him just as hard as it had hit Hongjoong.
âHoly⊠fuck, Seonghwa,â Hongjoong breathed, a mumble of words that would have probably been too difficult to decipher if Seonghwa couldnât feel the intent inside his mind.
Joong, Seonghwa hummed his name just because he could, followed by a depleted but placated giggle. The sound of his name said like that followed by such an endearing laugh filled Hongjoong with an unfamiliar warmth; it brought a breathless grin to his lips as he stared up at his ceiling in an exhausted heap on the couch. There was a long pauseâanother comfortable silence filled with nothing but rapid heartbeats and loud breathing from both sides. Then Seonghwa said in a voice much quieter than before, You were more cooperative than I expected.
Hongjoong watched Seonghwa replay some of it in his thoughts, his mind narrowing in on how determined Hongjoong was to not touch himselfâeven when Seonghwa refused to give him what it was that his body was aching for. A spike of dark satisfaction bubbled inside of Seonghwaâs chest, which made Hongjoongâs breath hitch because of how overwhelming it was as it cascaded over him. Seonghwa had a wicked smirk on his face when he teased, Such a good boy for me, honeyâespecially there at the end.
âShut up.â A statement that was more petulant than biting, and Hongjoong had to work to subdue his embarrassed smile and the heat that flooded his cheeks. He wasnât feeling nearly as defensive as he had been before, but he couldnât really pinpoint why. He wished he could see Seonghwaâs faceâwished he could see how absolutely fucked-out he looked.
Mmm, I can help with that, Seonghwa crooned, seeming all too eager to reach out toward the nightstand next to his bed for his phone. Things like thisâthings that would typically make Hongjoong think twiceâwere always easy for Seonghwa; he was always so reckless, so fearless. It was oddly charming, and it did funny things to Hongjoongâs stomach, even now when his body was still in a system reboot and he thought he had nothing left to give.
Before Hongjoong could decide whether or not he wanted to protest, Seonghwa took a full-body picture of himself on the sheetsâhis face, the mess on his stomach and hand, and his softening cockâand sent it to Hongjoong. Your turn.
âFuck,â Hongjoong muttered in an immediate scramble for his phone. Before he could second guess it, he angled it above himself so he could capture a similar picture, doing his best to ignore just how much of a disaster he looked like right now, and sent it to Seonghwa.
He hesitated to pull up the image Seonghwa had sent to him. It wasnât like he hadnât just seen the whole thing in his mindâfelt it in his bonesâbut there was something about actually physically seeing it that made it feel a little bit too real. A line crossed. Unable to go back.
But he couldnât help himself. He clicked on it anyway while chewing on the inside of his cheek.
And GodâSeonghwa looked so wrecked but so devastating with that cute curl of a smirk on his exhausted features, his face still flushed from all the heat, a mess of cum on his stomach. Hongjoong was helpless to resist the urge he felt; he wanted to lick up all of that cumâwanted to kiss Seonghwa within an inch of his life to share the flavor.
This was dangerous. So dangerous.
Stop overthinking it, Joong. Itâs just a picture.
But was it just a picture? It didnât feel like just a picture.
God, you look good, love. I wish I was there. Seonghwa didnât think anything else beyond that, but Hongjoong could feel all the things Seonghwa wanted to do in that momentâthe way he wanted to kiss Hongjoong, wanted to pepper his chest and neck with soft presses of his lips, wanted to fall back to sleep at his side for a little while. Affectionate and fond.
Hongjoongâs stomach did a little backflip. He debated severing the connection right there to try to escape it and the inevitable scrutiny that would follow.
He did not like watching. He did not like the denial. He did not like Seonghwaâs cock.
He did not care.
He did not.
He was a professional. A mercenary. An assassin.
And letting his stupid goddamn feelings get in the way of the mission was the last thing he needed.
Hongjoong could physically feel the eye roll from the other side of the neural-link. You are so much sometimes, love.
Hongjoong knew this. He didnât appreciate the reminder.
Without thinking too hard about it, he lifted a hand to the chrome hidden underneath a swathe of hair on the left side of his head and pressed down on it, and a sudden quiet closed in around him, surrounding him all at once like a vacuum. It was immediate. Jarring.
He was now alone.
Hongjoongâs phone vibrated where he had set it down on the armchair of the couch.
Hwa
Youâre no fun. :((
Hongjoong sighed dramatically, his head falling back against the couch cushions, and he gently dropped his phone onto his chest while pinching his eyes closed. It wouldnât be long until he was going to be expected to reconnect and bring his A-game for the next contract, but until then, he would enjoy the peace and quiet and try to not think about Seonghwa or his cock or the mind-blowing orgasm he just had.
Hongjoong lifted the phone again and typed out his response.
Joong
And youâre an asshole.
Hwa
:)
But Iâm your favorite asshole, right? The words echoed in Hongjoongâs mind. He stared at the little smiley-face on his screen and couldnât resist the slight upturn of his own lips, but he was quick to school the expression into indifferenceâto shove it into a box that he was determined to lock away in the back corner of his mind, somewhere that it wouldnât be able to resurface.
It was going to be a long day.
@ashen-blue
Leave a comment if youâd like. It makes me happier than youâll ever know. âĄ
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