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You can call me Grem, 22, they/them, I TAKE NO CREDIT FOR ART POSTED UNLESS SAID OTHERWISE! eveyone is welcome!

[wooyoungiewritings]

Sports Car - Jung Wooyoung x Reader

Inspired by the song "Sports Car" by Tate McRae

"I think you know what this is"

Summary: You run from your life for the summer. No plans, no promises, just the hunger for something reckless. And then you see him. Jung Wooyoung. He’s everything you're chasing: fast cars, faster nights, and a smile that dares you to misbehave. He races like he’s got nothing to lose and looks at you like you’re the next line he’s ready to cross. But the more you get tangled in each other’s lives, the more you realize, rules don’t mean shit when you’re both the type to break them. And now? You’re not sure what’s more dangerous: the races… or the way he looks at you.

Word count: 26.6K

Genre: Street racer!Wooyoung x reader, oneshot, angsty, drama, smut

warnings: Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), blood mentioned, angst about disappearing, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, unprotected sex, Wooyoung is dominant, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: I have not read this through so I hope it's good! someone requested a wooyoung-fic where he isn't this "usually bubbly" character, and I had so much fun writing him as a tease but with an edge to it! literally I think he's so hot lmao, I love him. Enjoy pookies!!!

The rooftop is already humming when you step out of the elevator, heat clings to your skin, music spills into the open sky, and a blur of voices laughs like nothing in the world could touch them. You haven’t planned on coming tonight. You didn’t even come here to have fun. You came here to forget. To get out. To breathe without everything collapsing on top of you.

Back home, everything had started unraveling. Bills stacked on the counter, messages piling in that you didn’t want to read, expectations pressed into your skin so tightly they’d left bruises. People needed things from you. Constantly. Quietly. And if you slowed down for even a second, the whole system started to fail.

So you ran.

You packed a bag, booked a one-way plane ticket, and told everyone it was a “short break.” A getaway for the entire summer. You didn’t tell them that the idea of staying one more day in that life made your stomach twist into knots.

Now you’re here.

A few days into your stay in this town, visiting your cousin, living in a random Airbnb you just managed to afford. Here, no one knows what you’re running from. And for the summer, that’s exactly the point.

“Holy shit, you actually came.” your cousin’s voice snaps you back. She weaves through a group of people and pulls you into a loose, alcohol-warm hug. “I was starting to think you chickened out.”

You offer a weak smile. “You said there’d be tequila.”

“There’s also gin, cheap beer, and a guy puking off the fire escape. We have everything.” She shoves a cup into your hand and links your arms, dragging you into the heat.

You force a laugh and let her drag you toward her friends. The usual suspects. Half of them you met last weekend. The other half look like they belong in a music video, glossed lips, messed-up curls, tattoos they’d lie about the meaning of. Music thuds through the speakers. A girl danced barefoot on a bench with glitter in her hair and zero fear in her eyes.

You want to be her. You want to be anything but yourself for a while.

You’re halfway through your first drink when something, someone, catches your eye.

Not from the center of the party. From the edge. Leaning against the low wall like he belonged to another world. Half-lit by the string lights overhead. One boot hooked over the other. A cigarette hanging from his lips, the orange tip flaring each time he breathes.

His jacket is black, leather, worn in like a second skin. He wears it open over a faded black shirt that clings to his chest in the heat. His hands, veins, rings, knuckles, looked like they knew how to break things. Dark hair curled around his ears like he hadn’t bothered to style it. And his face? Unbothered.

He isn’t looking at anyone. Not watching. Not performing. Just existing.

Your cousin follows your gaze, and when her eyes land on him, then roll her eyes before her expression shifts into something like caution. “Yeah,” she says, low. “That’s Wooyoung.”

You blink. “Who?”

She gives you a look. “You haven’t heard about him?”

You shake your head, eyes drifting back to the guy in question.

Another friend chimes in, voice already tipsy: “He’s bad news.”

“He’s been here forever,” your cousin says. “Born reckless. Drives like a lunatic. Hooked up with half the people on this roof and ghosted the rest.”

“Wrecked his car last year racing out by the docks,” someone else adds, cracking open a beer. “Didn’t even flinch. Climbed out with blood on his hands and laughed.”

You glance at him again. He just tips the bottle to his lips, throat working, cigarette still balanced between his fingers like a forgotten afterthought. His jaw is sharp, and the curve of his mouth looks like it only knows how to smirk or sneer. And when his eyes scan the room, they land on you.

It’s not subtle.

He watches like he’s already bored of the outcome, like he knows exactly what happens when he looks at someone long enough. Like he’s already counted to three and you’re about to fall.

But you hold his stare. You don’t smile. Don’t flinch. Let him look. 

And then you look away.

Your cousin touches your arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so thinking about it.”

You turn away, take another drink, and try to pretend you don't feel that pull. That spark. That quiet ache for something reckless.

But you do. And you’re not here to be safe.

A little later you drift away from the group. You feel him before you see him. You glance sideways and he’s already there, leaning a little too casually against the cooler, cigarette behind one ear, that reckless grin barely tugging at his mouth like he’s doing you a favor by showing up.

Wooyoung.

Even if you didn’t already hear whispers about him, the kind that circle like smoke, you’d know. You’d know by the way he moves like he owns the room without touching it. The kind of man who thinks he doesn’t need to ask.

“You look like you could use another,” he says, chin-tilting toward your near-empty cup. “Let me grab you one.”

You don’t answer at first. You just look at him. Not up or down, not obvious, but right in the eyes. He’s used to curiosity, flirtation, maybe even awe. You give him something else.

Nothing.

And then, a soft, almost polite: “No.”

His smile quirks. “You sure?”

“Very.”

He laughs under his breath, gaze dipping once, quick. “Tough crowd.”

You don’t smile. You don’t frown either. Just turn slightly toward the bar, like you’ve already dismissed him. “I’m not thirsty,” you add. Cool. Flat.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, just enough to be felt. “What about a ride, then? Later. I could show you around. You new here, right?”

You blink up at him, head tilting like you’re thinking. For half a second, you let him think you might say yes. And then…

“No again.” You take a sip from your cup, slow. Letting the silence linger between you as you let him try to read you. You smile then, just the corners of your lips, like a secret he doesn’t get to know. “Thanks, though,” you murmur, already turning away. You walk back into the crowd, eyes ahead, leaving behind the heat of him, the weight of his stare burning a hole into your back.

It’s late now. The rooftop has thinned, half the crowd gone, music lower, conversations quieter, messier. You’re near the edge again, drink long gone, and the sky bleeding into deep navy when you feel him behind you.

You don’t turn. You wait.

“You always say no that easy?” he says, and the way his voice grazes the shell of your ear makes your spine straighten just slightly.

You turn then, slow, like it costs you nothing. And there he is. His mouth is quirked like he’s in on some joke, but his eyes are sharp, focused entirely on you. He’s even prettier up close. Prettier in the way knives are, sharp and gleaming and made to draw blood.

“I’m heading out,” he adds, casual. Like this is nothing. Like you’re just another option. “Want a ride?”

You want to get in his car. Want to see how fast he drives when there’s no one telling him to slow down. You want to feel the engine roar under your feet, his voice slick in your ear, want to taste what danger actually feels like when it’s not a metaphor.

But you also want to see what he’ll do when he doesn’t get what he wants the first time. So you take a beat. Let the silence stretch. Your gaze drags down his body and back up again, slow enough to make sure he feels it. Then you look him dead in the eye.

“Maybe.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You just turn, hips swaying, and make your way back to your friends. And you feel his eyes on your back the entire walk across the roof.

It’s late. The party’s over. The rooftop has emptied, music cut off mid-song, and everyone’s filtered into rides or rideshares or stumbled off into the night together.

“Text me when you get home, alright?” your cousin says, pulling you in for a quick hug before she disappears into the uber with the last of the stragglers.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, waving her off as the door shuts behind her and they drive off.

And just like that, the noise is gone. The music. The bodies. Now it’s just you. Quiet. Cool night air on your bare legs. Streetlights blinking over cracked sidewalks. You check your phone, four minutes until your Uber. You lean back against the brick wall. 

And then you hear it.

That engine.

It purrs low, like a warning or a promise, and you look up just as the black sports car pulls up to the curb. Same matte finish. Same cocky presence. He’s behind the wheel, of course he is, one arm slung lazily over the door, dark hair ruffled, eyes hidden under his lashes like he’s still half-bored, half-waiting.

Your stomach twists. In a good way. You were hoping he’d try again.

But you don’t show it. You keep your expression smooth, brows lifted just slightly in mock surprise.

“Y’know,” he says, voice deep and seemingly unbothered. “for someone who says no so much, you sure know how to look like someone who would say yes.”

You smirk. “For someone who hears no so much, you sure keep trying.”

That gets a glint of something behind his eyes, not offense. Amusement. Maybe even respect.

You check your phone again. Two minutes.

He nods at it. “Uber?”

“Mhm.”

“Cancel it,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’ll drive you.” He studies you, slowly. 

“You’ve had alcohol.” you say.

“I’ve had one beer, correct. I can still drive,” He leans back in his seat, one finger tapping on the steering wheel like he’s deciding how long to wait. “One of these times, you’re gonna say yes.”

You glance at the street. Then back at him. “Maybe.” You keep your voice light. But the way your heart skips when he licks his bottom lip like he’s already imagining what maybe might mean?

“So now what? You’re just gonna go home safe and sound to your own bed?”

You shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. “Safe’s not exactly what I’m after.”

He laughs softly, the sound like gravel sliding over glass. “Good. Because I’m not about safe.” He gestures to the passenger seat. “Get in. I’m taking you somewhere that doesn’t care about safe.”

You hesitate a moment, “You don’t even know my name.”

His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with something dangerous. “We’ll talk about that in the car.”

You glance back at your phone, then to the dark leather interior of the car where he waits, the door cracked open like an invitation. The night hums around you, the promise of escape, the thrill of the unknown.

And for the first time since you got here, you do the first reckless thing. You push yourself off the brick wall, reach out, fingertips grazing the door handle, and slide inside.

The door shuts behind you with a soft, final thud, and in that instant, everything feels different. The engine comes alive under his hand, a low purr that vibrates up through the floorboards and settles in your spine. He shifts into drive with a lazy flick of his wrist and pulls into the street like he owns it. The silence stretches, thick and full, like the pause between lightning and thunder.

One minute, it’s neon signs and sirens and people yelling from balconies. The next, it’s just open road, the dark curling around you like smoke. He didn’t say where you’re going, and you didn’t ask. Maybe that’s part of it. You came here to stop asking questions.

He drives like he was born with a steering wheel in his hands, fast, aggressive, but never reckless. You glance at him. One hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the gearshift. Long fingers, silver rings. 

You stare longer than you mean to.

He notices. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel it, some part of him clocking your gaze. He smirks, like he likes being watched. “You’re quiet,” he says, finally.

You glance at him. “I don’t really know where we’re going.”

“That’s the point.”

The lights of the city are long gone now, swallowed behind the bend of a hill. When he pulls off the road, your stomach dips.

The tires crunch against gravel as he eases the car up a narrow path that looks like it was never meant to be driven. Your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap, but you don’t ask him to stop. You want to see where this leads.

Then the road opens up.

It’s not a lookout point. There’s no fence, no benches, no other cars. Just a slab of cracked asphalt at the edge of a cliff, a wide, feral view of the city lights flickering far below. Wind rushes against the windshield. The drop is sharp. Dangerous.

Exactly what you wanted. He kills the engine and the silence rushes in. You don’t move. Neither does he. Finally, he says, “Scared of heights?”

“No,” you breathe.

“Perfect” He’s already looking at you. That cocky, knowing tilt to his mouth again. Like he’s testing what scares you. Like he wants to find the exact line you’ll make him cross.

“So,” he says. “What do I call you when I make you regret getting in my car?”

You don’t flinch. You meet his stare, steady. “Y/N.”

He lets it settle, your name on his tongue. Rolls it once, like he’s tasting it. “Y/N,” he repeats. “Fitting.”

You tilt your head. “And you? I don’t like calling strangers ‘guy who doesn’t know when to quit.’”

That grin flashes, quick and crooked. “Wooyoung.”

You hum. “Mm. That one’s fitting too.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Saturated. His eyes don’t leave you, dark, focused, hungry. You should look away, but your pulse is a drumbeat behind your ribs, and you want him to see it. You want him to know it’s because of him.

“You always stare at people like that?” you ask.

His voice is lower now, more deliberate. “Only when I want something from them.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what is it you want from me?”

His tongue traces the edge of his bottom lip. “The obvious answer?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I want you in my lap, messing up my hair, moaning my name like it’s the only thing you know.”

The words slam into you, blunt, confident, filthy. Your throat tightens around your breath, your legs press together without thinking.

He sees that too.

But you don’t back down. You raise your chin, hold his gaze like it’s a challenge. “You say that to all the girls you drive out here?”

Wooyoung leans in, just slightly, enough that his voice hits deeper, lower. “Nah. Most of them don’t make me work for it.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it, unapologetic, shameless. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t care if you do too. He doesn’t play pretend. He doesn’t flirt to charm. He flirts to ruin.

You don’t move. Don’t look away. The cliff below disappears into a blur, the city glows like it doesn’t even know you left. It’s just you and him, and the space between you that’s shrinking by the second. “I want to stop thinking,” you say, voice low, steady. “That’s why I got in your car.”

Wooyoung’s eyes darken slightly. The smirk fades, replaced with something quieter. Sharper.

You keep going. “I want to stop caring. Stop worrying about the next thing, the smart thing, the right thing. I just want to shut everything off for a while.”

He’s still, like he knows not to interrupt.

“And you…” you look at him then, all dark eyes and bad decisions, his hand loose on the steering wheel like he’s not even pretending to care about control. “You seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t ask for consequences. Or commitment.”

His tongue swipes the inside of his cheek, and he exhales a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

You shrug, but there’s a glint in your eye. “Kind of your whole thing, isn’t it?”

He leans in a little more, elbow on the door, body turned toward you now. “So you want to do something reckless?”

“I got in your car, didn’t I?”

That gets a reaction, a slow grin, one side of his mouth curling with pure, unfiltered interest. “I don’t make promises,” he says. “I don’t do rules, or tomorrow. But if you want tonight, no strings, no pretending, just the rush-”

“I do.”

Two words. Honest. Simple. And you don’t look away when you say them.

He leans closer, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Then come here.”

You don’t hesitate this time. You crawl across the seat without a word, knees brushing the leather, breath catching when your thigh grazes his. When you settle in his lap, his hands find your hips instantly, grounding you, greedy. 

“You sure?” he murmurs, and it’s not hesitation, it’s courtesy, like giving you a final out he already knows you won’t take.

You slide your hands into his hair, fingers threading through the dark mess of it. “Don’t ask again.”

That’s all he needs.

He surges forward, and your mouths crash together like the tension had teeth. There’s nothing soft about it. His tongue finds yours without asking, and you meet him head-on, like you’ve wanted this since the second you saw him flick ash from his cigarette.

He tastes like trouble, smoke and whiskey and a little bit of adrenaline, and you can’t get enough. His hand slides up your back, under your shirt, dragging warm fingertips along your spine. You arch into it.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, like he didn’t expect you to kiss like this, to move like this. He bites your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp, and then kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s chasing something down in your throat.

“God, you feel good,” he groans, hips rolling up into yours, and you grind down in answer. The car creaks slightly under the weight of you both, the windows fogging, your breaths too loud in the silence of the hill.

This isn’t careful. It isn’t pretty. It’s fast and messy and hot. 

You kiss him like you’re starving, because in a way, you are. Not for romance or sweet nothings. For chaos. For heat. For the perfect, destructive distraction that he is. Wooyoung’s hands roam like he has every right. Under your shirt, up your thighs, gripping like he’s trying to leave fingerprints. The center console digs into your thigh, but you don’t care. 

“Take this off,” he mutters, tugging at your top.

You obey, quick and clumsy, flinging it to the passenger seat. His eyes rake over you, your bra, your breathless expression, your flushed skin. He drags his hands up your stomach slowly, deliberately.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Then he leans in, pressing a trail of kisses from your collarbone to the swell of your breast, tongue flicking out just enough to make your breath hitch. “You like being bad, don’t you?”

You laugh, barely. “I like not thinking.”

He grins, dark and cocky. “Good. ‘Cause thinking’s the first thing I’ll take from you.”

One hand unhooks your bra. The other grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. He dips his head, mouth latching onto your breast, sucking until you arch into him, fingers tangled in his hair. Your moan breaks out sharp, raw.

“Fuck,” you whisper, because this is already more than you expected, hotter, filthier, better. You reach down between you, fingers touching him over his jeans. He’s hard. Big. Thick. You wrap your hand around the shape of him, and he groans, deep in his chest.

“What do you want me to do to you?” he asks, placing wet kisses on your skin.

“I don’t care, just make me come.” you breathe against his jaw, licking just beneath his ear.

Wooyoung adjusts the seat back slightly, giving you space but not distance. The second time you roll your hips against him, it’s not slow. It’s shameless. You moan, not even trying to hide it.

One of his hands leaves your waist. It trails down your stomach, smooth and slow. He slips it under your skirt like he’s done it a thousand times, no hesitation, no asking, just confident fingers dragging over your heat until you gasp and grab tighter at his hair.

“God, look at you,” Wooyoung murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Already falling apart.” He rolls the windows down halfway, lazy, casual. The breeze slips in, cool against your skin. You realize what he’s doing, letting the night hear you. Letting the whole city know who you’re moaning for.

Cocky bastard.

“You want to be loud for me?” he whispers against your jaw, fingers teasing your folds, slipping between them with perfect pressure. “Want to let them hear how good I make you feel?”

Your body tenses, eyes fluttering shut, breath caught on a moan as his fingers slip inside you, deep, slow, fucking up into you with confidence.

You grind down against his hand, head falling back. “Wooyoung…”

He growls. Literally growls.

“That’s it. Just like that.”

You’re sitting on his lap, backlit by the city, your skin bathed in moonlight and sin. Your shirt and bra are long gone, tossed somewhere into the passenger seat, your skirt barely hiding anything. You’re undone, flushed and panting, his fingers buried deep inside you, and he can’t look away.

He exhales sharply, like he just got hit. “Jesus,” he mutters, but it’s not a prayer, it’s a celebration. 

You grind against his hand shamelessly, your head tipping back as you let the sounds escape your throat. You don’t care if the city hears. You hope it does.

And neither does he. His free hand cradles your jaw, forces you to look at him, and you do. Eyes glassy, lips parted, your breath catching as his fingers curl just right again. You cry out, and he grins, proud, possessive. “That’s it.”

He leans forward to press his mouth against your chest, sucking a bruise into the soft curve beneath your breast, biting down just enough to make you twitch. “Louder,” he murmurs, tongue trailing hot and slow along your skin. “Let them hear how good I make you feel.”

The windows are down, the night air hitting your flushed skin, but you’re burning up. On fire from the inside out. And just when you think you’re going to tip over the edge…

“Come for me, pretty girl,” he whispers, eyes wild. “C’mon, I want to feel it.”

That’s all it takes.

You fall apart with a cry, nails dragging down his chest, hips grinding helplessly into his palm as he works you through it, as if he could drag it out longer just because he can. You ride his hand until you’re limp and breathless, your head falling forward onto his shoulder. Wooyoung keeps his hand there, holding you open, feeling you twitch around nothing as you come down.

You’re still panting, slumped against his chest, the city lights flickering behind you like a dream. You’ve never felt so raw. So wrecked.

So alive.

He finally slides his fingers out of you, slow, wet, deliberate, and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a smirk.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Knew you’d taste like trouble.”

He leans back slightly to look at you, the glow of the city behind your head like a halo.

And fuck if you aren’t the most dangerous thing he’s ever seen.

***

You don’t even remember how you got home after that night. One minute you’re burning against him, the next you’re in your bed, shirt crumpled in your hands, the city’s glow bleeding through your curtains. He drove you back, fast, silent, like the night didn’t want to hear you talking. No promises. No phone numbers. Exactly what you wanted.

No strings. No ties.

Just that raw escape from everything that’s expected of you. 

A few days later your cousin’s car sputters its last breath three blocks from the apartment, and now you’re both standing in the office of a mechanic’s garage, listening to the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low rumble of hip-hop from the back.

“You guys take walk-ins?” your cousin asks the man at the front desk.

“Depends who’s free,” the guy says, barely glancing up before he clicks a button and mutters into the intercom. “Yo, someone’s gotta check this Corolla in bay two.”

You almost don’t register the sound of footsteps behind the garage door. Almost. It swings open, and he walks in like it’s any other day. Black t-shirt, grease-stained hands, that same smug posture, lazy, lethal confidence in every step.

Wooyoung.

Your stomach flips. Your pulse forgets what it’s doing.

He doesn’t freeze. He clocks you in a second, eyes dragging from your shoes to your lips, and smirks like he knew this would happen eventually.

The garage smells like oil and gasoline, thick and sharp. Your cousin pops the hood of her beaten-up car and starts explaining the issues to Wooyoung. He listens quietly, nodding, hands tucked in the pockets, eyes flickering toward you more than once. His dark hair is tousled, shadows playing across his face. He’s calm, collected, but there’s something electric beneath that cool exterior.

“Gotta head to their office, handle some paperwork,” your cousin says without looking back. “Be back as soon as I can!” She walks off, leaving you alone with Wooyoung.

The silence is thick. Wooyoung’s there, crouched by the open hood, cigarette resting behind his ear, muscles flexing as he works. He doesn’t look up immediately, but the moment he does, his eyes catch yours with a slow, knowing smirk.

A smirk curls at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. Thought you’d be too smart for that.”

You cross your arms, eyes locked on his. “I’m full of surprises.”

He smirks, that cocky tilt of his head making your stomach flip. “Is that supposed to be a warning or an invitation?”

You laugh, sharp and unbothered. “Maybe both. Depends if you can handle it.”

Wooyoung’s gaze sharpens, amused and intrigued. He steps closer, the air tightening between you. “I race. Late nights, no rules, just speed and risk. You ever been to one?”

You cock your head, curious but guarded. “Can’t say I have.”

“Race’s tonight,” he says flatly. “Old pier, Maple Street. Ten o’clock. Show up.”

You meet his gaze evenly, lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t give anything away. “Maybe.” Without another word, you turn and walk toward the office, the sound of your footsteps sharp in the quiet garage. Behind you, you feel his eyes burning, like a spark waiting to ignite.

***

You didn’t plan on coming. You told yourself that more than once, heels clicking too confidently across the cracked asphalt now.

The lot is packed tonight, headlights cutting through smoke, the low thrum of engines and bass mixing with the scent of exhaust and beer. There’s laughter somewhere behind you. A fire pit burning on the outskirts. 

You’re not here for him. You’re here for the thrill. The mess. The chaos.

That’s what you tell yourself… right until you spot him.

He’s got the hood of his car up, hands deep in the engine under the yellow haze of the parking lot lights. Sweat glints at his temple. Leather jacket stretching as he moves. There’s something brutal and beautiful about him like this, focused, filthy, in his element.

You don’t stare long. Just a second. You tell yourself it’s curiosity, nothing more. Long enough to feel that old pull in your gut. Then you turn your head, pretend he’s nothing. Sip from your cup like you didn’t come here hoping he’d show.

The crowd buzzes around you, bass from someone’s speaker, the smell of gasoline and cheap weed and summer sweat. Your heels click softly when you shift your weight. The hem of your black skirt creeps higher when you cross your legs.

“You actually came.”

You glance over, deliberately slow. Wooyoung is standing next to you now, casual as ever, hands in his pockets, smirk lazy across his face.

“Didn’t realize you were the welcoming committee.” you tease.

He smiles, teeth sharp under the buzzing parking lot lights. He’s close now, not touching, but he never needs to be. His eyes drop, track the tiny black skirt hugging your hips, the heels that make your legs look miles long. You feel the way he looks at you, possessive, greedy, intrigued.

“You came here alone?” he asks, voice low, like a secret passed too close to your ear. 

You raise a brow, sip from the red cup in your hand. “Why? You worried?”

His gaze cuts to the guy who had been trying to talk to you before, then back to your mouth. His stare is slow, deliberate. Territorial in the kind of way he won’t admit out loud. “I should be.” Then, softer, almost too quiet beneath the bass and city noise, but it hits you square in the chest. “You shouldn’t come here looking like this.”

You smirk, weight shifting onto one hip as you tilt your head at him. “Scared you might get some competition?”

His eyes drag down your legs. Slowly. Taking their time. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You blink up at him, lashes thick. Innocent, like you don’t know exactly what he means. “Doing what?”

He steps closer, just a breath between you now. His voice drops. “You wanna be looked at?” His eyes flick to the crowd, jaw tightening. “You want every guy here thinking they’ve got a chance?”

You hum, almost amused. “I’m just having fun.”

His tongue drags across his bottom lip as he fights the twitch in his smirk, that look of barely restrained hunger already flooding back in. “You’re trouble.” he says simply, shaking his head. “Fucking trouble.”

Then, without asking, he slides his jacket off and drapes it around your shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Smelling like oil and smoke and him.

“I’m not cold,” you murmur, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs. “Didn’t say it was for that.” He leaves without another word. Just a look, something unreadable, sharp-edged, and hot enough to sink into your spine. 

The buzz of the crowd floods back in as soon as he’s gone. Music from someone’s speaker thumping through the pavement, tires squealing nearby. Laughter. Catcalls. You move, slipping through clusters of people, past hoods popped open and boys hyping up their cars. You find a low ledge near the corner of a building and climbs up, tugging his jacket tighter around your body as you settle. It still smells like him. Smoke, grease and something reckless.

Then you see him.

He’s stepping toward his car, the same one he made you come in last week. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his neck, messy strands of hair falling over his forehead. His jaw’s tight, focused. The cocky confidence is still there, but cut with something else, something darker. Dangerous.

You let your eyes trail over him slowly, drinking it all in: the way his eyes scan the street, calculating. Alive. You feel it from here, the pull, the high. He was made for this.

And then, just before he gets in, he looks up. Straight at you.

It’s not casual. It’s not an accident. His eyes find you like a match to gasoline. You don’t look away. You let him see you. Legs longs, his jacket barely covering the sin of your skirt, lips parted from the liquor and heat of it all. You tilt your head, just a fraction, enough to let him know you like what you see.

He grins. Barely there, but it cuts through the dark. Then he’s gone, slipping into the driver’s seat, engine revving like a war cry.

The flag drops and the cars launch forward like bullets, engines roar like wild beasts unleashed, tires screeching against the cracked asphalt. You’re breathless, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd. 

The car beside him tries to keep pace, but it’s like watching a child chase a shadow. He’s too good. Too confident. Too alive. He takes the first turn tight and fast, almost too fast, but he grips it, tires screaming in protest.

You bite your lip and smile, pulse ticking high. You weren’t looking for meaning.

But this? The danger, the speed, the burn in your veins?

This might be exactly what you needed.

Back on the straightaway, his car roars ahead, slicing through the night like a knife. The other driver strains, but Wooyoung’s already miles ahead. The city lights blur past, but he’s a sharp contrast, focused, untouchable. The finish line rushes toward him, and he crosses it first with a triumphant roar from the crowd.

The roar of engines dies down, and the crowd begins to thin after a while, their chatter fading into the night as anticipation for the next race lingers in the air. You step away from the edge of the track, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, heart still pounding from the rush. You find a spot behind a half-gutted van and lean back, letting the chaos fade. You breathe in the night and feel your pulse begin to settle.

Then a voice behind you cuts right through.

“Running off already?” he drawls.

You don’t jump. You don’t turn around too quickly. Just lift your gaze toward the sky for one long second, then shift to glance over your shoulder. 

He’s there. Lit up in the dim glow of a busted streetlamp, black t-shirt, eyes hot. His hair’s a little messy from the wind, jaw sharp with leftover adrenaline. Smug, as always.

“I figured you’d be busy,” you say, neutral.

“I am,” he shrugs. “But I saw you walk away.”

You face him fully now. “Congratulations, by the way.”

He steps closer, just a little. “You came to see me win?”

You tilt your head. “I came for the thrill.”

He laughs under his breath like he knows better. “And did you get it?”

You don't answer. Just let your gaze sweep over him, slow and deliberate. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, veins prominent from gripping the wheel. 

“I always knew you were trouble,” he murmurs, mouth twitching. “But that skirt? That walk? You just confirmed you’re doing it on purpose.”

You smirk. “You’re not the only one who likes a little attention.”

That makes his tongue press into his cheek, makes his eyes darken just a shade. Then he jerks his head toward the lot. “Come on.”

You raise a brow. “Where?”

“Away,” he says simply. “You’ve seen enough here, haven’t you?” He doesn’t wait for your answer, just starts walking toward his car like he knows you’ll come. And maybe that’s what makes you move, the confidence, the danger, the not-knowing.

Because you want to. The engine rumbles to life like it’s impatient, just like him. He doesn’t say a word when you glance at him, just flicks the headlights on, rolls down his window, and pulls out without looking back.

You don’t ask where he’s going. He doesn’t tell you. His hand is steady on the wheel. One arm draped over the top, wrist loose, like he’s done this a thousand times, like he owns every road. That’s when you see it. The rose inked on his forearm, just above the wrist. You never noticed it before. Sharp lines, bold petals, thorns curled close to the stem. Beautiful. Quietly dangerous.

Just like him.

After a while, you catch the scent of salt. The car slows, headlights cutting across uneven sand and gravel before dipping low, settling in front of a wide, open stretch of black water. The ocean looks infinite like this, still, deep, unbothered by the world they came from.

Wooyoung kills the engine.

The beach isn’t much, not the kind you'd take photos at, but it's empty. Silent. The kind of place people come to forget. Or to be alone, together.

“You always bring people out here?” you ask finally, your voice low, not because you're shy, but because anything louder might snap the moment in two.

His mouth twitches. “No.”

That’s all he gives you.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly and open the door. The air outside is colder than expected, and the wind off the ocean hits your bare legs like a slap, but you don’t flinch. You walk barefoot into the sand, heels dangling from one hand. His jacket hangs off your frame like a secret you shouldn’t be keeping.

You don’t look back. You don’t need to.

You hear him follow a few seconds later. The door shuts with a heavy thud, and his footsteps crunch behind you in the sand. And you feel it: his stare. Heavy. Hot. Carving into the back of your thighs like he’s still sitting behind the wheel, still imagining your legs slung over his seat.

“You gonna keep staring?” you ask, not turning around.

“I’m trying not to.”

You smile, slow. “You’re bad at that.”

He lets out a short laugh, the low kind that hums in your stomach. Then he steps closer, sand giving way under his boots.

“That skirt’s gonna be the death of me,” he mutters.

You finally turn your head, raise an eyebrow. “What does it do to you?”

He laughs under his breath, low and sharp. “You want the full list?”

You face him now. The hem of the jacket skims just above your thighs, the wind teasing it up every so often, just enough. And he's looking. His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, like he’s thinking too much. 

You blink up at him, heart in your throat but your expression smooth. “I’m starting to think you’ve got no self-control.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he says easily, taking another step forward. You don’t back away. “Not with you standing there like that. Jacket slipping off your shoulder. Those pretty little heels in your hand like you just got tired of playing nice.”

The air between you is thick now, too hot, too still, too quiet. Just the wind, the dark waves behind you, and the way he’s looking at you like every second without touching you is driving him fucking insane.

“You’re not making it easy,” he says low.

“I’m not trying to.” 

He exhales a sharp laugh, then grabs your jaw and kisses you. There’s no warning. No slow lead-in. His mouth crashes onto yours like he’s been starving, like he’s trying to taste everything he missed. You kiss him back just as hard, breath catching in your chest as your free hand fists in his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips, palms skimming down the sides of your thighs, up under the hem of your jacket.

Then he pulls back, just enough to speak, voice rough and low, eyes dark. “Get in the backseat.”

You blink, chest heaving. “What?”

His hand is still gripping your thigh, thumb stroking slow against the inside. “You heard me. Backseat. Now.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command that lights something wicked inside you. Without a word you walk around to the passenger side, pulling the door open with your heart pounding. He’s already climbing into the back, shoving the front seat forward to make space. The dome light overhead flickers on and then dims as you slide in beside him.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you again.

The car fills with the sound of breathless gasps and the shuffle of clothes, the scent of him closing in as his hands roam with renewed urgency. He tugs you into his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, your skirt riding high as you grind down against the bulge already straining in his jeans.

“Fuck,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. “This-, this is what I should’ve done last time.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time, biting his lip just hard enough to make him curse again. His hands slide up your back, underneath the jacket, skin against skin now, and it’s not enough. Nothing is.

“Keep the jacket on,” he mutters between kisses. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You laugh softly, a sound that breaks into a moan as he grinds up into you, the friction delicious and overwhelming. You know this is going to get messy. Exactly the way you want it.

Because this time, he’s not stopping.

He curses under his breath, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping, pulling you down harder onto him as he bucks up. “You’re gonna drive me insane,” he murmurs, biting down on the edge of your jaw, hard enough to make you gasp. “Making those little noises, grinding like that-, fuck-”

Your hands are already at his belt, unfastening it with practiced ease, the clink of metal loud in the quiet car. His breath catches the moment your fingers brush over the hard line of him, still straining against his jeans.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes dropping to where your hand moves. He leans back slightly, hands gripping your thighs as you shift just enough to pull him free, hot and heavy in your palm, thick and already leaking. He hisses when your thumb swipes over the tip.

“I’ve thought about this,” he says low, watching you from beneath heavy lashes. “You. In my car. Wearing my jacket. Getting me this fuckin’ hard without even trying.”

“You’re the one who didn’t fuck me last time,” you whisper, breathless, teasing.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. And I’ve regretted it every damn day since.” Then he reaches down between you both, pulls your underwear to the side with one hand, rough, impatient, and notches the head of his cock against your entrance. You rise to your knees to angle yourself better, nails digging into his bare shoulders. He meets your gaze, voice low and hoarse. “You ready?”

You nod. “Don’t you dare hold back.”

And he doesn’t.

He pushes in slow but deep as you sit down, eyes locked on yours the entire time like he’s watching your reaction. You clutch at him as your body stretches around him, breath hitching when he’s finally buried all the way inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “Tight as hell. Fucking perfect.”

You roll your hips experimentally and both of you moan at the friction.

His hands grip your waist, guiding you, dragging you along his cock in slow, dirty motions. The car creaks beneath you, the windows fogging with condensation, but neither of you notice. You’re too wrapped up in the heat between your bodies, the wet sound of you sliding over him again and again, your soft gasps clashing with his filthy praise.

“Just like that,” he pants, teeth gritted. “Ride me, baby. Take what you need.”

Your hands slide into his hair as you start to move faster, bouncing slightly in his lap. The jacket slides open, but you leave it on, feeling his hands grab your ass, tugging you down harder each time you rise.

“You look so good like this,” he rasps. “So fucking filthy. You like fucking me in my backseat, huh?”

You moan, nodding against his neck.

He thrusts up harder suddenly, making you cry out, nails raking down his chest. He grabs your jaw again, kissing you hard, tongue dragging over yours as his hips slam up into you with rough, desperate rhythm.

Suddenly he grips your hips tight and flips you without warning, your back hitting the seat, knees bent over the edge. He’s between your legs in seconds, shirt rucked up around his waist, jeans barely pushed down his thighs. The jacket is still on you, wide open now, framing your body like he meant for it. His body cages yours completely.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, voice thick. “I want you to see.”

You do. God, you do.

Because the sight of him like this, cock wet and thick, already pushing back into you, is obscene. His jaw clenched, chest rising and falling hard, lips parted with the filthiest groan when he sinks into you again. Your mouth falls open at the stretch, at the slick sound of it. You’re soaked for him, and he knows it.

“Look at that,” he grits out, glancing down between you as he drags out and slams back in, harder now. “You see how fucking good you take me?” He’s got a hand around your throat now, thumb dragging under your jaw as he stares down at you like he owns the moment. Sweat at his temples, veins in his neck, and that look in his eyes. Feral.

“You like seeing me fuck you? Like how deep I go? How filthy I get when I lose it over you?” he growls, watching every flicker of your expression. 

You try to hold eye contact, but your eyes flick down, greedy, hungry, obsessed. The way his cock slides in and out of you, the wet slap of it, the muscles in his stomach tightening with every thrust, it’s too much. Too perfect.

You nod fast, moaning, your nails digging into his arm. He’s relentless now, pace brutal, and all you can do is take it, back arching, toes curling, your voice high and breathless.

“Come for me,” he says low, rough. “Right now. Wanna feel it.”

And fuck, when he leans down and bites your neck, when his hand moves back to your thigh, spreading you wider so he can go even deeper, you fall. Hard. You break apart with a strangled moan, legs trembling around his waist, nails scraping down his back. He watches you fall apart, eyes locked on yours, hips never slowing.

“Goddamn,” he growls, voice tight. “You feel that? How you’re gripping me? Gonna make me-, fuck, gonna fill you up, baby. Just like this.”

You hold onto him as he groans, deep and raw, stuttering into you with one final thrust, spilling inside with a curse. You feel all of it. Every pulse. Every inch.

His palm slides up your thigh, and you feel every inch of him still inside you, thick, pulsing, stretching you open just right.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even move.

His head drops back, breath harsh, chest rising fast under that clingy black t-shirt. You watch the muscles shift beneath it, the way a single vein trails down his forearm, twitching slightly. He glances down between you, lips parting.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Still so fucking tight around me.” His hand slips under the jacket again, palm dragging up your skin. “You kept this on,” he says, almost to himself. “Fuck, you really wanted to kill me tonight, huh?”

You try to speak, but he shifts his hips, slow and deep, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan instead.

He grins. “That’s what I thought.”

He pulls out slow, deliberate, watching the mess he’s made of you. You try to close your legs, but he doesn’t let you. He taps your inner thigh, and you let him spread you open again, even if your body protests.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs. “Wanna look at what I did to you.”

And you do. You let him look. You let him take it all in, cocky eyes dropping to where you drip down onto the backseat, your thighs trembling, lips swollen from the way he kissed you.

You stay wrapped around each other in that charged silence, the world outside fading away until all that exists is the heat, the touch, and the undeniable pull between you. The night is yours, messy and unfiltered, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

You’re wrapped in a towel, hair damp, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower. The night outside your Airbnb window is soft and still, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, hot day. You’re not thinking about him, not actively, anyway. But your mind’s been drifting all week, every time your fingers brushed the edge of your mouth like they could still feel his kiss, like your thighs remembered how he fit between them.

You definitely weren’t expecting a knock at the door.

You freeze, blink toward the entrance. No one knows you here. Another knock, this one lazier, a little amused. You pad barefoot to the door, frowning, water still sliding down the back of your neck.

You open it, and there he is.

Wooyoung.

He leans against the doorframe like he was born to fill that space, in his black jacket, a black tee that hugs his chest, his hair messy like he’s been driving with the windows down. His eyes sweep over you, lazy and unhurried, from the damp strands stuck to your cheek to the towel knotted just above your breasts. His mouth curves, that signature smirk tugging at the corner. He lifts his eyes back to yours, full of something dark and warm and very sure of itself.

“Hey, trouble.”

Your heart stutters. “What-, How did you-”

He nods toward the hallway behind him. “Was driving around. Was in the area. Figured I’d stop by.”

“You remembered the address,” you say slowly, more to yourself than him. You hadn’t thought much of it when he drove you home, twice. Definitely didn’t expect him to turn up on your doorstep because of it.

He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t that hard.”

You tighten the towel slightly. “What made you think showing up unannounced was a good idea?”

Wooyoung shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye. “Didn’t think. Just came.” His gaze skims over you again, slower this time. “Good timing, huh?”

Your chin tips up just slightly, a smirk tugging at your lips now, small, smug, impossible to hide. You’re tempted, and you hate how much you like the power shift. How good it feels to make him wait on your word. He steps forward, just enough for the toe of his boot to cross the threshold.

You glance down at it, then back up at him. “You gonna stand there or come in?”

He raises a brow like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud, but the smirk that follows says he was hoping. “Didn’t wanna be rude,” he says, stepping closer like it’s nothing.

You just step back, towel still clutched to your chest, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with modesty. The door clicks shut behind him and you turn away, heading back toward the bedroom without waiting.

He follows. Of course he does.

You don’t say anything as you walk, still towel-wrapped and dripping faintly onto the hardwood. He’s behind you, quiet, but not subtle. You feel his eyes on your back, your legs, the curve of your spine. You don’t rush. Let him look. Let him want.

"Didn’t think you were the kind of girl to answer the door dressed like that,” he murmurs.

“Didn’t think you were the kind of guy to show up uninvited,” you toss back, stepping into the bedroom.

“No phone number. Kind of had to improvise,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway now, arms crossed, that cocky gleam in his eyes like he knows he’s already gotten under your skin. “You make a habit of showing up at girls’ doors hoping they’re half-naked?”

He smiles. “No. Just yours.”

You don’t answer, just turn your back to him and let the towel fall. It slips off your skin in one clean motion, landing at your feet with a soft rustle. You don’t look back. You don’t have to. You know what this does to him. The silence that falls between you says more than any words could.

Without looking back, you slip on a pair of black thongs slowly, then grab a white tank top. You don’t rush. You feel his eyes burning into you the entire time. The top clings to your still-damp skin, nipples pressing clearly through the fabric. You could’ve dressed. You chose not to. You like watching him struggle to keep his cool. “So,” you say, voice dry, turning around. “What do you want, Wooyoung?”

He shrugs, smile slow and lazy. “Thought maybe you’d let me stick around.”

You toss the towel onto a chair and brush past him on your way to the kitchen. “And if I don’t?”

He follows you again, of course. Closer this time. “I’ll change your mind.”

You open the fridge, bend down just enough to give him a view, and pull out a bottle of water. When you stand again, he’s closer.

“No plans tonight?” he asks.

You twist the cap off. “Was thinking about heading out.”

“Date?”

You look at him over your shoulder, sipping slow, the cool water sliding down your throat. “Why? You jealous?”

He smirks, but there’s something tighter in his jaw now. “I’d be stupid not to be.”

You laugh under your breath and turn, leaning against the counter, letting the cold bottle rest against your bare hip. “Would it stop you from showing up uninvited?”

“Not even a little.”

You study him for a beat. He’s not pretending not to look, his eyes flick to your chest again, linger. You know he wants to touch you. He’s barely keeping it together.

And you love it.

“So where were you thinking of going?” he asks, resting his hands on the counter across from you.

“Some bar a few blocks from here. Thought I’d look around.”

“You gonna make me watch you flirt with someone else tonight?”

You smile lazily. “You gonna stop me?”

He doesn’t answer, just steps closer again, hands braced on either side of the counter behind you now, caging you in. His voice drops a little. “Don’t really like the idea of anyone else looking at you.”

You arch a brow. “Mm. So here you are.”

His gaze drags down your body, slowly, all the way to your thighs, down to the swell of your breasts under the thin white cotton, and then back up. He doesn’t answer right away. You expect a flirt, a tease, a deflection, but when he speaks, his voice is steadier. Honest.

“I thought about you.”

Your chest tightens, just for a moment. You recover quickly, he doesn’t need to know what that does to you. So you lift your bottle again, let it cool your lips.

“I don’t make a habit of showing up for people,” he adds. “Not unless I want to.”

You lower the water, studying him now. “And what is it you want, exactly?”

His gaze moves across your face. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. “But I’m not done finding out.”

You stay quiet. The silence stretches between you, long and warm. You could break it, make it light again, but you don’t. Instead, you smile. Slow, knowing, and utterly unreadable. Not yes. Not no. Just… this. He catches it, the challenge in that smile. And it’s enough.

You step away, leaving your water on the counter, turning toward the bedroom without another word. Your fingers slide over the fabric of your skirt as you pull it on, eyes catching your reflection in the mirror, dark, a little wild, definitely dangerous.

From the doorway, you hear him speak, voice low, almost reluctant. “You always this hard to read?”

You turn slowly, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. “I’m not looking for easy,” you say quietly. “Not tonight.”

He nods, eyes sharp and steady. “Good. Me neither.”

You pull out a delicate black crop top, barely there, high neck, open back. You pull the old white tank top over your head and slide on the new one. The cotton clings to your curves, your nipples visibly peeking through the fabric from where he stands. You don’t fix it. You don’t care. In fact, you tilt your head and catch his reflection in the mirror. He’s staring, jaw tight again, mouth parted just slightly like he’s fighting the urge to say something or maybe do something.

You lift your hair, twisting it up casually to check how the top sits. “Still planning to stay?”

He steps behind you, slow, then reaches up without a word, catching a strand that slipped and tucking it gently behind your ear. His knuckles graze your cheek. His eyes hold yours in the mirror, and they’re darker now. Serious. Like you’ve peeled something open in him he hadn’t planned on showing.

That does something to you. And you hate that it does. Because this wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just tension. Just heat. Just one night in the back of his car and nothing else. But now he’s in your room. Talking like he means it. Looking at you like he wants to memorize what you look like under this light.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

You smirk at your reflection. “Somewhere you can watch me walk away all night.” And when you glance at him again, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip like he’s trying to behave. But you know better.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you think I’ll be able to keep my hands off you that long?”

You slide on your boots with a smirk. "Come on, then."

He’s still standing there when you straighten, grab your purse, and cross to the door. He follows like a shadow. And as you step out into the hallway, his fingers brush the small of your back, low and fleeting.

You say nothing. But you don’t stop him either.

The bar isn’t loud, but it hums, low light, red leather booths, the sharp clink of glass, the bass of something dark curling through the air. He holds the door open for you and lets you walk in first, doesn’t say anything, just watches the sway of your hips as you pass. He hasn’t stopped watching you.

You slide onto a stool without waiting for him, legs crossed, skirt riding high. He stands beside you for a second, watching, just watching, then pulls his stool in too close and sits.

You glance at him sideways. “No room anywhere else?”

He leans in without hesitation, breath brushing your jaw. “Didn’t come here to sit far away from you.”

You order and the bartender slides the drinks over and disappears. You take a sip without waiting. He doesn’t touch his glass yet. “You came dressed like this,” he murmurs, “and then invited me out?”

Your eyes flick to his. “I didn’t invite you.”

“You said come with you.”

“And you showed up uninvited to my apartment before that.”

He grins, teeth sharp, voice low. “And you let me in.”

You glance over, tongue touching the rim of your glass just because you feel like being a little cruel. “You like watching, huh?”

His jaw twitches. “I like knowing I’m the only one who gets to.”

You smile, slow and sharp. “That’s cute.”

He exhales a laugh, finally taking a sip of his drink. “It’s not cute. It’s dangerous.”

You hum. “That supposed to scare me?”

“No. It’s supposed to turn you on.”

There’s a pause. You don’t look at him, not right away. You set your glass down. Shift slightly so your bare thigh brushes his jeans. You feel the way he tenses. And then you glance up, slow. Your voice is silk when it comes out. “It does.”

He drags his gaze across your face like he’s memorizing every flicker of expression, then drops it again, to your chest, to your lips, to your thighs. His fingers flex around his glass. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I’m trying to be good.”

Your smile is wicked now. “Why?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, something real flickers there. But then he leans in, close enough that your knees brush. “Because if I weren’t, I’d already have you in the back of the bar. Up against a wall. Hands on your hips. My mouth on your neck.” 

You laugh softly, but your heart’s racing. “And you think I’d let you?”

“No,” he says, eyes flicking down again. “I think you’d beg for it.”

The air between you crackles. But then you shift back, take another sip, re-cross your legs just to fuck with him. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.”

He watches you with that burning, tethered hunger like he’s seconds from snapping it. But his voice stays calm when he says, “You’re not like anyone I’ve met.”

You rest your elbow on the bar, chin tilted. “You don’t know me.”

“Not yet,” he says. “But I’m gonna.”

There’s silence again. Not awkward, something heavier. Hungrier. He’s watching you like he could devour you whole. And you let him. You want him to. A couple people pass behind you, loud laughter and perfume in the air, but it doesn’t break the line between you.

“Drink,” you murmur, nudging his glass with your fingers.

He obeys. A beat. Then: “Let me take you home after this.”

You tilt your head. “You don’t want to watch me flirt with strangers first?”

His jaw ticks. “I’ll break his nose.”

You smile. And that’s the moment you know you’ve got him exactly where you want him. 

He leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear, voice low and raw. “I don’t want you anywhere but with me.” His fingers curl tighter around your hand, a silent promise and a warning all at once. You catch the fire in his eyes, fierce and unblinking.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you trace your thumb over the back of his hand, letting the electricity spark between you both. “Then take me. I’m all yours.”

Without another word, he signals for the check, hands never leaving you. Outside, the night air is cool against your skin, sharp and fresh. He opens the car door for you like he owns you already, then slides behind the wheel with a confidence that makes your heart race.

You drove for hours without direction, his hand resting heavy on your thigh, thumb tracing idle, possessive circles on bare skin. He made it clear between sharp glances and sharper words that he didn’t do the whole dating thing, didn’t play house, didn’t promise anything past the next time he could get his hands on you. And though it seemed dangerous to play like that, you couldn't stop chasing him. The hunger in it. The freedom.

You let him pull off into some dark, empty lot halfway across the city and fuck you in the backseat again, his mouth everywhere, hands rougher this time, more desperate, like he'd been holding back all night. Afterwards, the windows fogged and your pulse still high, he drove again, nowhere in particular, just fast, just far, before ending up at your place. And when he had you again, finally, inside your own bed, it was slower, but not softer. He still didn't ask to stay. He didn't need to.

***

It wasn’t supposed to be a regular thing.

You didn’t plan on seeing him again the night after the bar. Or the night after that. But then he kept showing up and you did the same. One ride becomes two. Then four. Then too many to count. Now, it’s routine, a rhythm carved out of adrenaline, midnight, and want.

At first, it was easy. Just fast rides and faster hands. Parking lots with the windows fogged, whispered laughs and skin flushed from the cold. But then came the in-betweens. Gas station pit stops at 2 a.m. where he’d buy you snacks you didn’t ask for. Lazy mornings when he didn’t leave right away. He takes you to races, slips an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

You never called it anything. You never talked about it like it mattered. But he was always there. And you kept letting him in.

Your cousin still thinks you’ve been keeping to yourself. Staying quiet. Healing. If she asked, you wouldn’t lie, but you wouldn’t tell her everything either. Because whatever this is with him, it’s not simple. It’s not safe. It isn’t supposed to last.

You promised yourself when you came to this city for the summer that you wouldn’t overthink. Wouldn’t chase anyone’s expectations. Wouldn’t waste time second-guessing every move you made. You were here to feel, not fix. To want, not explain.

And Wooyoung made that easy.

He had a way of clearing your mind like smoke filling a room, thick, dizzying, inescapable. Dangerous in a way that didn’t scare you, but hooked you. Like he was your own walking addiction, all sharp smiles and reckless charm, and you were already too far gone to pretend you didn’t like the way he burned.

You visit him when he works at the garage, sweat on his neck, grease on his fingers, and you leaned against the wall until he pulls you in. Mouths hungry. Hands rough. You’ve fucked against that garage door more times than you can remember, the metal always cold against your spine.

It happens everywhere. Every time.

The front seat. Backseat. Hood of his car when the engine’s still warm. In the car in a random alley in town. Once, behind the mechanic shop, half-hidden, half-exposed, and he didn’t even care. 

You’ve been to more than a few races by now. Long enough to know the scent of smoke and rubber. But nothing compares to watching him out there.

You live for that split second before the race starts, the way his jaw tightens, eyes dark and locked in, fire flickering behind them. Every time he wins, and he always wins, you catch yourself biting your lip, adrenaline tangled with pride. Like it’s your victory too. Because in a way, it is.

You’re already wearing his jacket when you step out of the car, the oversized black thing swallowing your frame, sleeves pushed up, and unmistakably his. Everyone knows it. They’ve seen you in it more than they’ve seen him wear it lately, and that says something.

Everyone knows not to look too long. They’ve learned. The hard way.

The race lot is alive, headlights burning through dusk, bass thumping from open trunks, engines snarling like wolves waiting to be let loose. You settle on the trunk of Wooyoung’s car, skirt riding up your thighs, legs crossed slow. 

And you know the eyes are coming.

You feel them before you see them. Some from the usuals. Most from the new ones. Men who don’t know better yet. Or maybe they do, and they’re just stupid.

Wooyoung’s bent under the open hood, checking something in the engine with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. You’ve been at this long enough to recognize faces. Wooyoung’s team. The regulars. And the ones from the rival crew, all bravado and cheap insults, waiting to be flattened.

One of them’s eyeing you too hard.

Some rival team idiot, leaning on a car that doesn’t belong to him. He lingers a few feet away, lean build and smug expression, drinking out of a red solo cup like he owns the place. He doesn’t. And you don’t bother acknowledging him. Not until he walks past you and whistles. Loud. Sharp.

“Damn,” he says, looking you up and down, eyes shameless. “She’s got a better rear than your car.”

Your head turns slowly. You don’t flinch, don’t frown, just arch a brow, roll your eyes, and look away like he’s not even worth your breath. He’s grinning like he hasn’t just stepped into a minefield. His eyes drag over you like he’s entitled to it. 

But you also know better than to think Wooyoung didn’t hear it. You know what’s coming. You know Wooyoung hears these comments, and you know exactly how he’ll respond.

You feel it first. That shift in the air. That tension that hits just before lightning strikes.

Then you hear it.

His laugh.

It’s low. Dangerous. It cuts through the bass like a blade through silk. Everyone around you stiffens because it’s not the kind of laugh that invites company. It’s the kind that warns. A sound that simmers with violence, a fuse already lit.

Wooyoung tosses the rag he was using onto the ground without a word and walks, each step deliberate, calculated. He doesn’t look at you as he passes. His eyes are locked on the idiot who’s about to learn a very painful lesson.

“Say that again,” Wooyoung says calmly, still with a disturbing smile on his face.

The guy chuckles nervously, looking around for backup that isn’t there. “Relax, man. It was a joke.”

You see the guy start to crack, the tension in his shoulders, the way he suddenly can’t look Wooyoung in the eye.

“You look at her like that again, or say some shit like that again,” Wooyoung murmurs, low enough that only the two of them, “and I’ll break your fucking legs. You understand? I’ll drag you behind my car and leave you in pieces by the end of the lot.”

His hand claps down hard on the guy’s shoulder, making him flinch. “Say something. Please. Give me a reason.”

The guy doesn’t say shit. Just stumbles backward, muttering apologies, practically tripping over himself as he bolts into the shadows.

Wooyoung doesn’t move for a long second.

You’re still perched on the hood, legs swinging lazily, pretending your whole body isn’t thrumming from the spectacle Wooyoung just made. When he turns, his smirk’s already in place. That cocky tilt to his mouth, the slow prowl in his walk. Like he knows you’re watching him just as closely as everyone else is.

And he knows exactly what he just did to you.

“Jesus,” you say as he stops in front of you, “You gonna mark your territory next?”

He chuckles low, eyes raking over you, from the collar of his jacket hanging loose on your shoulders, to the bare stretch of skin above your knees. His fingers hook into your waistband like it’s instinct. You bite your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, letting your gaze drop to his mouth, then drag lazily back up to meet his eyes. You know exactly what you’re doing.

“Don’t tempt me.” His mouth crashes against yours before you can say another word.

It’s not gentle. It’s all heat and teeth, a kiss that claims. He kisses you like he’s mad you made him feel anything at all. Like he’s trying to erase the sight of someone else’s eyes on your skin with every rough slide of his tongue. He drags your hips toward the edge of the car, like he wants you spread out and helpless for him right there.

When he pulls back, his lips are red, swollen. His voice is a whisper against your jaw.

“You keep teasing me like that, baby, and I’ll fuck the attitude out of you, right here, right now.”

***

It’s been over a month now.

You didn’t mean for it to turn into anything. It just... happened. 

Most mornings start in your kitchen, you in his shirt, him barefoot and sleepy-eyed, making something that smells better than it has any right to. He’s a good cook, like, suspiciously good, and you tease him for it constantly. Ask if he’s hiding a wife and three kids somewhere. He just tosses you a berry or flicks water at your leg and tells you to shut up and eat.

Sometimes you don’t leave the Airbnb all day. He puts something on the TV you’re not really watching, and you end up sprawled across his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare thigh, not even trying to be sneaky about it. Other days, you follow him to the garage, sit on a crate while he works on his car. He gets grease on his cheek, his neck, the curve of his collarbone, and you wipe it off for him with a teasing smile while he watches you like he’d rather pull you onto the hood and forget whatever else he was doing.

But you haven’t told him. That you’re only here for the summer. That this, whatever it is, has a timer on it.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s smart. But you’ve heard him talk. Heard his friends joke. Heard the girls he used to fuck and toss to the side mention that he doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t do feelings, doesn’t stay. You’ve heard it in his own voice too, casual, offhand comments when someone asks if you’re his girl and he shrugs it off or changes the subject, suddenly preoccupied with something else. It stings a little every time. Not dramatic, not devastating, but quiet, like a bruise you don’t want to press on. Like maybe he wants you, but not really wants you. Not all the way.

So you keep it to yourself.

And in the meantime, you ride with him everywhere. Sit in his seat, steal his fries, kiss him in the glow of red lights. You let him cook for you. You brush his hair back when he lets it grow too long. You laugh at his dumb jokes. He never says what this is. And neither do you.

But he always shows up. And you always open the door.

Tonight, you’re at yet another of his races. 

Engines rumble like thunder, headlights cutting through the night. You’re standing at your usual spot, perched on the edge of the crowd, his jacket zipped halfway up your chest, hair pulled back just enough to see everything. Your eyes never leave the sleek black car rolling up to the start line, Wooyoung’s.

He pulls in like he owns the asphalt, engine growling beneath him like it wants to be let loose. His gaze sweeps over you, slow, loaded, then he smirks, that cocky little thing he does right before he tears the world apart.

And still, all you can think about is the way he kissed you ten minutes ago. Hot, full, tongue first, like he couldn’t hold back. You still feel it, the heat of it, the taste of him, the way he murmured “Stay where I can see you” against your lips like a warning, or a promise.

The flag girl steps forward. He revs his engine once, twice, your heartbeat syncs with the rhythm. The light turns green, and he’s gone.

You don’t cheer. Just watch, transfixed. The way he takes turns, precise and wild, engine howling as he cuts through the competition like it’s nothing. It’s art. It’s war. It’s him. The matte black machine moves like it’s part of him, sleek, brutal, untouchable. Every time he shifts gears, it feels like the ground itself vibrates beneath your feet.

And then–

“COPS!”

The scream rips through the air, high and raw and terrifying. Then the first siren wails.

All hell breaks loose.

Blue and red lights explode across the lot like fireworks. More sirens. Shouts. People start running in every direction, drinks spilling, tires screeching, screams rising. A girl next to you shoves past you so hard you stumble back, heels slipping on the uneven concrete.

The panic is total. A stampede.

Someone crashes into your side. You spin, disoriented, trying to find an exit through the chaos, but bodies are slamming against each other, climbing over cars, scrambling for cover. You can’t see anything, not the streets, not where the cops are coming from, not even Wooyoung.

You try to run. Make it three steps before your foot catches on something, a curb, a bottle, someone’s leg, and you crash to the ground hard, knees scraping raw against pavement. Pain blooms sharp and hot as your palms catch you, barely.

Panic grabs you by the throat. You’re alone. You don’t know where he is. The cops are coming fast.

And then-

A hand wraps around your arm.

Strong. Unshakable. Familiar.

You look up and he’s there, Wooyoung, eyes wild with adrenaline, jaw tight, his voice low and cutting through the noise like a blade. “Come on.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just yanks you up with one swift pull and hauls you against his side. He’s already planned his route. His car is parked in the shadows between a dumpster and a dead-end wall. He doesn’t slow down. Throws open the passenger door and shoves you inside. You barely register the click of your seatbelt before he’s in the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Hold on.”

The tires scream as he throws it into gear and peels out of the lot, weaving through fleeing cars and panicked people like the devil himself is on your heels, and maybe he is. You see flashes of uniforms in the rearview mirror. 

And then he’s driving. Not just fast, fucking insane.

He weaves through the mess like it’s nothing, dodging people, cars, even a barricade. You clutch the edge of the seat with both hands, heart slamming into your ribs. “Wooyoung-,” you start, breathless, but he cuts you off with a sharp, “Hold on.”

A sharp turn. Another. He ducks down a narrow alley and surges back onto the road. Blue lights flash behind you, distant, then farther, then gone.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow.

You have no idea where you are, what neighborhood, what street, but he drives like he owns it. Like he knows every shortcut, every shadow, every alley that leads nowhere. He turns down a quieter street, dim, still, lined with apartment buildings. Finally, finally, he slows, pulls into a nearly empty lot, and kills the engine.

The air between you feels tight. You stare ahead, still locked in the adrenaline-fueled fog of escape, limbs buzzing, throat dry. Every part of you feels too tense to move. You’ve never been here before, in this area, and you don’t ask. Not yet.

Beside you, Wooyoung sits with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward for a long moment like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or let the silence win. Finally, he turns his head toward you, his jaw tight but his voice softer than you expect. 

“You okay?”

You almost say yes. You almost lie. But then your gaze drops, and you notice the sting in your palms, the throb you’d tuned out in the panic. You glance down to find both your hands scraped raw, speckled with gravel and blood. Your knees too, now that you notice it, dark streaks running down your shins. You hadn’t felt it when you fell, too busy chasing your breath through a stampede of strangers and spinning lights. Now the pain is catching up.

Wooyoung sees it before you can say anything. His hand reaches out, catches yours before you can tuck them away. He turns your palms over in his, his thumbs brush carefully along the edges of your cuts, not pressing, just grounding. He doesn’t flinch at the blood. 

“Come on,” he says quietly, rising to his feet. He opens his door and steps out, coming around to yours, opening it before you can reach for the handle. You follow him, still half in a daze, leading you up two flights of concrete stairs and through a door you’ve never seen before.

The apartment is dim when he pushes it open, warm light spilling from a single lamp near the couch. It’s cleaner than you expected, simple, utilitarian, not dressed up, but lived-in.  You barely have time to look before he disappears down the hallway and comes back with a first aid kit and a damp towel. He doesn’t say a word. Just gestures to the couch, and when you sit, he kneels in front of you without hesitation.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just works in silence, jaw tight, eyes locked on your hand like it’s something breakable. The towel is warm and damp, his fingers careful as they blot the blood away from your palm. It stings, but you don’t flinch. Not from the pain, not from him. His touch is gentler than it has any right to be, considering how fast he’d just driven you through the night.

You want to say something, maybe make a joke to ease the weight in the room, but your throat is too tight.

“You should be more careful,” he finally says, voice low, rough-edged. It’s not scolding, not teasing. It’s something softer than either, quiet concern trying not to sound like it matters.

You glance at him, a bitter smile pulling at the edge of your mouth. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

That makes him pause. He looks up, eyes catching yours like he heard everything you didn’t say. “Didn’t say I was,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering across his face. “But that doesn’t mean I want to watch you fall apart.”

Your mouth goes dry. The way he says it, it’s not romantic. Not sweet. It’s honest. Raw. And it disarms you more than anything else tonight.

He moves on to your knees next. His fingers graze bare skin and your breath catches, but he doesn’t look up. He just keeps working. Focused. Steady. Like you’re both pretending this is normal. And you don’t realize until he’s done, until the last bandage is pressed into place, that the silence between you has grown heavier. 

He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to think straight, and then suddenly stands, stepping away from you like he needs distance just to breathe. His fingers twitch at his sides. And then his voice cuts through the room, low but cracked with something he can’t keep down. “I don’t fucking do shit like this,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t come back for people. I don’t panic. I don’t care like that.”

You get to your feet slowly. Barefoot. Still a little dazed. The pain in your knees is sharp but distant, dulled by the weight of everything he’s saying.

He scoffs, but it sounds too raw to be cynical. “You-, fuck. You fell. You were bleeding. You were on the ground and I couldn’t find you. I didn’t even-” He swallows, shaking his head like the memory itself stings. “I swear to god I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I didn’t know if you were-”

He swallows hard. Shakes his head. “I didn’t know if I’d get to you in time.”

Your heart aches in your chest, a dull, spreading thing. He’s still talking, more to the air than to you, and it’s clear he hasn’t unpacked what any of this means.

“I didn’t even think. I just ran. Like some idiot in a movie. Like you mattered more than getting caught. More than the car. More than myself.”

You walk to him slowly. Not interrupting. Just moving until you’re close enough that he has to feel you there. “I’m okay,” you say gently.

He turns, finally meeting your eyes, and what you see in his face makes your breath catch. There’s fear there. Not the kind from flashing lights and sirens, something deeper. Something quieter. Like he’s afraid of what he just felt. Afraid of what you mean.

“I don’t know what this is,” he murmurs. “But seeing you fall like that? Seeing blood on your hands? I-, I didn’t even know it could fucking hurt like that.”

He’s not touching you. Doesn’t reach for you. Like he’s afraid even that might be too much.

So you reach instead. You lift your hand, still bandaged, and place it softly on his chest. Right over his heart. “It’s okay,” you say. “We’re both okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, and the silence stretches, not awkward, just full. Full of what neither of you is brave enough to name. Then he leans in slowly, carefully. Like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His lips brush yours, the barest touch, and then he pauses, giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t. So he kisses you. Soft. Scared. Reverent.

A kiss so soft you aren’t sure if you ever felt him so careful before. He cups your face, doesn’t push or tries to make the kiss escalate into anything. Just a kiss full of words neither of you can say out loud.

You both start getting ready to bed shortly after. He digs through a drawer and pulls out a worn t-shirt, faded black, soft from too many washes, and holds it out to you. You peel off what’s left of your clothes without a word, not bothering to leave the room. You’ve done far more with him than change in front of each other. Modesty was gone the second you got in his car the night you met him.

The shirt falls low on your thighs. His eyes flicker over you for a second, but he doesn’t say anything. You watch as he reaches for his own shirt, pulls it over his head.

That’s when you see it.

Not the faint bruises or the surface scrapes he usually calls battle wounds, this is different. A scar, brutal and deliberate, slices across his back. It’s old, but deep. Twisted. Ugly in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

He catches your reflection in the mirror. Sees the way your eyes lock onto it. And he doesn’t flinch this time. "You gonna ask?" he says, voice low.

You don’t. You just walk closer, slow. Let your fingers ghost along the raised skin. He flinches, not because of the touch, but because of what it means.

“I’ve never seen that one before,” you say softly. You glance up. "You’ve told me every scar you’ve got came from racing.”

“That one didn’t.”

You wait. Let him decide if he wants to keep running.

“My mom had this boyfriend when I was younger. Real piece of shit. Loud. Drank too much. Always mad about something. One of those types that got mean when no one was looking.” He pauses. Breathes. “He didn’t like that I was in his house. Didn’t like that I was… me.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t say anything yet. 

“One night, I told him to go fuck himself. Didn’t even yell it. Just said it. He didn’t like that either.” He runs a hand down his face. “He threw a bottle at me. Then pushed me through a glass door. Said it was an accident when he told my mom.”

You stare at him, horror rising slow and bitter in your throat.

“She believed him. Or she pretended to.” He lets out a breath, tired and rough around the edges. “The rest of the shit? Yeah. That came from racing. From working on cars. From fights I chose. But that one…” He finally drops his eyes from the mirror. “That one stayed.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

You don’t ask what happened after. You don’t need to.

He laughs once, dry and humorless. “Told people I got it from flipping my first bike. Sounds cooler than getting shredded by some drunk asshole trying to prove he was bigger than a kid.”

Your hand moves gently, fingertips brushing the scar that runs ragged and long over his back.

“I figured I’d lie about it forever,” he murmurs.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because you saw it. And I…” He swallows hard. “I feel like I can tell you.”

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you press a kiss to his back, right above the scar, right where it starts. Then another, lower. Then your arms wrap slowly around his waist, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades. You feel him exhale when you hold him. Deep, shaky, like the air was trapped somewhere in him all this time and he’s only now letting it out.

Your fingers curl around his stomach. His hands come up, covering yours. Eventually, the silence shifts. “C’mon,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Let’s sleep.”

You follow him without question, crawling onto the bed as he switches off the light. Darkness swallows the room, and you hear him move around the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight when he gets in.

There’s a beat of silence. Another.

Then his arm reaches out in the dark. It lands on your hip, hesitant at first, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you like this, without hunger. Without heat. You roll onto your side and press your back against his chest.

That’s all it takes.

His arm curls tighter around you, and he tucks his face into your neck like he needs to hide there. Like your skin might silence all the chaos still crashing inside him. He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the car.

Tentatively, he shifts closer, arm slipping around your waist. It’s unsure, gentle, like he's still figuring out how to hold someone when it’s not about claiming, when it’s about comfort. When it means something.

This is the first night you fall asleep together without bruises between your thighs or adrenaline in your blood. Just warmth. Just the weight of his body behind yours, heavy and grounding.

It feels like you finally stopped running.

***

You don’t talk about what this is. Not once.

Not in bed, not on long drives, not when he kisses you like he’s terrified to stop. Not even when you’re curled up in his passenger seat at 2AM and his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist like a secret.

There’s too much at risk. Too much truth that would ruin the thrill of not knowing.

Because he doesn’t do relationships. Doesn’t do promises. He’s said it before, with words, with the way he’s lived. And you? You came to this city to escape all of that. Rules, opinions, weight. You’re still only here for the summer, something he doesn’t know, and you haven’t figured out how to say.

So you don’t say it.

Instead, you live in your Airbnb like it’s permanent. Like you belong in his car, like his jacket is just something that naturally belongs on your back. You leave your lip balm in his glove box. Your extra phone charger in the center console. A bag of snacks in his trunk because you’re always hungry after races.

And he lets you. Doesn’t ask questions.

But Wooyoung? He’s changed.

People know now. At every race, every meet-up, every underground garage, it’s known: you’re his. Not in any official way. No one dares call you his girlfriend, not after the way he handled it last time someone tried.

It was offhand, just a throwaway comment from a guy near the starting line, half-laughing when he said, “Didn’t know you were bringing your girlfriend tonight.”

Wooyoung didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look your way. He just reached for his drink, shrugged once, and changed the subject like the thought didn’t even deserve space in his head. Like the idea of you being something more than what you already are was ridiculous.

You smiled, pretended you didn’t notice, but something in your chest went tight and stayed that way the rest of the night. It’s not like you expected him to correct the guy. Not like you expected him to say yeah, she’s mine in front of everyone. But still. The way he ducked the question entirely, like it was easier to pretend nothing existed at all, left you feeling just a little less wanted.

Even still, he makes it known. The jacket he tosses you without asking. The way he watches from across the crowd, eyes locked on you like a storm waiting to break. The way he always drives you home himself, even if it means leaving early.

He doesn’t call you his. But he acts like you are. And somehow, that contradiction is the part that’s starting to hurt. 

Because Wooyoung would rather die than have someone else think they have a chance with you.

Like the night at the food truck. You’re standing behind him, trying to decide if you want fries or a burger, when a guy from another team slides too close beside you. Tries to flirt. Tries to joke. Light, easy, harmless. But Wooyoung hears your polite laugh. The subtle shift of your body. He turns around and the look on his face silences everything around you. He doesn’t touch the guy. Doesn’t raise his voice.

Just says, “You always this brave, or is it a head injury thing?”

It’s calm. Dead calm. That terrifying kind of stillness that means danger’s already here. The guy stutters, laughs nervously, backs off fast. You’re quiet as Wooyoung orders for you both without asking what you want. He already knows.

Another time, you're out in public together, grabbing coffee, of all things. You're standing beside him in line, scrolling your phone, not paying attention when someone brushes too close behind you in the cramped café.

Wooyoung notices. And it's not subtle.

He shifts, steps between you and whoever the guy was, planting a hand flat on your lower back like a warning. His fingers are warm, rings cold, tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. His eyes cut across the room, jaw clenched tight. The guy moves. Fast. Like he can feel it too, that Wooyoung isn’t fucking playing anymore. He doesn’t talk much when it happens. Doesn’t shout, doesn’t cause scenes. 

Just steps in, makes it very clear without saying much at all: touch her and die.

Even in quieter moments, it’s there.

When you reach across the console to grab his hand, he laces your fingers together, tight, like he’s holding on for both of you. He walks you to your door every single time now. Doesn't leave until you’re inside, lights on. Waits for you to text him. If you forget, he calls. If you don’t answer, he shows up.

You once cut your finger in the kitchen, barely a scratch, but when you flinch and suck in a breath, he’s already there. Ripping a paper towel, pressing it gently to your skin.

“It’s fine,” you say.

He doesn’t answer. Just wraps it for you, checking it twice like you might bleed out. You see it in his eyes, it’s not about the cut. It’s the idea that you could be hurt when he wasn’t there. That he can’t protect you from everything.

Later, you find a box of bandages in his car. You didn’t put them there.

Even in bed, it’s different. Still intense. Still raw. Still him taking control, pushing you exactly where he wants you, but now there’s a tightness to it, like he needs to make sure you’re still here. He checks in more, holds you longer.

He kisses you when it’s over. Not just because it’s hot. But because he needs to. Needs to remind himself that you’re real and still wrapped up in his sheets and not leaving. Not yet. And he never says it, neither of you do, but it’s all there.

The way he glares at people who so much as look your way. The way he drives faster when you fall asleep in his car, like getting you somewhere safe is the most important thing in the world. The way his hand always finds your thigh when you’re beside him, not to tease, but to anchor himself.

Neither of you say it. Because if you say what it is, you might have to admit what it’s becoming.

And then you’d have to face the truth: That you were supposed to stay untethered. And he was never supposed to care this much.

***

You’ve been coming by the mechanic more often than you meant to.

It started casual, dropping off food, sitting on the hood of his car while he worked. Now it’s just… habit. Comfortable. Like muscle memory. No one bats an eye anymore when you stroll through the side door with a drink in hand and his name on your lips.

Today’s no different, at least, it shouldn’t be. You push open the rusted side gate, the sun hitting the back of your neck, and move past the usual row of busted-up cars. His car is here. You spot it immediately. You already know the license plate by heart.

It’s almost your last week in the city.

You haven’t told him yet.

You’ve meant to. You meant to today. You even practiced what to say on the way here, something light, something like a joke, even though there’s nothing funny about it. You just wanted to see how he’d react. Maybe you were hoping it’d tell you something.

Instead, you hear voices from the other side of the office wall. And suddenly, none of your plans matter.

You’re about to head toward the office when you hear voices, low and muffled through the cracked window. You pause without meaning to. It’s his coworker, the chatty one with a loud voice. You’ve seen him around. He’s always giving Wooyoung shit. He’s doing it now. He’s saying, “I don’t know, man. Feels risky. Letting someone get close like that.”

Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away.

The colleague keeps going, tone easy but serious. “I mean, it’s cool she hangs around, I like her. She’s not dramatic or clingy or anything. But you always said you don’t do the whole relationship thing.”

Another pause. A longer one.

Wooyoung’s voice finally comes, quiet, like he’s not really sure how much he wants to say. “Yeah. You’re right”

The colleague responds right away, voice teasing. “Come on. Don’t act like it’s not true. You’re not built for that shit, dude. You’d die if someone asked you to label anything.” He laughs again, louder this time. You hear a clink of a socket wrench hitting the metal table.

Wooyoung says something else too soft to catch.

The colleague snorts a little. “No, I remember what you said. You were all ‘yeah, she was cool, nice hookup, chill vibes, that’s it.’”

Wooyoung doesn’t laugh at that. Doesn’t argue either. He stays quiet.

And it’s that silence, that silence, that makes something tighten in your chest.

Because you know what this is. You knew walking into it. You knew from the first night when he didn’t ask your number and you didn’t offer. You both agreed, wordlessly, on what this wasn’t.

But lately… it’s felt like something more. Or maybe that was just you, reading too much into the way his hand would rest on your thigh even after everything was over. Or the way he always made sure you got home. Or how he never let anyone else so much as look at you sideways.

And still, when it mattered, when someone asked, he didn’t say anything. Not she’s not just a hookup. Not I like having her around. Not even yeah, it’s not like that.

Just silence.

You step back from the window before you can hear more. The drink in your hand is still cold. You bring it with you again and leave before anyone sees you. You don’t slam the gate. You don’t text him. You don’t say a word. You just vanish, like maybe you were never supposed to be there in the first place.

***

The sun is starting to set when your cousin calls. “You’re going home next week. You have to come to the party.”

You’re halfway through folding a pair of jeans, your suitcase open on the floor like it’s mocking you. Your Airbnb’s quiet mess, zippers half-pulled, makeup bags tossed to the side, a pair of heels you haven’t touched in weeks abandoned by the door.

“I don’t think I can,” you tell her, voice even. “Still a lot of packing left.”

There’s a pause on her end. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t press, which you’re grateful for. You hang up after promising to text if you change your mind. Your phone buzzes again a few minutes later.

wooyoung: party’s still on?

You hesitate before answering.

you: yeah. go without me though. i’ve got a headache. go have fun, i’ll see you tomorrow maybe :)

You add the smiley like punctuation. Like proof that you’re fine. Like it’ll make him believe it. He replies quickly.

wooyoung: should I be worried?

You stare at the screen for a second too long, then type back:

you: no, go have fun. don’t worry about me

You set your phone face-down on the bed.

Across town, Wooyoung’s been sitting at the bar too long. The drink in front of him has gone warm. Condensation slicks down the sides of the glass, untouched, just like every conversation around him. People come and go, throwing smiles, bumping his shoulder, asking if he’s alright.

He shrugs them off. Nods once. Plays it cool.

But he’s checked his phone maybe six times in the last twenty minutes. Still nothing. No double text. No “changed my mind” or “come get me” or even just a stupid emoji. He keeps glancing toward the front door anyway, hoping you’ll walk through like you always do, unbothered, lowkey, dressed like you didn’t mean to wreck his whole night.

But the door doesn’t open.

He exhales, tips his head back against the wall behind the bar. The music is relentless, some overproduced club track bleeding through every surface, but his thoughts are louder.  And then, from a few stools down, like fate’s cruel hand, he hears your name. Not shouted. Not screamed across the club. Just mentioned in passing, carried casually from the girl standing a few feet away, and it makes his spine straighten.

“Well, it’s almost her last week here.” a girl says casually, voice raised just enough over the beat.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes shift. Three girls. Mid-conversation. Loud over the music but not enough to draw attention. Then one of them, your cousin. He remembers her. The same girl you ditched once to meet up with him instead.

“She flies out next week,” she says with a little laugh. “She was very clear from the start, just here for the summer, nothing permanent.”

His stomach drops. Next week.

Another girl blinks. “Right. That’s wild. It went by fast.”

“She’s been here since June,” your cousin adds, shaking her head fondly. “Kind of kept to herself most of the time. Said she just needed a break from everything. A reset. She said she wanted it low-key, didn’t want a big sendoff or anything. Just… come, live a little, leave.”

Wooyoung stands up.

He doesn't hesitate, doesn’t weigh his options or think about whether it’ll blow your cover, he doesn't even fucking care. He walks straight toward them, shoving his way past a group of guys to get to her. Your cousin turns, laughing mid-sentence, and then her face twists into startled confusion when she sees him.

“Wooyoung?”

He doesn’t wait. “What did you just say?”

Her brows crease. “About what?”

“You said she’s leaving.”

She blinks. “Y/N? Yeah… she’s going back home next week. Saturday, I think.”

His voice drops. “Why?”

Now she’s really confused. Her head tilts, but there’s no edge to her, just honest confusion. “I mean… she’s going back home? She was just here for the summer.”

Wooyoung swallows hard. Temporary. Like he was temporary.

The cousin squints a little. “Why are you-,?” She doesn’t finish. Wooyoung is already turning away.

Something hot flickers behind his ribs, deeper than confusion, heavier than jealousy. A fire that starts in his chest and spreads fast, scorching through every moment you spent in his passenger seat with his hand on your thigh like you belonged to him. Every time you smiled like you had time. Like you weren’t planning to vanish.

You didn’t tell him.

And with every step, his hands curl tighter into fists. Not from rage, from betrayal. Not because you’re leaving, but because you never gave him the chance to ask you to stay.

***

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly spinning your phone between your fingers. Not texting. Not calling. Just… holding it. The silence stretches, filled only by the low hum of the fan and the distant sound of kids playing outside.

A half-finished iced coffee sweats on the nightstand. You haven’t touched it in an hour.

Your eyes drift toward the sneakers by the door, the laces knotted from the last time you ran through the city barefoot after a night out. That night ended in his car. His laugh still echoes in your ears sometimes.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You freeze. Three sharp raps against the door, no hesitation, no time to think. You walk to the door slowly, heart climbing your throat, hands slightly shaking. You open the door.

And there he is.

Wooyoung. Standing on your doorstep like a storm you forgot to prepare for. His jaw is tight. Eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, like they’ve been chewing on a fire he can’t put out. He’s still in the clothes from the club, shirt slightly rumpled. One look at him and the walls you’ve spent the last twenty-four hours building start to crack.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He doesn’t smile.

“What the hell were you gonna do?” he says, voice low, tight with something brittle. “Just leave?”

He knows.

You open your mouth, close it. The hallway feels too narrow. The room behind you too full of all the things you’re not saying. “I wanted to tell you,” you say, barely above a whisper.

His eyes narrow. “When, exactly? When you're already on a flight? After I'm wondering why you’re not picking up anymore, when I’m standing around like a fucking idiot waiting for you to show up like you always do?”

You flinch. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

His head jerks like you hit him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

You inhale sharply. And it all rushes out.

“I didn’t think it mattered because you’ve been telling me for weeks, that whatever this is, it was never going to be real to you,” you say, voice shaking. “Every time someone mentioned the word relationship, you changed the subject. Joked it off. Acted like it was a disease you’d catch if you got too close.”

He flinches.

“You don’t know what that feels like,” you go on, eyes stinging now. “To be there with you. Around your people. At the shop. At those stupid races. Knowing everyone knows what this is, but still… I’m nothing. I’m not yours. I never will be.”

“That’s not-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You wanted me,” you say. “You want me. But not really. Not in the way that matters. You wanted the thrill, the adrenaline, the sex, the way I look sitting on the hood of your car. But you didn’t want me. Not all of me. Not the kind of want that keeps someone.” You laugh, bitter and low. “Do you know how fucking awful that feels? Like the thought of being with me was the worst fucking thing in the world.”

His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

“You made me feel like I was asking for too much by just… existing. Like being wanted, really wanted, was too much to ask from you.”

He steps forward, hands balled at his sides, struggling to breathe like the weight of your words are crushing his ribs.

His laugh is bitter. “You think you’re the only one hurt here? You were gonna leave without a word like I was nothing. Like I’m just a pit stop until you find something better.”

He stops, looks at you with eyes that are almost wild. “I’m not good at this, at talking, at feelings, at... anything like that. Hell, I never thought I needed to be. I told myself I’d never need anyone. I built these walls so fucking high, so no one could get close enough to tear me apart.”

His jaw clenches. “But then you show up, and it’s like everything I thought I knew gets smashed to shit. You weren’t supposed to be the one I gave a damn about. You weren’t supposed to be the one who made me wanna drop my guard. But you did.” He swears under his breath, fists clenched. “And now? Now I find out you’re leaving, just like that. No warning, no fight, no ‘hey, I’m scared, I wanna talk.’ Nothing. Just packing up and going like I was never even here.”

His voice cracks just a little, anger tangled with something rawer. “Do you know how it feels to be the idiot? The one who let himself hope, who let himself need someone, only to get punched in the gut when they bail?”

He laughs bitterly. “I don’t know if I’m pissed at you or myself more. Maybe both.” He takes a step closer, voice low but fierce. “But I do know this, If I’m here, if I let you in, it’s because you meant something. Because it meant something to me for the first damn time ever.”

You try to speak, but he cuts you off.

“Save it. I don’t wanna hear the excuses. I get it, you didn’t think it mattered. That’s exactly the problem.”

He takes a step back, a dead laugh escaping him, low and bitter. “Well, congratulations. You just showed me what it feels like to be on the other side. To be lied to. To be played.” He stares at you, eyes cold now, voice hard. “Hope it was worth it.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turns sharply and storms away.

***

For the whole week, the tears don’t stop. They come uninvited, sometimes silent, sometimes raw and shaking, but always leaving that hollow ache buried deep inside your chest. You find yourself crying in the quiet moments: sitting on the edge of the bed, in the shower with water running over your face, staring out the window when the world moves on without you.

Each morning, you wake swollen-eyed, sun pouring through the curtains, bright and uncaring, as if nothing has changed. But everything has shattered. You miss him so deeply it twists your stomach into knots, a sickness that won’t ease. The nights are the worst. 

You also couldn’t keep hiding it from your cousin anymore. Or, she figured it out on herself. “You’ve been off lately.” your cousin had said, eying you up and down.

You hesitated. “I’m just tired.”

She arched a brow. “Is this about him?”

You froze. “Who?”

“Wooyoung.” She didn’t say it mean, just like she’s trying to piece something together. “I don’t know what’s going on, but the way he looked when I mentioned you leaving… It was weird. Like he knows you more than you’ve told me.”

You couldn’t look her in the eyes. Seconds away from breaking into a full sob for the twelfth time that day. 

“Anyway,” she said quickly, waving it off. “Whatever it is, whatever it was, just let it go tonight, okay? Party like it’s the last night of your life.”

And you’ve continued to try and enjoy your last days here, but it’s impossible. Your head is a mess, thoughts crashing and spinning, none of them making sense. Should you text him goodbye? Call him? Pretend none of it happened? But what if silence is worse?

You pace the apartment, heart pounding in your chest, every breath thick with uncertainty. You don’t know what you want, or maybe you do, but you’re too scared to admit it.

Eventually, you drag yourself toward the door, ready to leave the place for a minute, to get some fresh air and maybe clarity. You open the door, but something steals your attention. A folded piece of paper taped carefully to the wood.

Curious, you pull the letter free and unfold it. Your breath catches the moment your eyes land on the handwriting, unmistakably his. The paper feels heavier than it is, like every word inside carries weight you weren’t prepared for.

***

It’s now late evening.

You haven’t moved from your spot in hours. Curled into the corner of the couch, knees hugged to your chest. Still haven’t touched the tea you made earlier. It’s cold now. Forgotten. Like everything else.

The letter sits on the table in front of you, creased, slightly crumpled at the corners from your fingers folding and unfolding it again and again. You know every line by heart, but your eyes keep scanning it, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. Something less devastating.

You almost grab your keys three times. You almost text him. You almost call.

But it’s like there's a wall of glass between you and the right decision, and you just… stare through it. Paralyzed. Terrified that if you make a move, it’ll shatter wrong.

He bared his soul in that letter. And you haven’t done a damn thing. You hate yourself for how long you’ve been sitting here, frozen in uncertainty. One half of you screams to run to him. The other whispers all the reasons you shouldn’t, how complicated it is, how much you still don’t know, how you’re still leaving regardless because your life isn’t in this city. You can’t stay. 

But then your phone rings.

A harsh buzz against the silence. You jolt upright, heart lurching, eyes narrowing at the unknown number lighting up your screen. You hesitate only a second before answering.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause on the other end, filled with heavy breathing and the sound of wind. “Hey-, sorry, shit, I know this is random, but you’re the only person I thought might come. It’s about Wooyoung.”

Your heart stops. You sit up straighter. “What about him?”

“Something’s wrong,” the voice says. Young, male, familiar in a distant way. One of the crew, maybe. You’d met him once. “He left not long ago for a race. Not one of ours. This one’s… rough. Real shady crowd. No rules, no spotters. Just pure fucking chaos. We tried to stop him but-, he's gone. He’s fucking gone.”

The room spins. You grip the edge of the table to stay upright. “Gone where?” you whisper, voice sharp.

The guy on the other end swears again, fast and breathless. “We don’t know exactly. We lost his signal halfway through the city. He left alone,” The guy’s voice breaks, low and anxious. “He wasn’t listening to anyone. He-, he wasn’t himself, okay? He sounded... off. Like he didn’t give a fuck.”

Your stomach drops. Ice seeps into your spine.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” he continues, breath shaky. “But I thought-, if anyone could talk him down, or stop him-, fuck, I thought maybe it was you.”

You’re already on your feet. Your coat is halfway on. You grab your bag with one hand, shove your keys in your pocket with the other. “Where is it?”

“We don’t know exactly. But I’m sending you the last pin we had on his phone before it cut out. We got a few guys out looking for him, we can come pick you up.” 

You don’t even know what information you’re giving him. You just know you agreed to whatever it took to find him, end the call and bolt out the door, your blood pounding like war drums in your ears.

Somewhere unknown, Wooyoung steps out of his car. He doesn’t belong here.

He lights his second cigarette with the last flick of a dying lighter, cupping the flame with trembling hands. The smoke scratches down his throat, a pathetic distraction from the coil of chaos tightening in his chest. He leans against his car, the only clean machine in a sea of monsters, stripped down, souped-up beasts patched with rust, dents, and blood.

This isn’t his turf. This isn’t some friendly underground run on the edge of town. This is hell. The kind of place no one talks about. Where names don’t matter, and losing means more than wrecked metal. It’s the kind of place where engines scream louder than people, where egos shatter on the pavement, and no one gives a fuck who makes it home.

And he’s alone. No crew. No backup. No one knows where he is and that’s the whole point. Because if anyone saw him like this, they’d ask questions. They’d see the truth behind the glassy eyes, the clenched teeth. They’d see he’s already come apart.

But he’s here to forget his thoughts. To feel something. No matter what it is.

Someone laughs nearby, short, sharp. Like a knife sliding out of a sheath. Wooyoung doesn’t turn, not right away. But he can feel eyes on him. He’s too clean. Too obvious. A target painted in neon across his back.

Footsteps crunch on gravel. “Didn’t expect to see golden boy down here. You’re lost, sweetheart?” The voice is male, rough. The kind that’s been marinated in alcohol and old fights. “Or you finally decided you wanna die somewhere interesting?”

Wooyoung lifts his eyes slowly. A man steps into the dim wash of flickering floodlights, heavyset, sleeves torn off, scars up his arms like tally marks. A long one slices through his cheekbone and disappears into his beard. His fists are wrapped in old tape, stained with something dark.

He smirks at the sight of Wooyoung’s face. “I remember you. Pretty boy from the East Strip. You used to race clean, yeah? Thought you were better than this.”

“I’m not here to talk,” Wooyoung says flatly.

The man chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. Heard some talk. Heard your little pretty thing ain’t been around lately. That’s why you’re out here? Trying to forget her?.”  

Wooyoung’s entire body goes still.

Scar-Knuckles keeps going, oblivious or cruel, maybe both. “She was a real fine thing, too. Damn shame. Wouldn't mind taking her out for a ride.”

“You say one more fucking word about her,” Wooyoung growls, stepping forward.

Scar-Knuckles doesn’t back off. His grin just stretches wider. “Or what? You’ll throw a punch? You think anyone here cares if I beat your face into the asphalt? This place doesn’t give a fuck about you or your sob story.”

Behind him, engines scream, test runs or warnings. The smell of gas and rage fills the air. “No one here’s gonna come looking if you don’t walk away from this, you know that?” the man says. “You lose out here, you lose everything. Car. Money. Life. Depends on who’s watching. Or who you piss off.”

Wooyoung steps even closer, eyes locked with his. “That supposed to scare me?”

Scar-Knuckles stares at him for a long second. Then he laughs again, colder now. “No. I think you already decided nothing matters.” Scar-Knuckles gives a soft chuckle and steps back, letting the darkness swallow him. “Go ahead then. Race your heart out. Let’s see what’s left of you when this is over.”

The man walks off with a shrug, leaving behind the echo of truth.

Wooyoung breathes hard through his nose, blinking against the sting of smoke and his own exhaustion. He gets in the car, slams the door, and rests his forehead against the steering wheel for half a second. His hands are shaking. Not from fear, at least not fear for himself. He’s past that.

He exhales and turns the key. The engine snarls to life like it’s hungry for blood.

And if the road ahead wants to kill him? He’ll fucking let it.

You’ve been driving for hours. Your phone is clutched in your hand like a lifeline, screen cracked at the corner from how hard you’d thrown it earlier, after the fifth voicemail you left him, each one angrier, shakier than the last.

The streets blur outside the windshield. You’ve checked every place he used to go when he wanted to be alone. Back lots. Rooftops. The edge of the highway where you once caught him chain-smoking, staring at nothing. A crew member is driving now, one hand clenched tight around the wheel, the other scrolling through group chats and rumor threads on his phone.

You’ve never felt this level of rage and terror at the same time. You want to scream, to hit something, to shake Wooyoung until he realizes what the hell he’s doing. But more than anything, you just want him alive. Breathing. Standing in front of you so you can yell at him properly for pulling this shit.

“He’s never done this before,” The crew member mutters, jaw tight. “Not without backup. Not without at least one of us watching his back.”

That’s what scares you the most. You’ve been in enough of those street scenes to know, some places don’t play fair. Some places, if your car flips, no one stops. If you piss off the wrong people, they don’t argue. They retaliate.

“Come on,” you whisper under your breath, staring at the dark horizon like you can summon him out of it. “Come on, you idiot. Where the fuck are you?”

The crew member rattles off a list of names. Small-time crews, illegal races still rumored to be active tonight. You recognize only half of them. The further the names go, the worse it gets. Places known for sabotage. For fights breaking out mid-race. For bets that go beyond money. For people who don’t give a fuck if you crash and burn.

You turn to him, breath catching. “Let’s go to the worst one.”

He raises a brow. “You sure?”

“No.” Your throat tightens. “But I need to find him.” Even if it drains every last piece of you. Even if you fall apart the moment you lay eyes on him. Because right now, the alternative is worse.

Right now, the alternative is never seeing him again.

You don’t say much as the car swerves through another dark stretch of road. Every second feels like it’s scraping your nerves raw. Your knee bounces restlessly, your arms crossed so tightly over your chest they hurt. “Fuck,” you whisper, voice barely holding together. “I don’t know where else to look.”

But then he slams his foot on the brakes. “Wait-, what the fuck is that?”

You lurch forward as the car skids to a halt on the side of the road, dust clouding around you like smoke. Your eyes snap forward.

And you see it.

Off the edge of the road, maybe thirty feet down a barely-visible side trail eaten up by weeds and mud and fog, there’s a car. The shape of the car is unmistakable. Low, black, dented on the passenger side door from a scrape weeks ago. You’ve spent too many nights leaning against that car, riding in it, practically living in it. You know it like you know him. And it’s just sitting there, quiet. Still.

“That’s him,” you breathe. “That’s his car.”

He curses. “That road’s not even on the map.”

He reverses hard and jerks the wheel to take the turn, tires grinding against the gravel, kicking up dirt as you veer off the main path. The closer you get, the harder your pulse hammers, because the lights are still on but no one is moving. No music. No engine running. Just the car. Waiting. Alone.

The moment he slams the brakes, you’re out the door and running, feet crunching through weeds and dirt.

And then you see him.

Leaning back against the hood, one foot on the ground, cigarette half-burned between his fingers. His head is tilted back, eyes closed like he’s been there for hours, maybe longer. He looks like the ghost of himself, silhouetted in the mist and high beams. Still. Dangerous. Untouchable.

He looks down as you approach. Sees you. And doesn’t move. Like you’re a hallucination. Like he’s not sure you’re real.

The closer you get, the more your fury uncoils.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, slamming both hands into his chest with all your weight. “You came out here alone? You shut off your phone? You didn’t tell anyone where you were going?!”

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just stares at you like you’re something he dreamed up in a fever. Like you couldn’t possibly be real. 

You don’t give him the chance to speak. 

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” you yell, hitting him again. “We all have! You could’ve gotten hurt-, or worse-, and no one would’ve even known where to start! You think you’re invincible, is that it?! You think nothing can fucking touch you?!”

Wooyoung just stands there, staring at you like you're a ghost. His cigarette is long forgotten, half-burned, dropped to the dirt near his boot. 

“You’re not!” you snap. “You’re not invincible, Wooyoung. You’re just a fucking idiot with a death wish!” you bite out, trembling all over. “You could’ve died, Wooyoung. You could’ve left me-,” You choke on the word, a sob rising in your throat before you can swallow it down. “-left me here, alone.”

He flinches. That word punches the air from his lungs. But you’re not done.

“I came here thinking maybe you were in a ditch somewhere. I came here thinking I might have to pull your body out of a wreck. I hate you so fucking much right now-” You press your hands to his chest again, less forcefully now. Your fingers tremble, curling into the fabric of his jacket like you’re holding yourself together.

“I love you, you idiot.”

The words come out before you can stop them. Raw. Unfiltered. Not a confession, not a whisper in the dark. A curse. A scream. A truth ripped from your chest.

“I fucking love you, and you didn’t even think-” You shake your head, voice cracking. “You didn’t think about what that would do to me.”

Wooyoung stares at you like the earth just shifted under his feet. And that’s when he finally moves. His hand lifts, hesitant, like he thinks he might scare you off if he touches you wrong, and rests against your wrist, where your fingers are curled into his jacket. His grip is gentle. So fucking gentle.

“You’re here,” he says, voice low, rough. Like he doesn’t believe it.

You’re both shaking now, but for very different reasons. Your hands rise, cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth where he’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to fall apart.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “You absolute fucking idiot. Don’t you ever pull something like this again.”

His breath shudders out.

And then he moves. Grabs your waist. And then he kisses you, fast, hard, desperate. Like he’s never going to get the chance again. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging in like he's grounding himself. 

“I love you,” he whispers back into your mouth. “Fuck, I love you.” His mouth is on yours again before the last word leaves his lips, devouring the space between you. Your back hits the hood of his car with a thud. You don’t flinch. You arch into him.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, burying his face in your neck. “Tell me you’re not gonna disappear when I wake up.”

You cup his face and make him look at you. “I’m right here,” you say.

The way he kisses you after that feels like the end of the world. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s fire meeting fire. Chaos kissing recklessness. All your rage and fear and need slamming into him like a fist. You taste the danger on him. The gasoline. The smoke. The guilt. But underneath it, he's warm. He's alive.

And you’re still here.

He's breathing against your mouth now, kissing you back like he just realized he still has something to lose.

The door slams shut behind you, and he doesn’t waste a second.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat, hot, frantic, desperate. Like he needs you to forgive him through the kiss, like he’s trying to make you forget what he just put you through. You clutch at his jacket, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the solid heat of him.

“I thought I lost you,” you breathe against his mouth, voice trembling with the aftershock. “You fucking idiot, I thought-,”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “I know, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your back hits the door with a soft thud, but he doesn’t press hard. Not now. He cages you in with his body, but it’s not about possession, it’s surrender. He kisses you slower now, deeper, like he’s tasting the words you screamed at him earlier. I love you.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he groans into your skin, the only thing he says, and even that sounds like a confession. His jacket’s half-off already, pushed down by your greedy fingers, and he shrugs it off without pulling away, never breaking contact. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, your thighs. Like he can’t decide what to touch first, what to memorize.

When his lips dip lower again, dragging down your throat like he’s starved, you tilt your head back to give him more. He takes it like an offering.

“You’re gonna let me make this up to you,” he mutters between kisses, dropping to his knees with a thud that echoes in your spine. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips branding you through the fabric of your pants. “Right here. Right fucking now.”

And you let him, because you don’t want apologies.

You want him. Every reckless inch. Every frantic breath. Every desperate kiss he can’t stop giving you.

His mouth drops to your hipbone first. Not to tease, he’s past that. You feel the way he exhales against your thigh, shaky, reverent. Then his hands hook under the waistband of your pants. His fingertips press into your skin as he drags them down.

He presses his cheek against your thigh for a second, breathing you in. “God, I missed this. Missed you. I couldn’t fucking think straight.”

When your panties catch at your hips, his eyes flick up, and that look, wrecked, pleading, makes your breath catch in your throat. He doesn’t say a word. He just tugs the last layer down and off, letting it fall to the floor like it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t. He guides your thigh to rest on his shoulder, giving him better access to you.

And then he leans in.

His tongue flicks out to taste you, one deliberate stroke that sends a sharp gasp ripping through your lungs. You grab at his hair, your hips twitching forward, but he holds you firm, anchoring you against the door with those strong hands on your hips.

His tongue finally finds your clit, and it’s slow. A slow, dragging stroke that has your spine arching away from the wood behind you. His lips close around it, warm and wet, and the sudden suction makes your legs tremble.

“Fuck, you taste so good-, so sweet, baby, fuck,” he pants between licks. He licks and sucks with maddening control, every stroke perfectly placed, like he knows your body better than you do.

And he does. Fuck, he does.

He tilts his head slightly, and the next pass of his tongue has you gasping, sharp and broken. Your hands tighten in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He dips his tongue lower, tasting you fully, deeply, a slow glide up through your folds before sucking your clit back into his mouth again.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. “Shit-, fuck, right there-,” Your voice is cracked open, raw. 

Your entire body is on fire, heat coiling low in your belly, thighs shaking, breath coming out in ragged moans. He lets one hand drift between your legs now, two fingers slipping between your folds with ease. He strokes you slowly, coating them, until he finally sinks one inside.

The stretch makes you gasp. His mouth doesn’t stop. “Yeah, come on,” he growls, the vibrations of his voice shooting straight through your core. “Let me feel it. Come on my face, baby. Give it to me.” He curls his finger, searching for that spot he knows so well, and the moment he finds it, you fall apart.

Your knees buckle. Your head hits the door with a soft thud. Your cry is half-sob, half-moan, your whole body trembling as the orgasm rips through you. He holds you there through it, mouth never leaving your clit, finger still stroking inside you in perfect rhythm. 

You’re panting by the time he pulls back, mouth and chin soaked, his eyes black with lust and something darker, devotion, maybe. Something that looks too much like love. He rises slowly, and your gaze drops to the way his chest rises and falls, how his fingers flex at his sides like he’s still holding himself back.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts you, hands locking around the backs of your thighs, arms straining with need. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and your back slams softly against the door as he catches your weight. His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is deep. 

He groans into your mouth when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard. “I should be mad at you,” you pant between kisses. “I should fucking hate you for scaring me like that.”

“I’d let you,” he whispers against your lips, dragging them open with his tongue, tasting the words. “I’d let you do anything, baby. Just don’t leave me.”

He turns, carrying you down the hallway, kissing you like it’s killing him not to be inside you already. The walk is messy, his lips never leave yours, your hands gripping the collar of his shirt, his fingers pressing bruises into your thighs from how tightly he holds you. 

“Jesus, I missed this,” he groans. “Missed the way you feel. The way you sound. I’ve been going fucking insane without you.”

He nearly kicks the door open.

The second your back hits the bed, he follows, never letting go. His hands are everywhere, sliding up your ribs, pushing your shirt up, cupping your breasts through the fabric with a groan.

“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs, burying his face between them, sucking the curve of one, then the other. He strips himself, rips the shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him, then goes for yours, his mouth glued to your skin the moment it’s off. 

Your fingers are shaking as they move to his jeans, tugging the button open, sliding the zipper down. You push the denim off his hips and he kicks it away, breath ragged. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy and leaking at the tip. You bite your lip at the sight, thighs squeezing together.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps, crawling up your body like he owns it. “Need to feel you.”

You nearly cry from how empty you are, grabbing at him, wrapping your legs around his hips. “Then do it,” you whisper against his lips. “Don’t you fucking dare tease me right now.”

That earns a growl low in his throat. He fists his cock, lines it up, and presses in slow. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. It’s deep, too deep after going so long without it, and your head hits the pillow with a strangled moan. “Oh my God, you feel-, fuck-”

“Say it,” he pants, burying himself all the way. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you gasp, hands clawing at his back. “You, always-”

He starts to move and it’s chaos after that. The rhythm is rough, relentless, desperate. His hips snap into yours like he’s chasing every second he lost, every moment you spent not tangled up in him. His hands are on your jaw, your throat, your waist, gripping like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

“Turn around for me,” he whispers suddenly. “Wanna see you ride me.”

You barely register the words before he pulls out, already reaching for you. He tugs you up by the hips and you straddle him without thinking, bracing your hands on his chest as he guides his cock back to your entrance.

“Take it slow,” he says, voice low, hands gripping your thighs. “Let me watch you.”

You do. You sink down onto him slowly, gasping at the stretch from this angle. His head falls back, lips parting, chest rising in heavy breaths as you take every inch of him. He doesn’t move, just lets you settle, eyes flicking down to where you’re joined.

“Shit,” he groans, hands sliding up your waist. “You-, fuck, you look so good like this.”

You start to roll your hips, finding that rhythm again, slow and grinding. His hands drift everywhere, your thighs, your waist, your back, your ass, pulling you down harder when you move just right. His voice is wrecked now, quiet curses and praises tumbling out between groans.

“Just like that, baby. Fuck, ride me-, ride me just like that.”

You grind down harder, hands splayed on his chest, riding that perfect drag of him, the way he hits so deep like this, the way his cock twitches inside you every time you moan his name.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You feel so fucking good-”

He sits up suddenly, mouth hot against your collarbone, arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. One hand slips down to your ass, gripping hard, and he moves with you, deeper, harder, like he needs to carve himself into you.

Your breath shatters as you clutch his shoulders, shaking under the weight of it all. “I should’ve told you,” you choke out against his skin, voice breaking apart. “I should’ve said something, I didn’t know how-, fuck, I was so confused-”

He mouths at your throat, your jaw, your cheek, but you can’t stop now. You’re unravelling.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you cry, hands shaking as you hold onto him. “It wasn’t supposed to be this. I was only supposed to be here for the summer-, I thought I could leave-, I thought I could fuck you and feel nothing, but you-, God, you-”

His mouth finds yours before you can say anything more. Kisses you like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he already knows. His hand slips into your hair, keeping you close, and when he finally pulls back, his voice is rough but steady.

“I don’t care where you go,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll love you anyway. No matter where you are. I’ll fucking love you from anywhere.” Then he thrusts up harder, making you cry out, and everything gets sharper. Faster. Wetter. Needier.

That’s when it breaks.

“I’m sorry,” you cry out, your voice cracking open around the words. “I’m so sorry-, I didn’t mean to-, I didn’t mean to fall like this, fuck-” You’re shaking in his arms, tears hot on your cheeks, your fingers digging into his back like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. “Didn’t think you’d want me like this. I didn’t think-”

“Too late,” he growls, voice almost breaking, and he holds you tighter, thrusts deeper, grounding you in him. Sweat beads on his forehead, his jaw clenched, neck straining, but his eyes are locked on yours like he’s memorizing this, memorizing you. “You’re mine,” he groans, voice wrecked as his hands grip your hips, keeping you moving, guiding you harder. “You always fucking were.”

Your clit brushes against the taut muscle of his abdomen with every thrust, sending sparks skittering down your spine. Your whole body starts to tighten, pulse quickening, breath catching.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you gasp, voice pitched high, wrecked. Your nails rake down his back. “Harder, fuck, right there-”

He wraps one arm around your back to hold you flush against him, grinding into you so deep it makes your thighs tremble. “I got you, baby,” he growls. “I got you. Come for me.” He grabs your face with one hand, pulling you down into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and raw emotion. 

You break the kiss, moaning as you ride him faster. “I love you,” you whisper, voice cracking. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your mouth, like it’s a vow. “God, I love you.”

That’s what does it.

You shatter around him with a cry, clutching his body like he’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. His cock pulses deep inside you, stretching you wide, the thick drag of him enough to push you to the edge all over again.

“Shit, fuck, baby-,” he chokes, and then he’s spilling inside you with a broken sound, grinding into you as he pumps thick and hot, ropes of cum flooding your tight, soaked heat. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you there as his body jerks through every last twitch of release.

You’re both panting, still clinging to each other, your chest pressed to his, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His heart’s pounding so hard you can feel it against your own. His hands stay on your back, sliding up and down, stroking your skin. 

You’re still joined, still shaking, still wrapped around each other like you can’t believe it finally happened.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was the shift.

The one where everything changed, where love stopped being a dangerous thought and started being the truth, spoken between broken kisses and whispered confessions, claimed through every thrust, every gasp, every slow grind of your bodies trying to say what words can’t hold.

***

You were supposed to leave Saturday.

But then you saw the way he looked at you, like losing you would destroy him. Like he’d just found something worth crashing for. So you changed your ticket. Just three more days.

Three more days with him. Three more days of being completely, wildly, his. And he doesn’t waste a second of them.

He keeps you in his bed and barely lets you come up for air. He fucks you like he’s starving, like he’s never going to get enough of you, because he knows he won’t. You come apart under his mouth, his hands, his voice in your ear whispering mine while he pulls you over the edge again and again.

He moans your name like it’s holy. Tells you he loves you between kisses, between thrusts, in the shower while shampoo runs down your back. You say it back every time. You mean it more every time.

You wear his jacket everywhere. Like it’s a flag. Like it’s armor. His crew barely blinks anymore.

At the races, you’re glued to his side. He spins you into his space, your back pressed to his chest, one hand resting heavy across your lower stomach. His fingers tap against your waistband like a warning. You’re his center of gravity, his magnet, his anchor.

And he’s not subtle about it. He’s got one hand on you at all times, like someone might be stupid enough to try something. His eyes track every guy that lingers too long, like he’s daring them to make a move, just so he can remind them exactly who the fuck you belong to.

He doesn’t just show you off, he marks you with every touch. Pulls you in by the belt loops, kisses you hard in front of everyone, talks to you with that low voice that turns your insides molten. He’s not sweet with it, not shy. He’s proud. Like claiming you is the boldest, smartest thing he’s ever done.

And you? You kiss him at red lights. Whisper filthy things in his ear just to watch his jaw clench. You’ve never been more yourself. Never felt more wanted.

It’s messy. Loud. Bare. Real. The sex is addictive. The love is worse.

He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear every time you fall asleep. You run your fingers through his hair and pretend you’re not counting down the days in your head. He tells you you’ll be okay when you leave.

But you both know that’s a lie.

Your last night in the city feels like a fever dream. He keeps you in bed for hours, touching you like it’s the last time, because it is. He doesn’t hold back. Neither do you. You cry a little. He kisses it away. When you finally collapse together, bodies soaked in sweat and love, he holds you tighter than ever and doesn’t let go until morning.

And then it’s time.

The morning you leave, it rains.

Not enough to drown the city, just enough to make everything feel heavier. Dimmer. Like the world knows you’re about to break your own heart. His arm is heavy across your waist, one leg thrown over yours, his nose pressed to the curve of your neck like he’s trying to memorize your scent. You feel the steady thump of his heart against your back, strong and fast, like he never really fell asleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because if you do, it’ll be real.

You let yourself have one more minute. One more heartbeat of pretending this is just another morning, just another day where you’ll stay in his bed until noon, steal his shirt, kiss him slow and lazy like you’ve got forever.

But you don’t.

He stirs when you shift. His fingers curl tighter around your waist like he already knows. “No,” he rasps, voice wrecked with sleep and something heavier. “Don’t.”

“I have to,” you whisper, swallowing hard. Your throat burns. His hand slides up your side beneath the sheets, warm and possessive, tracing every inch he already knows by heart. He presses a kiss behind your ear and then another to your bare shoulder, lips lingering. You turn in his arms and he’s already looking at you. His eyes are swollen with sleep but open, searching your face like he’s trying to carve it into his memory. You reach up to trace his jaw, soft and slow, and the second your fingers graze his skin, he leans in.

The kiss is gentle. Painfully so. There’s no hunger in it, just grief. The kind that sits low in your stomach and makes your chest feel tight. And when he pushes the sheets down and moves between your thighs, it’s not fast, not frantic.

It’s reverent.

When he pushes into you, it’s quiet but not silent. There’s breathless gasps and whispered names. Little nothings and everything at once. He whispers I’ll miss you into your skin. You breathe don’t forget me into his mouth. He makes love to you in the grey morning light, slow and devastating. There’s no performance, no rush. Just his mouth on your neck, your shoulder, your chest. His hands gripping your hips like he can anchor you here a little longer. When you come, you clutch his back like you’re scared you won’t feel him again, and he kisses your tears without even teasing you for them.

When it’s over, he stays inside you as long as he can. Breathing heavy against your neck, arms wrapped around your back. You just lie there, tangled up in sheets and sweat and each other, listening to the minutes tick away.

“I should get up.” you say softly.

“No.”

You huff a laugh into his neck. “I’m gonna miss the flight.”

“Good.” He says it like a reflex. You lift your head and meet his eyes.

“You know I have to go.”

“I know.” He cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Eventually, you pull yourself from the warmth of his bed. Pull on yesterday’s clothes. Start shoving things back into your bag. It feels mechanical. Distant. Like you’re packing someone else’s life. He watches you the whole time. Silent, jaw clenched. Then he steps out of the room, just for a second, and comes back holding the leather jacket.

His jacket.

The one that’s been through hell and back with him. The one that smells like gasoline and wind and everything he is. He holds it out. Doesn’t speak.

You freeze. “You’re giving me this?”

He shrugs. Looks away, jaw tight. “What, you thought I’d let my girlfriend fly across the country without it?”

Girlfriend.

The word sucker punches you right in the chest. Not because it’s new, you’ve both known what you are, but because hearing him say it like it’s obvious, like it’s real, undoes you completely.

Your throat burns. “Say that again.”

He meets your eyes. “You’re my girlfriend.”

Your lip trembles. He notices. Steps forward and cups your face with both hands.

“You’re mine,” he says, softer now. “I don’t care where you go. You’re still mine.”

You drive to the airport in his car. Of course you do. There’s no way he’d let you leave the city in anything else.

His hand stays on your thigh the entire ride, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin. His knuckles are white on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes locked on the road like it’s the only thing keeping him from turning around and driving the opposite way.

He doesn’t say much.

You do.

You talk, not because the words matter, but because the silence feels like a countdown. You ramble about airport food, how you’ll probably get something stupid like a soggy sandwich. You joke about your job, how it’s going to eat you alive the second you clock back in. You even try to make him laugh by telling him how weird it’ll be to sleep without the sound of engines in your dreams.

His fingers tighten on your thigh once, and you know it’s coming before he even opens his mouth. “You could stay.”

Your heart stutters. You stare ahead. The traffic light turns green. “I can’t,” you say quietly.

“Don’t say ‘can’t,’” he mutters. “You can do anything.”

You reach for his hand on your thigh. Squeeze it hard. “You know I want to.”

He exhales, almost like a laugh. It’s not a happy one. “I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the side of his face. “I have a life back there,” you say. “My job, my apartment, my family…”

“I know,” he says again. But this time his voice is softer. Distant. Like maybe he’s already watching you walk away.

The rain gets heavier. A full-on downpour now.

When he finally pulls up to the airport drop-off, everything looks washed out, the sky, the pavement, the shape of people dragging suitcases beneath umbrellas. It all feels unreal. In a few more minutes, you’ll be nothing but a silhouette walking away through security. And he’ll be just a boy behind the glass, watching everything he wants disappear.

Your hand slips from his, and even that feels like too much, like a wound tearing open. You reach for your bag in the backseat and open the door before the storm of emotion inside you can make your legs freeze.

The rain hasn’t let up, but neither has he.

Wooyoung is out of the car in an instant, rounding the front before you can even lift your suitcase. He takes it from your hand like always, like muscle memory, like second nature.

He doesn’t speak much as you both walk through the terminal, but his hand doesn’t leave the small of your back. He keeps you tucked close, his fingers spread possessively across your side like he’s still trying to convince the universe that you’re his.

Every time you glance up at him, his expression is unreadable. Stoic. But you know him now. You know what it means when his jaw locks like that, when his throat moves like he’s swallowing something back. You know what it means when he won’t look directly at you too long, because if he does, he might not be able to look away.

Check-in. Baggage drop. Security line.

The minutes disappear too fast.

He stares at you like he’s trying to etch you into memory. Like he can’t decide which part of you to commit to first, the curve of your mouth, the crease between your brows, the tears welling in your lashes that you’re trying so hard to blink away.

He exhales hard through his nose. He steps forward, crowds into your space, and cups your face with both hands like he’s trying to hold you in place, to stop time, to stop you.

“Can’t believe I’m letting my girlfriend get on a fucking plane without me.”

Your stomach turns over. You choke on a laugh that’s more sob than smile. “I’ll come back.”

“You better,” he says, voice breaking on the edge of it. “If you don’t, I’ll come find you.”

You close your eyes. Press your forehead to his. You can feel his breath. His pulse. The heat of him, even through the thunderstorm building in your chest.

“I’m serious,” he whispers. “I’ll show up in your city. At your job. At your apartment. I don’t give a shit. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Good.”

He kisses you then, hard. With teeth and tongue and something frantic behind it, like he’s trying to brand himself into your mouth. Like it might make this less unbearable. When he finally pulls back, he’s breathing like he just ran a race. He swipes your tears away with rough fingers. Lingers on your cheek like he can’t make himself let go.

You press your face to his neck and breathe him in one last time. “I’ll come back,” you promise again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, holding you tighter. “You better.”

You pick up your bag. Step into line. He stays until the very end. Right up to the point where the TSA agent tells you to move forward. Right up until the barrier he physically can’t cross. And even then he doesn’t leave. 

He’s still standing there. Still watching you like you’re everything he never expected to need.

And now can’t imagine being without.

***

Weeks have passed since you left the city. Since you left him.

You’re back in your hometown now. The familiar streets, the same cracked sidewalks, the same tired coffee shops. Everything feels smaller somehow, quieter, but your heart is loud.

You wear his jacket like armor. It’s thick, heavy with his scent, leather and a hint of something uniquely Wooyoung. You wrap it tighter around you on the cold days, pretending it’s his arms instead of just fabric.

You crave the feel of his hands on you, not the polite, careful touches, but the ones that claim, that drag you into chaos and leave you raw. You hear it in his voice when he talks, rough and low, hinting at nights he’s spent thinking about you the way you think about him, 

You talk constantly. Texts that never stop. Calls that stretch deep into the night until you’re both too wrecked to speak. You fall asleep with the phone on your chest, wake up to good morning messages that should not be that obscene.

He tells you about the races, the wins, the near-misses. Brags about how he fucked up some cocky kid on the asphalt, then drops his voice just enough to say, “But I was thinking about you the whole time. Thinking about your thighs around my head while I floored it. Sick, right?”

You love when he says shit like that.

He laughs, dark and low.

Most nights end the same way. FaceTime calls that start off innocent, just him in bed with the covers low, tattoos out, chain resting on his bare chest. And he’s shameless. Hair messy. Smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Because he does.

“You touching yourself already?” he’ll ask like it’s nothing.

And then his hand is on his cock and yours is between your thighs, and there’s nothing sweet about it. He tells you where to put your fingers. How deep. How fast. Groans when you whimper, begs you to be louder, to let him hear how ruined you are. Sometimes he talks you through it, filthy, detailed, claiming you with every word.

“Wish I was there to spit in your mouth,” he growls, hips jerking under the camera. “Want to fuck you open and make you beg for it. You’d take it, wouldn’t you? All of me.”

You whimper his name like it’s a prayer.

“Louder.”

And you do. Because he owns you even from hundreds of miles away.

He groans your name like it hurts. Tells you how good you look falling apart for him. How no one’s ever going to touch you like he does. And then he says the things that make your toes curl and your heart twist.

“My girl,” he mutters, low and breathless as he strokes himself. “You hear me? You’re my fucking girl.” He always smiles then, dangerous and soft all at once.

And when it’s over, when you’re both wrecked, sweaty, boneless in separate beds, he stays on the line. Tells you about the engine he’s rebuilding. The fight he almost got into at the garage. How nothing feels the same without you there.

And then, after it all, the silent goodnights come heavy with promise. The way he says, “Soon,” like it’s the only word you both need to hear. Because it is.

Today starts like any other shitty weekday.

The sun’s setting slow and syrupy, casting everything in burnt gold. Your feet ache from standing too long, your shoulders are sore from stress. Work was a mess. Your phone’s dead. You forgot to eat lunch. You just want to collapse.

You step off the bus with a sigh, your breath fogs in the air. You pull his leather jacket tighter around yourself, the weight of the worn leather and the scent still faint but unmistakably his.

Then, out of nowhere, something shoves its way into your thoughts, a flash of black, sleek and familiar, parked right across from your building. Your heart stops. You freeze mid-step. The shape, the shine, the way the fading light glints off the leather interior, there’s no mistaking it. His car. His goddamn car. Here. Outside your apartment.

Your heart stutters. You stop dead on the sidewalk, stare at it, like if you blink it might vanish.

No fucking way.

Your steps quicken, your pulse louder than your footsteps. You glance around, heart in your throat. There’s no sign of him. Your fingers twitch, itching to reach out, to touch something real. You drag your palm over the hood, still warm from the engine, the heat pulsing faint against your skin. It’s so tangible, so utterly him.

You swallow hard and turn toward your building, your steps quickening. You race up the stairs, every echo of your shoes against the concrete sounding impossibly loud in the silent hallway. Your keys shake in your hand. You don’t even remember making it to your floor, you're too frantic, breath shallow, thoughts spinning.

You reach your floor and immediately stop. There. At the end of the hallway, by your door, leaning against the wall like he owns the space. His silhouette is sharp against the dim light, casual but magnetic. One foot crossed over the other, his head tilted down just enough for the loose strands of hair to fall over his eyes.

You can’t move. You can’t even think. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze. His eyes find yours. And that smirk, that fucking smirk, spreads across his lips. It’s cocky and knowing, the kind of smirk that says he’s been here all along, waiting for you to notice, waiting for this exact second.

His voice, low and rich and dripping with everything he’s been holding back and all the fire he’s ready to unleash.

“Hey, trouble.”

And just like that, everything shifts. Time slows, your world narrows to the space between you two. The city, the distance, the ache, none of it matters anymore.

Because it was always going to be him.And you were always going to be his.

TAGLIST: I only have one main taglist, so if you wish to be added/removed, then let me know! xx

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[woosanasa]

this is beyond perfection. this characterization was so so so good. HOLY SHIT. wow.

[xerotiny]

THE BOY WHO CHASED DEATH ◊ [Pt.1]

Pairing: Jeong Yunho x Female reader x Song Mingi  Genre: dark romance, psychological thriller.   Tag(s): DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, twisted lovers, established dynamic, dark romance, psychopath au, boy next door!yunho, neighbour!reader, sadist!yunho, hard dom!yunho, sub!reader, hunter!mingi, switch!mingi.  Warning(s): murder, hunting, primal play, prey-predator dynamic, smut, hardcore smut, unprotected/protected sex (be like mingi), fingering (anal & vaginal), anal sex (mxm), multiple orgasms/orgasm denial, knife/blood play, humiliation, degradation, punishment/conditioning, squirting, voyeurism, etc.   Synopsis: you didn’t think life without Yunho would be so boring and bland. So, you sought to his best friend for the warmth you needed, not knowing Mingi is as unhinged as your boyfriend, maybe more. Yunho didn’t like it, of course.   Word count: 23.9k     Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter

It arrived weeks after your four-month anniversary with Yunho, a simple unsuspecting package with an unknown sender. The address was correct, yours—even with the proper name for receiver and all the necessary information. Packages from unknown senders are dubious, and the sender using your company’s logistics services made you even more sceptical. You held back from opening the package, determined you’d open it around Yunho in case things decide to go south. However, you don’t think you’d have the chance to. Yunho left Seoul for a seminar a couple of days ago; he kissed your forehead and slipped out of the bed even before the sun had risen.  

“I’m leaving, love.” He murmured, and when you groaned in confusion, he continued with a laugh, “my seminar, remember? It’s a week-long thing in Gapyeong. I should be back before Sunday.”  

You opened your eyes to slits, sleep lingering in every corner till you felt the warmth of his lips on yours. “It’s too early in the morning,” you groaned yet again.  

“My ride gets here in an hour.” He pulled back, straightening up his towering stature. “I’ve made breakfast so don’t try to whip something up last minute. Also made your lunch, not packed yet; reheat it once you’re ready to leave. You can sleep in if you want, work kept you awake last night. It’s better if you do.”  

It sure had kept you up most of the night; an unnecessary altercation regarding the performance reviews and Soojin and Jia’s disappearance. Two months had passed yet they were relevant enough to be brought up every day at work. Not that you wanted to take it lightly, but ever since your phone rung at the stroke of midnight ― a call from detective Choi, you just knew you had to distance yourself from the situation.  

 You hummed, mind absent from reality. “What is this seminar about again?”  

“It’s the paediatric society’s annual spring seminar, something on developmental disorders,” he explained, getting dressed in a navy blue tailor-made three-piece suit, “every year there’s a panel to discuss new discoveries and ongoing research on holistic advances in healthcare. Really boring if you ask me.”  

“Are you on the panel?” you asked, sitting up in bed, letting the sheets pool around your waist while exposing your naked body.  

“Indeed, I am,” he stated with pride, glancing at you as he buttoned up his vest, “I present on the second day.”  

You hummed, slipping out of the bed and into his hoodie discarded on the floor last night. Yunho’s apartment was much better than yours—the interior, the equipment, every little thing was a calculated effort, and the decorations were minimal unlike yours. You loved spending your time here.  

“Nervous?”  

“Never,” Yunho turned to you, completely dressed, “I’ve been talking in these seminars for eight years now. You get the hang of it.”  

“Well, I wish you luck.”  

“And I wish I could take you with me.” He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you in to peck your lips. “My lucky charm.”  

You slapped his chest, “I have work too, remember?” 

“I do,” he laughed it off, pecking your lips again, “I hate that I have to leave you here. All alone.” 

“I won’t be alone.”  

“Right. As if the thought of you with Mingi makes it any better.”  

“Hmhm, someone’s jealous,” you straightened the knot on his tie and ran your fingers up the sleeves of his coat. “I’ll make it up to you when you’re back.”  

“I hope so.”  

And the last bits of that conversation still echo in your mind. You heave out a sigh, staring at the package in front of you—a simple black box, tempting you to open it. Resisting every urge to do so, you lean back on the couch and feel your gut wrenching at the sudden thought of finding something you won't be too fond of. You were in Yunho’s apartment, have been since he left for Gapyeong; it feels cliche in some way, or rather in a typical case of separation anxiety to be away from the man you’ve started to fall in love with. Yunho’s apartment felt like home even when he wasn’t around—yet, you needed him with you to make this home a little better. The strong, somewhat sharp scent of Marlboro reds mixed with cedar and jasmine—not the sweet kind—borders on manly and musky—always lurked in every corner of the apartment. It reminds you of him, makes his presence twice more painful when he’s not there.  

Anxiety presses on your chest, gaze following the box next to your phone; call log stayed open on the screen as you contemplated calling Yunho, someone from your comfort zone. You have been in a deep state of ponder for a while, just sentimentally trying to draw a conclusion with your dilemma. Calling him would mean breaking down your walls and confessing your suspicions about Soojin and Jia’s disappearance. It seems highly implausible that Yunho could be the culprit of a crime he didn’t commit; you can’t deem him to be the victim unless you gather a strong evidence against him. But knowing Yunho, you know he’s capable of doing much worse than making people disappear. The last time you saw Soojin and Jia, was at the cabin, which gives detective Choi an upper hand at easily accusing the both of you.  

In  the grand scheme of life, the past keeps burrowing deeper and deeper into your conscience, stroking your mind with unrelenting doubt. You anticipate mishaps every day, maybe a slip up or something quite incriminating found against you and Yunho. Detective Choi hadn’t contacted you after interrogating your entire team about, not one, but three disappearances. Jiwoo, the very first victim, whose body you helped get rid of, was no longer making the headlines in news—the case went cold with her. No leads, no evidences, no suspects. She disappeared right into the shadows for public, but to you, knowing where exactly she was, was one of the too many secrets you were compelled to trap between your teeth. Jiwoo’s apartment was recently sold to a wealthy couple of Itaewon; they paid an hefty amount to own the apartment of a woman who’s missing case had gone cold and whose body was never found.  

The other two who went missing were Soojin and Jia, both hardworking coworkers on your team. Jia, a determined junior who looked up to you and Soojin, your only friend in the workplace. Coincidences aren’t predictable; in a way, you could’ve never had the idea why anyone would want to hurt Soojin or Jia. The world is a small place, you never know who you might cross your path with, who you might spend the rest of your life and who’s to know how fated your chance encounters really are. Though after the fiasco of multiple missing cases surrounding you, Jongho considers you a suspect, not a victim. He wasn’t succumbing to what the evidences or alibis indicate. He’s truly following his gut, leaning towards his instincts which show him the way through the dark.  

Night drags outside, clouds drifting, full moon coming out of the hiding, and moonlight scattering on the table from the floor to ceiling glass doors of the balcony. Yunho’s apartment, relatively followed the same layout as yours—spacious living room, an equipped kitchen, furnished spaces which screamed his fondness for luxury and comfort, and two grand and lavish bedrooms. The bedrooms were identical to yours, one master bedroom while the other one was smaller. Yunho had converted his second bedroom to a home office. You weren’t fond of that room, neither was Yunho when you’d show up in the same room unannounced; the room reeked of formaldehyde and bleach, and at times, it hid metallic stench deeper beneath the flooring and on the curtains.  

You’re still staring at the box, mind dead-set on not opening it till Yunho comes back. But your heart feels otherwise; it knows who the possible sender might be. Taking a deep breath, you shut off your mind for a bit and let your heart to do the thinking. For a meagre second it almost takes the edge off, and you give in, finally succumbing to the urge in the pit of your stomach.  

The lid slides off easy, falling on the table with a soft thump, while the contents inside stare back at you as intently as you were staring at them. A handgun. And if the knowledge from your childhood days is correct, then that gun is a Beretta 92FS. Shiny pink metal body instead of the classic matte black, diamonds studded on the slide and a little hello kitty charm hanging from the grip. You hold your breath, a delicious weight easing itself in your chest when you realise it— the gun in your hand, was a gift for your sixteenth birthday from your brother’s best friend. A custom-made handgun, satisfying all your likes and desires.  

Before you could think about how someone was able to send you a gun via the mail, a note at the bottom catches your eye. It’s hidden in the velvet lining, ripped just enough for the note to slip out with ease. When you pull at a corner, and pick it up, you find a familiar squiggly writing in deep red—a shade so very similar to you.   

You’ve changed, Seongmi.   Do you even miss me? Because I do. I keep thinking about you. Every day, every night, every single second of my life.   I know you don’t care anymore. But I found this in the closet the other day.   Maybe this will remind you of me. That I still exist. That I still long to be your partner. In every sense.   I’m coming for you. Soon. So very soon.  

- Love, Joong.  

Your breath catches reading that name. Old memories flood through your mind and heart, as if someone had opened the doors of a dam. Suddenly, the weight of gun in your hand is too much to bear, you drop it back in the box and try to compose your thoughts to calm your nerves. Kim Hongjoong is after you? After seven years of choosing your freedom over your brother and his torment, he’s still chasing you. Silence grows, deliberate, too intense until the clatter of your phone on the glass top of the coffee table breaks it, rupturing your mind with it too.  

You glance at your phone, the screen lighting up with Yunho’s photo and caller ID; he seemed very harmless in the contact photo you had saved of him—the one you had snapped back when you were on your fifth date with him. Just him in a cosy little cat cafe, petting a puppy in his arms while the sun hits his face through the window. The longer you stared at it, the more you admired the man, and his beauty; brown eyes turning hazel with the sun, dark hair catching the golden rays in them, threading them together while he posed for you with a golden retriever pup. Hesitation knocked at your door yet you swiped your thumb across the screen to answer the call, putting it on speakerphone.  

“Everything okay, love?”  

His voice crackles through the speaker first, almost immediate.  

Taking a deep breath, you reply, “yeah, everything’s fine. Was cleaning up in the kitchen after dinner, didn’t hear my phone ring until I came to the living room.” You take a pause, hoping he’d buy your lie; when he silence stretches, you continue, “couldn’t sleep? Is it why you called me?”  

“Wouldn’t you keep me company if I couldn’t sleep? And do I really need a reason to call my girlfriend?” he clicks his tongue, followed by the sound of his clothes shuffling, “thought I’d call my darling since she hasn’t been missing me too much.”  

A whine bubbles in your chest, “really? Don’t play this game with me, mister. I called you last night and yesterday somewhere in the afternoon too. You didn’t receive any of my calls.” 

“A simple sorry won’t satisfy you, right? Is my darling mad at me?”  he coos, “I’m sorry, love. Long day yesterday. I couldn’t outdo the clock here, heated arguments and debates at the panel. The moment I came to my hotel room, I dozed off.”  

“How did it go?” you lean back on the couch, attention solely on the box.  

There’s a pause, soft silence cracking with the sound of belt buckle clinking in the background. Yunho hums, “not bad. The discussions were more interesting than my talk, apparently.”  

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.” You smile weakly, feeling the dread creeping in your stomach; the note lies right next to the box, red ink daunting and tempting you somehow. Again, momentary silence is broken by the gentle chime of his cufflinks hitting a metal plate. “Had a long day today too, I’m assuming?”  

“Yeah, sort of,” his voice starts sounding distant, as if he had his phone on speaker like you, “went out for a couple drinks after today’s panel. A night out with my colleagues was long overdue, anyway. Don’t worry, I didn’t indulge myself too much in it.”  

“Are you going to sleep right away? Or do you think you can talk to me for now? Even if it’s for a short while.”  

Yunho thinks for a while, the pause sounding more taunting than anything. “I can talk. Not for long. I still need to shower, prepare my clothes for tomorrow, you know the drill.” More sounds of him rummaging through his clothes reverberate through the speaker, “it’s quite late already. I need to wake up early again,” he groans softly, “this routine is killing. I’m so tired. Can’t wait to pack my bags and return home, to you, in your arms. Keep craving your warmth like I crave a cigarette every five minutes.”  

You let a small laugh erupt from your chest, attention steering away from the box and onto your phone before you grab it and press it against your ear; rather than having the call on loudspeaker, you decide to make it more intimate and personal.  

“I’m not going anywhere; I’ll be here when you return. We can sate whatever desires you’re having right now.”  

“I know,” he mumbles, voice dipping a baritone but still soft enough. “How have you been holding up, you know, after the…?” 

Your chest tightens. “I’m doing fine.”  

“When someone says they’re fine, they’re usually not,” Yunho’s words ring in your ear, as if he’s breathing right against it; perhaps he has his phone pressed to his ear as well, seeking the same intimacy you were trying to get. “I’m starting to grow less fond of your lying, Seongmi. Tell me what’s bothering you, I can’t help unless you do.”  

Yunho has a way of coaxing the truth out of you. It starts with a deliberate and calculated assurance, then morphs to manipulation and in the end, you’re acting out in the way he wants you to. Sweet intentions before he bites, sinks his teeth right into your flesh and takes away a part of you. Regardless of his tactics, you always find yourself falling for them, falling for him. He lures you into believing he’s doing what’s best for you, instead it’s always something that’s in his favour. Yunho controls everything you do, everything about your life without making it seem like it’s control. He has a way. He’s doing it now too.  

You always take the bait. Always break down when you don’t need to. Relying on him is not the end of the world, however, the fact that your entire world revolves around him, as if he’s the centre of your universe, is quite unnerving. Yunho gets you where he wants you—on your knees, vulnerable, backed up in a corner until he’s the only solution you have. For you, he is a saviour, your salvation and repentance—your appreciation for him should span across the oceans. Regardless of how hard your heart tries to deny it, your mind knows you are devoted to him.  

“Babe, I’m really fine,” you try to reassure him, voice dropping to a whisper almost, “what would make you think otherwise?” 

You know he’s rolling his eyes at you, seeing through your petty act. He clicks his tongue, “Soojin’s missing case—detective Choi calling you in for interrogations. Do I need to go on?” 

“I can handle it myself, love. I don’t want to worry you.” 

“But you are mine to worry about,” Yunho snaps, voice heavy with ire, “I’ve chosen to love you, Seongmi. And in some twisted way of my mind, my love is protective, possessive and a little bit obsessive, maybe.”  

He pauses, his breathing hard and ragged; the pent-up frustration bubbling under his skin fades to a tremor of concern and despair. “If I don’t keep you safe, who will?” 

You let a breath out, screwing your eyes shut before pressing your fingertips in the corners. “I don’t think it should be your duty to, Yunho. Besides, I said I can handle it.” 

For a good while, you don’t hear from him. Not even a whisper of his breath, or the click of his tongue. Is he disappointed? Not again. Not this time. You’ve had your fair shares of letting him down. This doesn’t feel like one of those moments. Silence only speaks louder for what you’ve done, it stretches till your mind forces you to break it, however, the dainty crinkle of ice hitting the glass echoes and you sigh in relief. He’s thinking, mulling your words over and over maybe; then comes the sound of something sloshing—you picture him right then, standing over the mini bar in his hotel room, preparing his favourite drink for himself. An old fashioned. He likes it too much. You’ve mastered the art of fixing one for him yourself.  

The faint reverberations of his hum hit you; a hum of satisfaction as the drink burns through his throat and warms up his chest.  

“I killed her.”  

He confesses it casually, as if discussing the weather or bringing up the menu change of his favourite restaurant.  

“What do you mean ‘you killed her’?” you mimic his plain tone, “Soojin isn’t dead…is she? What did you do, Yunho?” panic bleeds into your voice, heart stammering and clenching a little too tightly.  

“I killed her, Seongmi,” he states one more time, sounding exasperated—perhaps annoyed by the fact that he has to repeat himself to you, “she did something she wasn’t supposed to.”  

“Oh what did she do that you had to kill her?” you whisper-yell at him, clutching the phone in your hand till your knuckles went white; you’d hate to admit it, however, you were terrified by the news he has given you.  

“Touch me. Disrespect my personal space.” 

The world goes still for a fraction of second. Everything fades to nothing. The black box. The gun. The handwritten note. All of it. All of you too. You’re lost in a void where clarity is long gone, suspicions lurking somewhere, but the only real emotion you could decipher in the storm is curiosity. Curious to know more about the man you’ve started to grow so fond, altered your life for, and for the same man who changed every little thing about you. There are parts of him which are veiled beneath the shadows of his past, and the only part where light shines is the tragic reality, controlled by him for you. Knowing every fracture on Yunho’s spine is so very crucial for you, albeit he mostly knows almost close to nothing about you too.  

Then maybe it’s for the better that both of you don’t know much about each other. A soft wrinkle on time forces you back to his voice; he’s talking, you realise, in hushed silence—nursing the drink in his glass. Every gulp followed by mere words is a sign, he’s relying on the bitter aftertaste of alcohol to ground himself.  

“No one touches me without my permission―no one should even dare breathing too close to me, my personal space isn’t something to be invaded, Seongmi,” he seethes, “I warned her once, twice—” a pause follows, voice fading to a murmur, “—even when she dropped by the clinic, pretending to be someone she’s not. I gave her clear warnings about the things she’s not supposed to commit to, but did she ever consider them?”  

You swallow hard, trying to shake off the growing anxiety and dread. “So, you thought it’d be better if she didn’t exist at all?” 

Yunho scoffs the moment you exhale the words with a wispy voice, “My tolerance thins out with patience, love. Her constant need to get my attention was very much infuriating. I draw different lines with different people; if you choose to not respect those, then you don’t deserve to exist in my life.” 

Frustrated, you run a hand through your hair. Once. Twice. Then tug at the roots as if it would alleviate any remaining irritation you had wailing under your skin. Your head tries to find a coherent response to Yunho’s said sentiments, but the unspoken ones laced to them are quite heavy on your heart. There must be a reason why he is the way he is—why he isn’t fond of letting other women touch him. First, it was Jiwoo. Then, Soojin. Yet, he’s never once complained when it’s you. Are you supposed to feel lucky? Or perhaps honoured to have the privilege to touch him in the way his heart allowed you to.  

“If it had been you on the receiving end, I’d have buried that fucker six feet under,” Yunho grunts, breaking your trance, “no one touches what belongs to me.”     

“Yunho,” you begin, biting your lower lip, “have you thought about the consequences this might bring us? Soojin is gone—what if—what if the detectives find a lead? What if—what if they know it’s you this time?” you take a breath, “we got lucky with Jiwoo—no one—no witnesses, no incriminating evidence, nothing of the sort. How sure are you we’d get away with Soojin too?”  

Yunho chuckles, almost a belittling laugh meant to demean your speculations. “Babe, you know me. I don’t commit to anything that I haven’t thought all the way through before. Trust me, this thing will blow over in a few days. I have my ways.”  

You hear the faint click of ice clattering in his glass; he’s finished his drink, noticing how clear he sounds to you now, you know he’s having his phone pressed to his ear. Eventually, the picture of him lounging on the bed cascades through the back of your mind—him, draped in the satin robe he usually carries with him since he despises the ones in the hotel room, messy and sweaty from the long day he’s had. Every ounce of your body is craving him—craving the way his lips would brush your temple in a praising manner while he’s splitting you open on his fingers. Though, all pleasure inducing sins in your mind are pushed back in a dark corner, and the only inklings which plague you are the future consequences of what he’s done.  

“Sure, you do,” you sigh, “what am I supposed to do here? I was called in twice for interrogation—and it’s not just Soojin, Yunho—Jia is missing too. Both of whom are on my team. Work has been harsh on me. How do I prove that I’m a victim, not the suspect.”  

Yunho hums softly, “Jia…I don’t know anything about her. In fact, it’s my first time even hearing her name.”  

“You didn’t do anything to her?”  

“No, why would I? I barely even knew her, love.”  

“Then who—what happened to her…?” you trail off, trying to find the pieces of puzzle. “Yunho, are you sure you didn’t know her at all?”  

“I swear on my love for you, Seongmi.” He grumbles, soft enough to not let you know how annoyed he’s getting, “I don’t know what happened to her. She left early that day due to some family thing, for all I could remember. I believe when Mingi insisted on dropping her off, she protested and said she drove here. So, I don’t think he might know anything about her either.”  

“So…you really don’t know anything,” you hum, mind going into overdrive before giving up. “Alright,” you click your tongue, exhaustion creeping in, “fine—I’ll—okay, it’s alright. I’ll think of some lie for Soojin—said she left early too.”  

Yunho heaves out a shaky breath, “she did. She left early with Jia—we don’t know what happened after that. Got it?”  

“Got it,” you repeat, firm then slowly you murmur, “I miss you.”  

Silence ruptures the noise before Yunho mumbles it back, “I miss you too. A lot. But hey, I’m coming back soon. I can’t wait to love you again.”  

“Love me?” 

“You know what I mean.” He groans, “are you going to make me spell it out for you?”  

You bite back on a laugh, “why would I not want to hear my man speak of the ways in which he’d ruin me when he’s back? A girl can dream.”  

“Hopefully, you haven't acted on those ‘dreams’ yet,” he laughs, sounding deep and husky, “I’m coming home soon, love. Don’t you worry. I'll take good care of you. We are not leaving the room until we’re both satisfied.”  

“I doubt you’d be able to physically keep up with me.” You roll your eyes, and he laughs even harder, “is that a challenge, love? We both know what exactly I’m capable of.”  

“You’re starting to sound cocky, mister,” you press your lips together, eyes drifting to the box, then to the wall clock, “it’s getting late, love. You have another long day to tackle tomorrow.”  

“I’ll try to keep in touch—texts mostly and if time permits, I’ll give you a call.” Yunho hums, mumbling, “I love you.”  

“I love you too.”  

You hang up, staring at the screen before it fades to black and your phone locks itself. The box, sitting on the table, taunts you; old memories resurface almost immediately at the thought of holding the gun in your hand again. A gift, you thought, which belies the constant mockery of your heart. It had to go. Away from you. Away from Yunho—if he finds out, your past comes back to you, and he knows every little secret you’ve chosen to hide from him. They’re as bad as his are—maybe it’s the reason why you two have gotten along so far, so well, because your pasts are almost the same. Tragic. Catastrophic. Bending the light which reaches one’s eye.   

You pick yourself up from the couch, grabbing the box in your hands as you then drag yourself to Yunho’s master bedroom. The box fits snug in your hands, heart skipping a beat at the immense weight of your past growing heavy on your shoulders. There’s a reason why you don’t want Yunho to find this thing—not because he’d ask you a million questions to appease his curiosity, but because you don’t want Yunho to become a part of your intimate life. Not yet at least. Does he deserve to know though? He probably does. You owe it to him—only because you were past the two-month phase now.  

Six months had passed you both in a blink of an eye. Days you spent together, watching the seasons change; summer transitioning to monsoon, and your love finding a new beginning every time it rained with dark clouds and bright sun dried it out. You were filled with new hope. As perpetual as you’d want it to be, love doesn’t last long—you’ve always learnt it the hard way. Regardless, measuring time with Yunho is as useless as counting all the insect species present on earth till date. Where most people were swayed by his charming persona, you were not one bit buying his act. Then came various occasions where he’d proved the point—he wasn’t a boy next door type of guy. He was much worse. Still is. You recount the first two months with him—the glances in corridor, the unrelenting attraction between you and the lines of consent which had been blurred left and right. Forced sexual encounters, impending desires breaking loose and the yearning to give in—you were so sure this man was going to be the death of you.  

Has anything changed yet? Yunho’s existence is still a mishap for you. Dread. Fear of being caught. Fear of losing your newfound self to your older, more violent version of yourself in the past. You are scared he’s bringing you out of your shell, breaking down the walls you built with much determination and dedication to become a better person. Better than whatever was left of your family. Indulgence is not a good colour on you. Everyone who knows you, know it better than you.  

Night becomes a beautiful segue of your past. Memories rekindled with the parcel—hatchets which were buried deep, now resurfacing as if they never left you. It’s all the same. Blood, gore, threats and being on the run from the cops. Only, you don’t have a stern hand guiding you anymore. Or the soft lips which had once kissed all your wounds and scars to protect you from the cruel world you were born in.  

You step into Yunho’s walk-in closet; you’re immediately greeted by a never-ending line of designer suits, custom made, dry cleaned and tailored perfectly for his body. Under the racks of suits, in the cabinet drawers, all his expensive watches, cufflinks, and gifted wallets are neatly stacked. Further in, there are two racks of casual loungewear, followed by a variety of satin sleepwear and robes. A full-length mirror stays propped against the wall at the back—right next to a repurposed bookshelf which accommodates his designer shoes, slippers, loafers etc.  

By the state of his closet, you speculate a few things—Yunho is fond of order, likes to luxuriate himself with materialistic things and loves showing off his wealth. Everything, every little piece of clothing and accessory, has a particular place in his world. Why wouldn’t you? The thought of not fitting into his world—into the blueprint he’s etched since the beginning, would be ludicrous. He said it on the call himself, he’s always a step ahead, always thinking far into the future. Yunho’s world is different from yours; it’s more structured, more complex and strained in places you don’t even want to think about.  He’s still lax though, about many things—including the murders, the darkness he proudly inhibits in his mind.  

You sink to your knees, skin grazing the hardwood floor; kneeling in front of the open space which had his least favourite and lesser worn shirts, you place the box right under the hanging clothes. It’s a smart move. Yunho barely eyes these shirts, from what you’ve noticed, and the box stays perfectly hidden behind the clothes, obstructing any visibility. You’re almost about to pat yourself on the back when the doorbell goes off. The smooth, euphonic sound of a bell chime—ironic, given Yunho’s personality. Your heart leaps from your chest, body flinching before you compose yourself and rise to your feet.  

Who could it possibly be at this hour? 

Perhaps it’s one of the neighbours? If there’s anything you did adore about Yunho since he moved in, it was the open-door policy—he’d encourage the residents to visit him at any hour in case any unexpected event occurs or if anyone has a medical emergency. Could it really be someone from the building?  

You make your way to the front door, attention falling onto the screen panel affixed right next to it. A security camera. He got it installed recently—forced you to get one too. In all fairness, it wasn’t a bad idea to have a door cam installed. On the screen, you catch a glimpse of wispy silver hair and a tall stature towering over the door; Mingi’s shadow seems to be far more intimidating than his bubbly personality. You heave a breath of relief, getting the latches on the door before swinging it open on the outer side.  

Mingi watches you with an intense curiosity twinging in his eyes before he steps inside. He drinks you in—your body hiding underneath the pastel pink satin pajama set—a flimsy tank top with lace trims, and shorts riding up high and ending just below your asscheeks. To add modesty, you threw on a matching silk robe, whose knot had now come undone and the edges of it curled away from your body, exposing your chest. Mingi clears his throat, entering the vestibule as you step back and turn around.  

“I wasn’t expecting you…” you trail off, dragging yourself to the living room.  

Mingi slipped out of his combat boots and stepped into the house slippers, his own since he had been visiting Yunho more frequently than before. “Had some work in the neighbourhood. Couldn’t go back without checking up on you. Yunho would kill me first then you, if he ever found you cheating on him.”  

“You’re lucky I’m letting you to joke about this situation. But then, your sense of humour does retire when Yunho’s around. Coward.”  

“We both know he’d never hesitate punching my teeth out if I made inappropriate jokes about you.” Mingi laughs out loud.  

“No arguments.”  

You slump on the couch, watching him trudge into the living room with a Tupperware in his hand; you mustn’t have noticed it before, because it’s hard to overlook now. A plastic container drenched in splatters of crimson and black—you squint your eyes just enough to realise it’s some sort of meat, sliced in perfect ribbons and fermented in gochugaru from the colour. Mingi’s gaze follows yours, down at the container in his hands.  

“Just some jeotgal for Yunho,” he says, “he likes it.”  

Your heart thumps, eyes drifting to the hallway leading to Yunho’s bedroom—before they’re back on Mingi, who’s shifted to the kitchen adjoining the living room. He opens the refrigerator door and sets the container inside, grabbing two cans of sodas while he does. Leaning back further on the couch, you stretch your back to ease the tension coiling in your muscles—you’re more worried about Mingi catching up on your frazzled mind and suspecting you of hiding something, than questioning why he’s even here. Mingi sits next to you on the couch, cushions dipping to his weight. The proximity between you two is enough, just enough for you to feel his warmth cascade on your skin. 

You tilt your head to him, assessing him more closely. He’s dressed in his usual clothes—black tank top layered on with a worn-out flannel shirt, cargo pants and other accessories. Catching the glint of the chains around his neck, you heave a sigh and shift your gaze to his face—you didn’t want to be too upfront with your admiration. Mingi’s hair had gotten longer than the last time you saw him; two months ago, it was much shorter and dyed in pitch black. Now, it’s long enough to touch his shoulders, dyed silver—bordering on blue almost—with much darker shade of blue frosted at the tips. He’s tied his hair up in a half bun, some of the strands left loose on purpose to frame his face and hide the sinister gleam in his eyes.  

Mingi meets your eyes, lips curling softly in concern, “anything new with you then?” he hands you the can intended for you, breaking it open with his middle finger, “did the loneliness catch up with you yet? Feels empty without him, doesn’t it?”  

You take the can from him, attention focusing on the fizzing soda you could see from the mouth; your shoulders roll out and you sit straighter. “Hmhm, haven’t got used to it. In hindsight, I don’t think living without him is going well so far.”  

Mingi chuckles, soft and gentle, warm enough to comfort you. “Yunho has that effect on everyone.” He pops his can open and takes a big swig, wincing when the bubbles fizz in his mouth, “but I understand. I miss that fucker too.”  

You raise a brow at him, swallowing the sip of soda, “can I ask you something?”  

“Sure,” Mingi shrugs, draping one arm across the back of the couch, his warmth brushing against yours, “something about Yunho? Or someone else?”  

“I won’t speak in riddles,” you mumble, staring down at the can in your hand, “but do you know what he did to Soojin?” 

Mingi clicks his tongue, “ah, her? The obnoxious woman who followed him around like a lost puppy and tried to—tried to make inappropriate advances toward him?” he glances at you before looking away, “if you’re inquiring about her that means—did he tell you the truth? Did he confess to his crime?” 

“He might have,” you cut him off with a lie, “he confessed in tongues, then said some things which—which were concerning from my perspective. But I wonder—I wonder what he meant exactly.”  

“You can’t figure him out in one night, you know, sweetheart.” Mingi states, setting his can on the coffee table before shifting himself on it too—he’s careful not to put too much of his weight on the glass centre, rather he perches perfectly on the wooden ledge of the table.  

Your eyes meet his, finding him right in front of you, your knees grazing. He rests his hands on your thighs, fingers spacing out and pressing into your exposed flesh. The weight, the warmth, the shape of his fingers denting your skin, takes you off guard. It isn’t that you and Mingi haven’t been intimate before—there have been moments, quite few actually. His lips would linger on your cheek when he’d pull you into a greeting kiss, or the way his arms would tighten around your waist during a casual hug—there has to be something more to this, right? There was, maybe. The current situation only conforms to the long-last doubts you once had.  

Mingi lets out a sigh, “he’s like a knitted sweater—one string comes out loose and you’re unravelling the entire thing.” His thumbs rub gentle circles on your inner thighs, voice softening even further, “you need to figure out which string you want to pull first. Not all of them unthread so...so easily. Some cause tangles, some cause knots. Some cut your fingers.” 

You take a deep breath in, which convulses in your chest and your heart drops to your gut, “but do you think we’re at a stage where unravelling each other would ever benefit any of us?”  

“No, you two are not prepared to share ― to share your delicate lives with each other,” he says it outright, no pause to think about it, “maybe not now, but soon. You two need to be honest with each other. It’s for the best of us, all of us.” He leans closer, breath fanning your cheeks and lips, “I would hate for you to end up like all the other girls—lifeless, cold and buried under the ground.”  

You pale, thinking about it. “How many have you…”  

Mingi laughs, leaning even closer; his lips ghost onto yours, touching almost too seamlessly on the edge. “Pretty little thing wants to know the number. What is she going to do with it?”  

You shake your head, relentless disagreeing to whatever he’s insinuating. “No, I didn’t mean it like that…I—I just—I just want to know…”  

“Curiosity is a bitch,” he hums, pulling back, thumbs continuing to rub circles on your inner thighs. “I get it. Anyone would lose their way if they met someone as charismatic and enigmatic as Yunho. He makes you crave clarity more than anything else. Makes you yearn to know him, to solve him like he’s a quandary no one dares to.” He pauses with a dramatic flair to his smile, “but knowing too much about a man who’s no less than a monster, Seongmi, can be quite detrimental. It can crush you, shatter you to millions of pieces—who’s going to put you back together then? Would he still love you when your wings are broken? He won’t. He'll deem you useless; a flightless bird is useless to him.”  

All the that he says, rush in your head, course through your blood. Dread comes knocking at your gut, suffocating on each syllable of Mingi’s words. Your lips tremble with your own sound, mind benumbing to the weight of your thoughts. You stare back at Mingi, tightening your grip on the can; you held onto it as much as your strength would allow you too, metal creaking under your grip and bending to the force of your fingers. The cool, deliberate and sharp sting of the can on your skin anchors you to reality.  

“What do you mean?”  

Mingi shakes his head, letting his hands fall from your thighs. “That, knowing him might test your limits and make you miserable.” He lets another breath pass his lips, “I don’t want to scare you, precious. The last thing I’d want from you is to be terrified of a man who loves you so much.”  

Love.  

Yunho loves you? 

He loves you.  

He does.  

He really does.  

You think back to the days when Yunho had been so overly smitten with you. The same man who taunted, mocked, threatened you emotionally and physically, was celebrating every milestone like it’s the last time he’d ever get to celebrate. He didn’t change all of a sudden—it took him months, and now you’re six months in, six months of love, dedication, commitment and Yunho’s obsession with you. It entails something special right? But it’s the same man who wouldn’t think twice if you go astray, if you deny him satisfaction, if you disobey him, disappoint him in ways you had been in the beginning. That terrifies you to your bones. Every shudder your body goes through, is a cruel reminder of his capability—you truly are a bird trapped in his cage, regardless of how well-maintained the cage is, how well-made it is, you’ll always be his prisoner.  

Mingi clears his throat, gently prying the can of soda from your hand and setting it next to his on the coffee table. You snap out of the trance, only for a moment before diving right back in; your chest tightens, heart stammering and stomach twisting in knots. The realisation is settling deep within your bones now—if Yunho’s capable of loving you till his dying breath, then he’s capable of pushing you till you’re on your last breath.  

“Okay, enough with that. Don’t want to drive you away from him when he’s finally fixated his heart on you,” Mingi announces, firmly, standing up on his feet, only for his silhouette to pull you into his shadow, “did you have any plans for the night?”  

You shake your head, falling back into the reality again. Mingi grins, “oh, now you do.” 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

You never know how unpredictable one might be. Especially your boyfriend’s best friend, who’s always had that crazy spark in his eyes. It all happened in a haste. Him dragging you to his truck, strapping you in, and driving down the roads of Seoul. An hour passed after midnight; you were back at the cabin after a long while. Yunho did not take you there, neither did he bring it up after your four-month anniversary fiasco. However, Mingi did not take you inside the cabin—no, he parked his truck in the back of the cabin, in front of a small clearing with trees scattered throughout. There’s a small shed, similar to the one in the backyard of the cabin—realising now, this place is quite different and shares very little to no resemblance with the backyard.  

Mingi kills the engine, the vibrating thump in the dashboard dying down. You unbuckle your seatbelt, still dressed in pajamas and robe from before. Staring up ahead, through the clear clean windshield, you notice how dark the night is, and how the only alighted areas are by the headlights of his truck. You hesitated getting in his truck at first—a dark blue Dodge Ram, silver trims—it reeked of stale blood, or something which resembles burnt copper, and slight stench of rust and alcohol. Inside, it got even weirder. A set of animal teeth dangled from the rear-view mirror, black leather on the seats, which creaked under your weight, spotless floor, too clean for someone like him.  

You didn’t try opening the glove compartment—but the dear hide spanning across the dashboard gave you a stern warning that you wouldn’t be too delighted after opening it. The gear console between the two seats was empty, except for a small hunting knife with leopard print on its handle. Mingi apologised about the stench, saying he had to transport a roadkill a few days ago—it reeked a lot, and caused for the stench to linger. There’s nothing more assuring than apologies and proud display of animal remnants from his kills, is there?  

The bright headlights flicker to low beam lights, dimming down enough to still guarantee visibility. Mingi’s hands fall from the steering wheel, one of which reaches out to rest on your thigh, squeezing it softly. You glance at his hand, then look up at him, brows drawn together.  

“What are we doing here?”  

He doesn’t respond, rather he unlocks the doors and gets out first, rounding the hood of his truck to open your door. Holding one of his hands out, he leans over and waits till you take it in yours. The night outside is cold, the scent of wet soil is comforting—it rained not too long ago, and the nocturnal creatures awaiting their prey. Hesitation courses down your spine, eyes strained on his hand, and the glint of chunky rings dressing his fingers—your heart pounds in your chest, lungs pumping in and out, following an arrhythmic pattern. When you finally push yourself to give your hand to him, he holds yours tightly and helps you out of the car, closing the door behind you.  

The shoes you slipped into haphazardly, sink into the wet ground—spoiling the bright white trims. Mingi guides you away from the car, walking you to the front so you can lean against the hood while he lets go of your hand. Night breeze bruises your skin in a cold and awful reminder—you’re anticipating the worst at this point. Mingi looks at you, shrugging off his flannel before handing it to you. It smelled like him, citrusy, musky with sweat, and a little bit like blood—the metallic undertones were starting to overpower your senses. You cradle it against your chest, watching him step backwards from you—then he turns, his back to you. Mingi’s gait is lax yet stoic—he rolls his shoulders out, muscles rippling under his skin through the tank top.  

“Mingi…!” you call out, worried. “What—what are you doing?” the latter comes out as a whisper, confused.  

You stood under the moonless sky, daunted by the sounds of the woods, and the creaking of branches which swayed to the wind. Monsoon rains were always so unpredictable, just like Mingi—his shadow grows bleaker with every step he takes away from you. You shift slightly, coming to stand between the two headlights, not wanting to obstruct any light on him. Mingi keeps walking and his receding figure has you squinting your eyes to keep up with him. The only shed of comfort you got, was from his shirt and scent. Because, something told your gut this wasn’t a casual hangout, or anything fun.  

Clouds part their way for the moonlight to finally kiss the ground; it shatters through the canopy of trees and one of the beams falls onto Mingi. For time being, you’re taken off guard by his beauty—silver hair glimmering against the moonlight, same nifty rays caressing his high cheekbones, but his eyes stay shrouded in the dark. Your breath catches in your throat when your attention drops to what he’s staring at; on the floor of the forest, you see a figure crouched and slouched. You can’t comprehend who it is, or what it is. But you could see, whoever it was, they were tied to the trunk of the tree—a rope looped around their ankle, while the other end looped around the tree.  

Panic strikes you, breathing hard and heavy—your heart forgets the rhythm it beats in, and suddenly your stomach falls to your knees. Every ounce of strength is knocked out of your body, and you slump back against the hood of his truck to support yourself. Mingi crouches down as well, his back to you, hiding the figure on the ground. You don’t know what he’s doing but you could tell he was doing something to the person. Daftly, he rises to his feet and turns around, making his way back to you.  

You compose your nerves, steeling yourself to whatever that’s about to come or happen. When Mingi comes to stand in front of you, he offers you a small smile, “let’s play a game, shall we?”  

“What—what kind of game?” you peek around him, trying to get a good glimpse of the person on the ground. “Who is that?”  

Mingi chuckles, hands coming up to grab you by your shoulders; not tight but threatening, making sure you don’t run away from him. “Oh, you mean her? I thought you’d recognise her right away, Seongmi. No worries,” he steps aside, giving you the full view of the person now; whoever it was, she was now standing on her feet, her back to you, “is it someone you know?”  

Your eyes squint against the dim lights, concentrating on the woman. Few things are obvious—lanky body, skinny stature, and thin legs. The lesser obvious details were the shaggy hair, the bare upper body, and dirty worn-out panties, and bloody cuts on her lower back. There’s no way you’d recognise who it is—is it someone you know? That can’t be it. 

“I don’t know…” you shake your head and Mingi rolls his eyes, whistling at the woman who slowly turns around to face you two.  

Under the low beam lights of the truck, you barely notice anything familiar about her, but when you do, it shakes you up. You know her; the woman leaning against the trunk of the tree is none other than Jia. The missing junior from your team. She looks different. Too different. No weight on her body, no flesh beneath her skin; all bones, some more evident than others. She’s naked, yes—only on the upper body. You wouldn’t have recognised her at all if it wasn’t for the distorted face structure. Jia’s body isn’t healthy anymore—she has her ribs protruding from her skin, her cheeks have hollowed out, and there’s barely any strength in her, you could tell from the way she’s swaying on her feet.  

You turn to Mingi, stomach churning with very wrong thoughts about his intentions, but you don’t find him next to you. His silhouette emerges out from the back of the truck, with a hunting rifle propped on his shoulder and supported by one hand.  

He flashes you a wide smile, eyes crinkling in the corner before he states, “we’re going to play a game of hide and seek.”  

Then, turning to Jia, he screams louder, “we’ve played this before too, right little mouse! You know what to do…”  

You notice Jia shaking her head, body shuddering as she starts sobbing. There’s a need in her body language—it’s calling out to you, calling out for help. Regardless of how badly your heart wrenches, you can’t help her, you don’t know if you could. Your head shuffles between Jia and Mingi, conflicted, caught in the worst dilemma of all.   

“Mingi, what—what the fuck are you doing?” you feel your voice break, “why is she here? What—what the fuck have you been doing to her?”  

Mingi clicks his tongue, grumbling with ire lacing each of his words, “oh you sweet thing. It’s nothing for you to worry about. But if you plan on doing something to ruin my fun—” he lets the rifle drop from his shoulder onto the ground by his foot, “—I won’t hesitate pulling this trigger on you. So, baby please—please don’t ruin my fun, Seongmi-ya.”  

You swallow hard, eyeing the rifle before looking back at him. “Mingi…”  

“Shush…” he steps closer, pressing his thumb on your lips to shut you up, “don’t. Don’t Seongmi. I’d really hate the man I’d become if you didn’t let me.”  

“How is this…” you bite your tongue, looking over at Jia again; she’s frozen in her place, shaking, trembling and crying. You could hear her cries now, silently drifting with the wind. Your heart clenches even tighter, tears welling on the corner of your eyes.  

It’s all an act, however. To take Mingi off guard, to throw him off—this is nothing new. Nothing compared to what you grew up with, what you grew up watching your brother and his best friend do. You fill your lungs with air, to their full capacity before turning to Mingi and stepping back; leaning against the heated hood, as a sign of getting out of his way. Mingi smiles, dark and grotesque, enthusiasm shining in his eyes as he grabs his rifle and props it back on his shoulder.  

“I’m coming for you, little mouse!” he yells, laughing hard when he looks over at Jia. “I’ll give you a head start this time. Ten seconds!”  

He trudges carefully towards the driver’s side of the truck, reaches in through the open window and kills the lights, stranding all of you in the darkness of the forest. Only moonlight guided you, gave you a sense of visibility until clouds drifted and covered it too. You couldn’t see a thing and only clung onto Mingi’s shirt in your arms. While, on the other hand, Mingi marches next to you with his rifle still on his shoulder.  

“One!”   

“Two!” 

“Three!” 

He starts the count. Ten seconds. Exactly. Jia runs the moment he stutters at the fifth second—she sprints further into the woods, somehow finding new strength and energy to get away from him. Mingi turns to you, smiling, cheeks squeezing his eyes to slits.  

“And the hunt begins…”  

You stand frozen to your place, watching Mingi take ten seconds more before he moves on his feet; he’s swift, almost effortless with his rifle balanced on his shoulder. All by yourself, you watch him from the distance—he’s figure melting into the inky lair of forest. He’s gone, just like that. Disappearing into the thin night air, veiling in the twisted twines and twigs of the woods. A sudden gust of wind blows past you, making your body shudder—though you’re not sure if it’s the cold wind that has you shivering or the anticipation of what’s coming your way. So, as time goes by, you stare up at the sky—moonless, pitch-black, never-ending void of nothingness which has swallowed all stars for you to wish on.  

Mingi is light on his feet, letting the rain-soaked foliage beneath resound with a brittle crunch—his boots sink in the mud, eyes sharp and alert even in the darkness. He knows his way around, knows these woods like the back of his hand. His favourite hunting ground after all, he’s well versed with the ins and outs. Mingi’s rifle is raised high, one eye squinted, other open wide in search of any movement. There are animals here, but he’s not hunting for one tonight. He’s after something special, someone so special to him that every breath he draws in his lungs, is a baleful stroke of enthusiasm. Of course he’s excited, so very eager to find his little mouse and prey on her.  

For a moment, there’s a movement in the shadows—a low lying tree trembles, followed by the sound of leaves crackling under someone’s weight. Mingi knows. He can smell the fear in the air, in the shadows. Swivelling through the maze of trees, solely taking the guidance of shattered moonlight, Mingi approaches the tree. Its trunk is wide enough for a petite woman like Jia to hide; the anticipation coursing through Mingi’s blood is impatiently peaking—he needs to smell blood, he needs to feel the recoil of his rifle, he aches to hear the sound of shots being fired.  

In the growing darkness, the thicket of trees, crowds him in. The tree is right in front of him, and behind is his prey. His precious little thing. He’s far away from you and the truck, far from the cabin too—every corner of this forest is etched in his head like a map, and he can’t ever get rid of it. Mingi’s heart hammers in his chest, blood flowing with strong gushes in his veins, drowning him in a dopamine high. With menacing steps, he follows the sound, rifle still aimed high—all senses alert and cautious. With a much calculated calmness, Mingi rounds the trunk of the tree—excitement reaches new heights, forcing his body to shudder and his fingers to tremble as they wrap around the trigger.  

He’s so close to it.  

So close to pulling it.  

He could smell the fear still.  

So fresh and so enticing.  

His finger curls further around the trigger and bang!  

He fires a shot.  

You hear it. You feel it in your bones. The shot fired was loud and clear. It’s done. Jia is gone. She’s met with the same fate as Soojin—only this time, Mingi was the one to do it. Mingi’s shirt is pressed against your nose as you inhale his scent to calm yourself down; it is somehow comforting, the stench of blood and citrus, a weird concoction but it reminds you of Yunho. Not entirely. Just pieces of him. The scent of blood with floral or citrusy undertones, is forever Yunho’s signature scent when he’s done patching you up after an extreme night. Mingi’s is no different from what you’ve been used to for months—or the days prior to Yunho leaving Seoul. Hugging Mingi’s shirt gave you a false impression of hugging him instead.  

Bang! 

Another shot fires in a distance, and your heart leaps, body flinching severely and you drop the shirt on the ground. Trembling like a leaf, you bend over to pick up his shirt, totally unaware of the lurking warmth behind you. It’s sensory almost, feeling a presence grow behind on you before a sudden warmth engulfs you whole. With a squeak you quickly straighten up and look behind. Jia. She stands a few steps away from you, leaning against the truck bed, shuddering still. You slap one hand over your mouth to prevent any sound from escaping; seeing her up close, forces bile to rise in your chest and it creep its way to your mouth.  

Mingi’s shirt is still on the ground, collecting the stains of mud and grasses. While you’re too dazed staring at Jia—she’s bare, yes, her upper body has too many cuts and scars; some have scabbed, most are fresh, and there are bruises littering her legs—some turning yellow, some a menacing shade of purple. You notice the way her throat bobs and her lips tremble—is she not capable of speaking? Or did he do something to…? 

“Fuck, Jia…!” you gasp, hand sliding down your mouth and falling to your side, “you can’t be here—fuck, if he sees you—okay you need to get out of here…”  

Jia shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks; this is the worst you’ve seen of her so far. The overly enthusiastic employee is now just a shell of what she was. No hope in her eyes. No will to live. Neither any strength in her to fight.  

“Save me…” her voice is barely a whisper, broken and bleak yet still carrying weight.  

“I can’t do that, Jia…” you grumble, approaching her carefully. “If he knows—fuck—what did he even do to you?”  

She shakes her head again. “Don’t remind me—don’t remind me, please. Seongmi, just help me.”  

You take a deep breath, hands curling to tight fists till your knuckles turned white; it wasn’t because of anger, rather you were terrified of Mingi finding you help his prey hide. So, would you rather help him find his prey or help the prey from being hunted? Silence starves both of you, letting the night life speak louder and firmer before either of you would even decide to break it. Jia is still shaking, supporting her frail body against the truck bed while hugging herself tightly. She’s waiting for you to do something. But how could you? You don’t really have the heart to go against Mingi. 

You couldn’t make the choice, not when you see him—Mingi—he’s right behind her, traversing like a feline to cover up the distance. He’s quiet on his feet, too quiet for Jia to notice. His rifle is aimed up high, it’s stock resting comfortably on his shoulder; one eye squinted for precise aim, other strained on Jia’s back. When he steps into the moonlight, inch by inch his face lights up; crimson splatters across his arms and biceps become too evident, adding more dread to your gut then it ever did.  

“Jia…” you whisper, but it’s barely audible to her and you squeak yourself to complete silence when Mingi glares at you with a slight shake of his head.  

Going still in your place, you comply to his wishes. Mingi steps right behind Jia, leaning over her shoulder and muttering close to her ear. “Run, little mouse.” You catch on the movement of his lips.  

Jia screams. She pushes herself off the truck and sprints past you. Her weak little body still has some fight left in it, and you’re bemused, bewildered to see her try so hard to live. Does she really think she’s going to survive a monster like him? Has she deluded herself the way you have? Is this what it is?  

Mingi grins, eyes shifting from Jia to you; with two strides, he’s right in front of you, leaning close till you feel his warm breath fanning your cheeks. He reeks of blood and gun powder—rifle lowers from his shoulder, going down between you as he holds it by the stock and lets the barrel rest on the ground.  

“Keep your eyes open, Seongmi. This is the best part of the hunt.” He kisses your cheek, and you instinctively fight back the urge to step away.  

Mingi chuckles, catching up on your reflex before he brings the barrel of his rifle back up to kiss it and prop it back on his shoulder. He moves then, brushing past you with a calm gait—he’s locked on Jia again. You turn on your heels, watching Mingi stand at a few feet’s distance from the car; he’s aiming the barrel precisely over to Jia, who’s doubled over a few meters away from both of you. There’s no tree blocking his right or has she taken shelter behind one. Mingi takes it as a good opportunity to curl his finger around the trigger.  

Bang! 

The third shot he’s fired tonight. It’s aimed right at Jia’s knee. You feel sick to your stomach when you watch it unfold—the bullet hitting her in the back of her knee before blowing it up in flesh and bones. Blood scatters, and so does her flesh. Jia’s scream this time is animalistic—like a desperate cry of an animal who’s been hunted by its predator quite brutally. She drops to the ground, screaming, yelling in pain, and cursing the shit out of Mingi; all while crawling away from him, enduring the pain of her bleeding leg. Everything happens so fast after that—Mingi laughs out loud, then grunts when he approaches Jia’s spasming body on the ground. He’s too leisure and lax with it, too comfortable about blowing her knee off that you don’t realise when he aims for her head and blows it off too.  

Bang! 

It sounds different this time. It is followed by the squelch of flesh; and crinkle of bones.  

The blood and brain matter paint the nearby leaves.  

He shot her point blank in the back of her head.  

You feel sick beyond compare, the thought of it biting your stomach as ruthlessly as Mingi’s hobby. But you don’t really feel like throwing up; instead, you pick up Mingi’s shirt from the ground, bunch in your hand and bring it close to your nose, inhaling the scent to calm your overdriven mind. This—this—has brought back a myriad of memories from your childhood and past. However, you weren’t used to something like this—real life hunting.  

Mingi drops the rifle down and lets a blood-chilling laugh emit from his chest. You flinch, snapping out of the daze to stare at him. God, is he insane—standing there, laughing as if he didn’t just murder someone. The rifle stays on the ground while he flicks out a small tin box, shining under the moonlight. You narrow your eyes further down on him and realise those are pre-rolled joints when he picks one up from the case. It goes right between his lips and is lit up with a lighter—his personal one, perhaps—the azure glint of the lighter itself catches in your eye and speeds up your heart.   

He’s smoking a blunt as casually as one would on a Sunday morning. Does he have no remorse for what he’s done?  

Mingi turns to you, smoke curling over his face and into the air. “Are you okay?”  

Smoke hides his face, at least most of it; regardless, you catch a glimpse of his lips curling to a concerned smile. You nod slowly, biting down hard on your lower lip to prevent yourself from saying something you’d end up regretting. Mingi’s brow raises up, eyes glinting with a slight hint of mischief before it disappears to darkness in them. He takes a drag of his joint then pulls it out from between his lips, letting the smoke blow out of his mouth. He glances at Jia’s body—life draining away every second while her blood soaks through the ground and stains the earth.  

“Maybe I shouldn’t have killed her,” he whispers, “she didn’t deserve it.”  

You swallow the bile slowly rising in your chest, your stomach roiling and grumbling at the sight. Yes, Jia’s body spawned right after being shot, and it’s still burning in the back of your mind; her head half destroyed by the impact, a stellate cavity exposing the brain matter and shattered pieces of skull. Blood splatters her neck, chest and collarbones, her face is completely soaked in it as well. You could barely recognise her this time—too much gore and innards out on display like it’s the new normal.  

Though, is he really being remorseful now? After doing what he’s done without a reason? 

“Then why did you?” you scoff, muffling your words against Mingi’s shirt, “why would you do this, Mingi?”  

The shirt, you had been so religiously clinging to for his scent, drops to the ground one more time, freeing your voice. You don’t speak however, just wait for his response. But Mingi smokes his blunt and doesn’t reply to you, at least not in the way you wanted him too. Instead of verbal response, Mingi does it—he picks up his rifle, the muzzle still smoking somehow, and steps closer to you. The joint is back between his lips, cherry red tip glowing in the dark night. Your instincts start screaming at you, forcing you to take a step back for each one he takes towards you.  

Mingi’s eyes never leave yours when he aims the rifle at you and keeps pushing himself into your personal bubble. Fear makes you tremble, legs giving out by the end of the truck’s bed as you hold onto the side panel. Cold metal engulfs the palms of your hands, grounding you, anchoring your sanity to a ray of hope until Mingi’s face is alighted by the moonlight; silver beam hits him in his eyes, revealing the deranged ecstasy he’s pretending to hide.  

“Mingi…” you whisper, back pressing against the side panel now, trapped as he comes to stand in front of you.  

His rifle stays on you, aimed at your chest before he pushes the tip of the barrel against your left breast; you gasp, eyes fluttering close when you think he’s got you. The warm tip caresses and runs in circles around your nipple till it pebbles under it. A satisfying hum reverberates in Mingi’s chest before he growls and brings the barrel right under your jaw. He pushes it further, harder against your throat—forcing you to tilt your head back and let out a whimper of despair. Yet, the fear arouses you, riles you up in the best way possible; it’s a shame your body would react to a near-death attack, or the attempt, in this way. You’re not sure why you would drip in your panties at the thought of getting fucked by him right now—with his gun too, maybe. You clench your thighs, sensing the tension coiling and deliberately pushing at your cunt.  

“Mingi, what—stop…” 

“I’m not going to hurt you. Never, in fact. I would never hurt you.”  

And true to his words, he doesn’t. The moment is anything but exhilarating; it only enticed a dread and terror in every inch of your muscles, body shuddering and trembling till you open your eyes and face him. He takes a hit of his blunt before using one hand to drop it on the ground and crushing it under his foot. It sizzles into the soil—Mingi relaxes unconsciously, tensed shoulders rolling out as the rifle drops from your throat and falls to his side; he then throws it behind you in the truck’s bed, it makes a loud clattering inside before its vibrations die down in the quiet night.  

The next few seconds blur your ability to comprehend what happens; Mingi pushes you back into the bed’s side panel, hands on either side of you, trapping you in against his body and the sturdy metal plates. You could feel it give out under your weight, even more so when he presses his chest flush against yours. Your breath catches, arms behind you, slotting in the small of your back. They strain, aching lightly.  

Mingi leans in, warmth breath tickling your ear as he mumbles, “shall we play the game too?” he doesn’t wait for your response, “I’ll give you a head start. Twenty seconds. Run or hide, little one. Just don’t make me catch you…” his lips brush against the sweet spot between your ear and your neck, right below your earlobe, “…because if I do, you’re ever going to regret spending this night with me.”  

Fuck.  

Holy fucking shit.  

What did you get yourself into?  

Mingi, you’re more deranged and unhinged than Yunho.  

Isn’t he? Best friends, after all.  

You tremble at the thought, the same thoughts which had been left for you to interpret by him; Mingi’s warmth is troubling, peaking as he pushes his body against yours for one last time before pulling away. The gust of cold air seeping between your bodies is annoying. However, what’s even more ridiculous about this situation is that your mind has perceived your overt excitement of being chased as a pleasant little surprise, subjecting your body to a sudden surge of pleasure and the same causes for wetness to soak your panties.  

Stepping further away from you, giving you enough space to breathe, Mingi grins. The chains around his neck catch the moonlight, so do the rings on his fingers when he brings one hand up to give you three counts.  

One. 

Two.  

Three.  

You run. You dash into the woods behind the truck. Somewhere in your mind, you thought maybe following the trail would take you to the cabin–somehow—and you wouldn’t have to worry about your life then. However, the lack of light makes it harder for you to pinpoint the direction you came in; you couldn’t follow the path solely based on your goldfish memory, or the inkling which follows you around. Tall trees cut the moonlight, streaking on the ground as you delve deeper into the woods; you don’t look back, you can’t, you don’t have to look back. If you do, you might falter in your determination—determined to get out of here without a scratch on your body. Your legs give in almost when your pace picks up, your chest heaves, lungs fighting for every breath of air; the dread comes later, twisting your gut thinking about the consequences of getting caught.  

Run, Seongmi.  

Run till you don’t see him. 

You need to save yourself.  

Time dithers to nothing, passing you by in excruciatingly slow manner. You have no idea how far you’ve come, or if you’ve even shaken him off you. Though, you know one thing, you’re completely lost; the woods aren’t familiar to you anymore, daunting trees, tormenting sounds of creatures you don’t want to encounter, and the crickets which chirp a death song for you. All of it buzzes deep within a corner of your mind before your feet gradually come to a stop; you look around, eyes wide, full of sweat—your tank top sticks close to your skin, and so do your shorts, having ridden up high on your thighs. The space you were forced to stop in, is surrounded by trees and bushes; under your feet, on the undulating plain, is slightly wet soil and dried up foliage, scattered everywhere. Your shoes are coming loose already—the slip-ons never stay on your feet, and given your situation, those were probably the wrong choice to wear.  

You get rid of them and let them stay rooted to the ground, straying further and deeper into the labyrinth of trees and shadows; by the sounds of foxes, you could tell they’re lurking around you. There's no sign of Mingi behind you, he’s not chasing you it seems. But the thought of getting caught is still heavy on your mind and it pushes you to trudge further along the guidance of breaking moonbeams. At a certain point, you come to realisation that you are truly lost in this maze; nothing seems to be familiar, every corner is a haunting memory which never really existed. Your perspective takes a flip, now thinking how much you want Mingi to come get you out of here, how you would bear whatever the consequences of getting caught would be. You needed him, and most important, you needed to be safe again.  

Wet soil latches onto your soles, dirty feet sinking in the soft mud and decaying leaves; the stench of forest—grotesque and numbing—grows intense. You gander around, eyes squinting in the mere light now, trying to figure out the silhouette of tall trees. Atleast, you’ve conserved your energy by walking and not running; even if the monster is after you, you’re sure he won’t get you now. Relief is momentary when you hear a sudden crunch behind you. Was it a twig? Was it an animal? Was it Mingi? You couldn’t tell until you turned around and when you did, there was nothing which would alarm you. A gust of wind is all you feel, followed by the creaking of branches, and more leaves falling on the ground. Another sigh of relief brushes past your lips and you turn back around to continue moving ahead, navigating to the cabin if you could. 

“Gotcha!” 

You come face to face with Mingi. Dark eyes, sinister grin, bright white teeth peeking from between his lips. You scream, flinching away from him as your gut punches itself into your stomach. Before you could turn on your heels and dart into the unnerving darkness, one of Mingi’s arms wraps around your waist, other one effortlessly grabbing you by your throat. His fingers curled, pushing into your flesh, while dragging you with him to the nearest tree and slamming you against the trunk; the ragged edges of dried, hardy bark bites into your skin through the thin satin camisole you had draped yourself in, forcing a yelp from your lips. Suffocation blooms in your chest, skin crawling with fright, and your eyes wide and dead set on the man in front of you. Catching faint splatters of blood across Mingi’s cheek and chin, you almost let out a scream, but a slight shake of his head constrained you from doing so.  

“Shhhh, little rabbit.” He leans close to your ear, warm breath caressing every inch of your skin, “not a sound—not a fucking sound from you. You don’t want to wake the nightly creatures, do you? When the moon comes out, so do they—to hunt, to feed on their preys. You don’t want to be caught by a ravenous fox, do you?” 

You shake your head, frantically.  

“That’s what I thought,” he chuckles, taking a deep breath in before whispering, “strike one, little rabbit. Two more and I wonder what this fox might do to you.” he steps back, creating enough distance between the two of you, “run then, rabbit. Hop away...don’t let me catch you again this time.” 

Arousal overweighs your sanity, rationality already down the drain; you stare at him, eyes still wide, lips still trembling and chest convulsing like you forgot how to breathe. The slick between your legs grows to the impending tension. You never thought you’d be turned on by this—by this cruel play of prey and predator. Even if you didn’t want to admit it, the look in Mingi’s eyes, gave away how eager and hungry he really is. For a long while, you stay rooted to your place, thin camisole sticking too close to your skin, sweat drenching you from top to bottom; you should run.  

Mingi smirks, heaving a breath out before turning his back to you. “I’ll start the count...” 

“One.” 

“Two.” 

“Three.” 

“Four.”  

You stumble on your feet walking backwards, gaze trained on him for any out-of-character movement. When the adrenaline kicks in, you turn around and run; the flight or fight response is high, anxiety rushing through your blood, and all the consequences replaying themselves in your head. Three strikes. That's what it is, right? After strike three, the night is going to take a dark turn, and only the moon would be the witness to whatever happens. Chest heaving, feet stamping on the half-wet soul, leaving your prints behind—you were tired, exhausted from the strain on your lungs, and on your body, but it wasn’t enough to get away from him. The trees around you start clear out a bit, and it gives you hope—maybe, just maybe, you’d be back to where the car is, grab your phone from the passenger’s seat and make a call. 

To whom? 

Yunho? 

What if he already knows... 

You shake your head, ridding it of all the thoughts which clamour and taint your determination for the time being; your feet give in, calves cramping the moment you try to raise your pace. The sharp ache twisting in your muscles deliberately has you stopped and doubled over, out of breath with sweat beading on your forehead while droplets cascade down with ease, wetting your skin with sheer sheen. Trees tower over you, branches hovering too—in a seeming umbrella of foliage which is soon to bloom. The scent of wet soil courses through the frisky night breeze, carrying a hint of metallic tang somewhere with it. You don’t dare look back. What if he’s right behind you? What if he snuck on you the moment you were distracted?  

Lethargy is tough to tackle when you know you have a psycho chasing after you. And so, the thought of hiding behind a tree, while you recover, becomes a sweet plague on your mind; you crouch behind a wide tree, letting its trunk engulf you whole. For the time being, you muffle your ragged breaths with the sleeve of your robe, pressing your back into the trunk to shrink as small as you could. In the back of your mind, you wanted to become one with the tree itself. You throw your head behind, the hand slipping away from your mouth as you still try to find a way to control your panicked breaths. The burn in your chest grows to an immense extent, simmering your body in pure burnout.  

Moonlight breaks through the clouds again, dispersing light on the ground, letting it thread through the trees and wrapping around every leaf. The dainty light which offered you little visibility, gave you a sense of relief. Until you heard a leaf crunch, then more footsteps followed. You brave yourself and peek out, letting the moon shine on Mingi’s silhouette—he’s there, looking around, lips curled in a smirk, fingers toying with a knife as he held it in his hand, and sweat-drenched body glimmering against the black tank top. Where did he get the knife from? And why does it glint to so unkindly under the light?  

You swallow hard. The impending strain of dread forces you back against the trunk again, teeth sinking into your lips to muffle any sounds escaping from your chest. As much as you wanted to scream and thrash, you couldn’t; feeling stuck in this situation weighs further down on your actual determination to get out of it. If you past could vouch for you, scenarios like this one can be easily subdued, however, you’re so out of the habit now.  

Mingi’s laugh booms through, scattering your thoughts towards him, “hiding so well from me now, little rabbit.”  

You almost let a squeak out; pressing your hand against your mouth, your lips quiver and sounds muffle, but your heart thumps louder than it ever could.  

“I told you I’m not going to hurt you,” he continues, “but hiding makes the hunt better, doesn’t it? Goes to show how scared my little rabbit is…”  

Crunch!  

A twig creaks under his feet, at a distance from you.  

Crunch!  

Another one.  

He’s moving closer to you.  

You close your eyes, breathing hard.  

Crunch!  

One more step.  

Dread comes knocking at your door, roiling in your stomach as the bile rises up again.  

Thud! 

Just as you heave a breath, you see it—a clear swing of sharp glint cutting through air and rupturing all your senses. He flung the knife in his hand at a damned precision, so accurate and so keen, that it punctured the bark of the tree in front of you, scattering the wood chips on the ground.  

You gasp, eyes widening and your body shuddering to the impact of it—he’s found you.  

Second strike. Is it? 

Mingi laughs yet again, voice laced with darker undertones as he creeps closer to the tree you were hiding behind. “Found you.”  

He towers in front of you, silhouette wrapping you whole in a tormenting darkness before it shifts; before you could run away, he grabs you by your throat and pulls you up on your feet. Pushing you back into the trunk of the tree, he leans closer till you feel his breath grazing against your lips. Mingi’s eyes have lost their light—the warmth you once believed would keep you safe from Yunho’s demons. Little did you know, Mingi’s demons outweigh Yunho’s, that your lover’s best friend—apparently saviour to you is also another monster hiding in plain sight. You wrap a hand around his wrist, nails digging into his skin and breaking it, blood beads across the crescent marks your they leave behind.  

The rough bark bites into your skin through the robe, stinging around the edges of your spine; instincts flared up, forcing you to  close your eyes and let a sob slip past your lips. Mingi finds is amusing, too bewildering and something to delight in at the sight of you cowering and crying—he could smell the fear on you, and if he wills, he might even taste it.  

“Strike two,” he whispers, his free hand tracing down your navel to the waistband of your shorts, “so close, little rabbit. Hiding from me almost worked in your favour—but did they not tell you how sharp a fox is? It sniffs out its prey.” A pause, fingers hooking into the band before slipping gently inside; they inch closer to your dripping cunt, prodding past the wet folds to gauge how riled up you were.  

“Fucking hell,” he curses under his breath, two fingers sliding up and down your slit to collect your slick, “so fucking wet already—you like it, yeah? Being chased? Being a prey to a monster like me?” he chuckles loudly, letting it reverberate in the dense forest, “too bad, little rabbit. I can’t do much—the hunt is still on.”  

He rubs his fingers against your slit, letting them dig and spread your folds apart while the tips toy with your throbbing clit every time he pulled them down. Whimpering at his touch, your eyes flutter open and meet his; he’s staring into the deeper, darker, damned, pits of your soul, lower lip caught between his teeth and his breath breezing against your cheeks. The way his fingers thrust between your folds has you leaking more and clenching your thighs harder.  

“Mingi…”  

He clicks his tongue, withdrawing his fingers from your shorts and bringing them to his mouth; keeping his eyes on you, he lets his tongue dart out and swipe up the length of his first two fingers—licking your wetness off them while deliberately humming in satisfaction.  

“I can taste the fear on you,” he mumbles, “but I need more…”  

Smirking at your trembling self, he eases up on you and steps back. “Another chance. Last one. If I find you now—no, if I catch you now—you’re going to willingly surrender and let this fox feast on you.”  

He grunts, making an effortless attempt at pulling the knife out of the trunk. His back is to you again, while you’re trying to fathom what he meant and what he might do to you without succumbing to the temptation. Had you ever been so wet before? Not really.  

“One!” 

He sings.  

“Two!” 

“Three!” 

“Four!” 

“Five!”  

You snap out of it on the tenth count, knees almost buckling to the tension in your head and your heart skipping countless beats. You feel it on your throat, along with the bile that has made its way through from your twisting stomach. The reality starts sinking in bit by bit, his deep voice counting the seconds resonating in every corner of your mind before it raptures you into a sudden flurry of tears. Crying, sniffling, pushing your muscles to strain further into running away from him; you sprint from behind the tree, not sparing a glance at Mingi who’s still counting.  

“Twenty five!” 

“Twenty six!” 

“Twenty seven!” 

The numbers run behind you like gunshots, boisterous in a way that pumps more adrenaline through your blood than anything else. Your bare feet pound against the earth, roots and sharp stones slowly cutting into the thick skin of your soles; the pain gets barely registered in your mind, pushing you further into the dense thicket of trees. The thin camisole clings to your sweat-soaked body, your robe flapping uselessly behind you like broken wings—your lungs scream for air, suffocating every thought of survival which sprouts in your head.  

“Twenty eight!” 

“Twenty nine!” 

Mingi’s voice slithers through the night breeze, muffled by the distance now; you take a sharp left, hoping it’d lead you to the car—a half baked idea forming in your mind at the thought of it. Your phone is in the truck, lying soullessly on the passenger’s seat; if you could get to call anyone, it’d be easier for you to escape this lunatic. You veer left one more time, ducking under a low branch, all while your heart hammers so hard against your ribs you think it might break free. The forest becomes a blur of fractured moonlight and deadly shadows creeping in—even the stench of rotting foliage and flesh becomes too evident and strong in the air.  

Every rustle of leaves sound like footstep.  

Every snap of twig made you believe he was closer to you than he actually is.  

Every time your chest heaves, you slow down to catch your breath.  

One mistake, and you might not like what you’d get yourself into. Your legs get heavy, thighs trembling with exhaustion but something far more shameful bound your soul to your body—the slick heat that has been building between your legs from the moment he pressed the rifle’s barrel against your jaw. How fucked up was that? You hate yourself for feeling the way you do now. But maybe that’s how your body reacted to terror, to the knowledge that if he caught you, he wouldn’t be gentle. He wouldn’t ask. He would only take. The dynamic very much reminds you of Yunho, the man you had apparently given too much of yourself to—if it were him replacing Mingi, would you have felt the dread at all?  

No.  

Probably not.  

You don’t know if you heard him finish the count, all that really mattered in the moment was to be as far as possible from him. Perhaps you were. Owls didn’t hoot. Crickets didn’t chirp. The forest succumbed to radio silence, save for your ragged breaths which accumulated in your chest. You stop and look around, feet digging into the muddy ground; doubling over, head between you legs, you feel it—a tiny shiver running down your spine.  

He’s close.  

You push yourself harder after the much needed second to catch your breath—the forest thins out by an inch, tears blurring your vision and a broken sob catching up in your throat. You’ve reached the clearing. Mingi’s truck comes into your view, but so do the black spots from too much exertion. Stumbling regardless, you run up to the passenger side of the truck, open the door and grab your phone. In a haste, you unlock it, navigate to the phone and stare at the keypad.  

Dial something!  

But who would you call? 

Emergency services?  

Yunho? 

Detective Choi?  

Worst case scenario, your own brother?  

No, it’s not the time to think about it too much.  

You dial Yunho’s number, acting on a reflex that activates the moment you see his number in the dial history. Though, as you hit the little green tab on the screen, an alert pops up—no service.  

Fuck.  

You’re fucked.  

“Fuck, no no no no…” you chant under your breath, scampering on your feet to move around until you get even one bar on the phone, “come on—please–please…!”  

Nothing.   

No service.  

No cell reception.  

You could still make emergency calls, but calling the cops would be too risky given you have a dead body rotting in front of you. Weighing all your rational thoughts, you stare at your phone, somehow hoping it would get some reception for you to call or text Yunho. Nothing seems to work in your favour, nothing at all. Tears well in the corner of your eyes, chest rises and falls arrhythmically to the gentle fear crawling under your skin, your heart is a victim of despaired tremors, and your mind is plagued by a sudden urge to surrender.  

Snap! 

A twig crunches behind you, followed by Mingi’s composed voice, “strike three, little rabbit. I caught you.”  

You stiffen, every muscle going tense, rendering you motionless for quite a while, before you slowly turn around. Clutching your phone tightly in your hand, you meet eyes with him. He’s still as calm as he was before, still drenched in sweat, still wearing that stupid grin on his face. Mingi’s tall stature is almost so intimidating in the night, moonlight brushing off his skin and sharp facial features—even his eyes which quite frankly resemble the eyes of a fox. 

His lips curl further into his cheek, tongue peeking out to swipe over his lower lip. “Do you still want to run? I can see it you do—still want to fight this fox, still want to get away from him.”  

With each word, he takes a step forward, while you stay frozen to your spot. Until you feel his breath warming up your cheeks, you don’t feel the urge and when you do, you stumble backwards. Keep stumbling till your shin collides with something sturdy and you trip—falling on your ass while you use your hands to soften the blow. It works. It’s less impactful on your back and body. However, when your gaze lurks to what tripped you, a soft scream bubbles out of your chest.  

Jia’s body.  

She’s covered in a veil of crimson. One shot clear on the back of her knee. Other one to her head, spreading it apart like a flower caught mid-bloom. She’s so lifeless now, no light in her eyes, no smile on her lips—only the traces of real and unseen fear on her face. You press your lips together and look at up Mingi, standing tall over you. Hastily, you scamper and squirm, crawling away from him. But he’s quick—he drops to his knees and immediately traps you between his body and the ground. His arms rest on the sides of your waist, face mere inches apart; dark and sinister gaze bores through yours, lips trembling before curving inside his cheek, and breath searing against your cheeks.  

“Close. Almost.” He whispers, “but this is where you belong, little rabbit. Under me.”  

You still try to fight against him, sliding away from him. Mingi doesn’t let up, he pushes one knee between your legs, while the other one brackets your hip; he straightens up just a bit to give you enough space to breathe, tracing his hands along your sides to your shoulders, then gently grazing his fingers down the length of your arms to take a hold of your hands. Fingers lace together tight, his knuckles turning white; he pulls them up with him, pinning them right above your head while pressing his hips into yours.  

“Mingi, why are you doing this?” you question him, composing every last bit of your sanity.  

“Why?” he repeats, his tone mocking you, “it’s the rule—set in stone—I told you before, didn’t I?”  

You shake your head, fighting back tears, “you’re…you said you wouldn’t hurt me.” 

“And I’m true to my words.” He kisses your cheek, “am I hurting you right now?” his whisper brushes against your lips, “speak your truth, little rabbit.”  

It breaks out of your chest like a knot coming undone. “You’re scaring me right now. I’m not hurt—hell—I don’t even think I am hurt. I don’t feel safe anymore…” you stare into his eyes, pleading silently, “can we just go home?”  

Something shifts in him, a flash of warmth which disperses quite quickly in the black of his eyes; immediately, he’s off you and helping you on your feet. He doesn’t say much, sound from him becomes a punishable almost. Guiding you towards the truck’s bed, he lowers the door and picks you up by your waist to place you on the edge. You squirm, a little uncomfortable against the cold metal surface, yet somehow, you go along with it. Mingi watches you, studying you from head to toe as he stands at a distance, running his hand through his hair; he’s not frustrated, no—unlike Yunho, Mingi doesn’t get mad too easy. For him, rage bubbles under a sheet of tranquility, calmness—but it never erupts, always stays dormant.  

He bites his lip, moonlight glinting on his face; his gaze lurks on your face before he looks away and drags his feet to the driver’s side of the truck. He returns with two bottles of water and a rag that’s dirty on one side. Without saying much or making any sound, you watch him unscrew one of the bottles and hand it to you. He then crouches over, brows scrunched and lips parted.  

“Drink,” he mumbles, opening the other bottle before gently grabbing one of your feet in his free hand. “I need to inspect—could have a thorn, or something much worse.”  

You take a sip of water, slow and savouring the taste, letting it quench your thirst; as much as he’s wordlessly doing his part, you’re too soundless, allowing him to do what he needs to. Mingi’s tender touches are barely even felt as he washes the sole of your foot and dabs it dry with the rag. It’s more intimate than you had ever been with him—seeing his sleek and ragged fingers use their delicate efficiency to inspect and check.  

He hums softly, “nothing on this one,” glancing up at you, he offers you a small smile before moving onto the other, repeating the same steps, “I don’t see anything here either.”  

You swallow down gulps water in a breath, avoiding meeting his eyes the moment they’re back on you again. Instead, you look away at the distant tree and continue to drink the water until the bottle is empty. Heaving a sigh, Mingi sets the rag and now-empty bottle on the side, next to you. He stands to his full height, towering over you as the moonlight washes off him; unbothered he is, staring up at the moon while you clenched your fingers tighter around the plastic bottle.  

“I think you’re all done with it.”  

“I know.” You whisper, crushing the bottle in your hand; it crinkles loudly between the two of you, “Is this something you get off of?”  

“Sometimes.”  

“Hurting people turns you on?”  

“In some way,” he scoffs, “look, I know what you’re trying to accomplish here…”  

“You don’t.” The sternness in your voice becomes deliberate, “you really don’t.” You pause, getting your thoughts straight, “few hours ago, you were in Yunho’s apartment, asking me how I was. And then this?” shaking your head, you let out a humourless laugh, “what’s the point of it all? To scare me? Have the thrill turn me on? Alright, fine, that’s something I’d understand but why kill her?”  

“Seongmi, you don’t—you won’t understand okay.” 

“Try me.”  

He goes quiet. Tranquillity flows in. Mingi contemplates with his tongue in his cheek, eyes fixed on you. He lets the dilemma lips out on the surface, caught between the should I, and should I not. You’re half hoping he doesn’t, hoping he won’t make you understand why he does what he does. The forest screeches at a distance, trees creaking with the arrhythmic breeze that spurs on the nightly creatures to shriek louder.  

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you mutter under your breath, sensing the weight that has slouched his shoulders. “I was just—I was just curious, I guess.”  

Mingi hums, taking a step back from you. “I would be too. Curious to know what you’ve been hiding—I’m not a fool, Seongmi. I know.”  

“Know what?” your throat closes in, fear suffocating your mind.  

“About you. About your family. About your brother,” he states. 

You feel your stomach twisting to knots and bile rising to your throat; you could taste it in the back, eagerly pushing till it drips all over your tongue. Swallowing it down, you shake your head slightly, closing your eyes momentarily as if it was a way to forget the reality which exists so cruelly for you.  

“I am not sure if Yunho does too. I never spoke a word about it to him. It’s not my place to tell him.”  

“How did you…” you blurt out, your voice shaky.  

Mingi takes a deep breath and another step back, “I’m not just a hunter, Seongmi. There are different ways of putting my skills to use—point is, when Yunho told me about you—your name, specifically—I thought I had—thought I had heard it somewhere before. Usually, names hold a lot of importance in our world and it—it just...look, your brother isn’t someone no one knows about. He is influential, he’s powerful, he—he’s buried more bodies than I have ever hunted.”  

“What I’m trying to say is, it’s your choice whether or not you want to tell him the truth…”  

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · 

Twenty-three. Mingi has twenty-three different weapons hung on his bedroom wall like he’s proudly displaying the collection. Guns, daggers, knives, machetes, and some swords you had never seen before; you could discern his personality through them—cold, grotesque, sharp and a beauty that rots. This was your first time in Mingi’s room—a space enclosed by four walls with minimal furniture and no windows, except for a little one which stays open for ventilation. There’s a low platform bed pushed against the wall opposite to his display, a nightstand next to it, and a few cabinets and wardrobes scattered around. Although many trinkets sprawl the surfaces of cabinets―preserved animal bones, different insect species stored in jars of formalin, and bits of his jewellery. Mingi had a strong liking for a beauty that brought in chaos, his room, albeit being spacious enough, translated to how he views the world for himself.  

The room reeks of clinical phenyl and moth balls, feeding your assumptions about the things he does in this room. You returned to the cabin shortly after Mingi wrapped Jia’s body in a black tarp and set it in the bed of his truck. He asked you to stay in his room, while briefly mentioning he was going to deal with the body. He had been gone since, and you were left alone in his room. Thinking, wondering, contemplating the stark contrast between Mingi and his best friend; Yunho, on the broad spectrum of neatness, had a place for every little thing in his apartment. On the other hand, Mingi didn’t have such plans for whatever he possessed. Which, in turn, has you questioning if Mingi would be meticulous enough to deal with Jia’s corpse―the way Yunho would.  

Vaguely constructing your speculations, you continue to peruse the weapons. Weirdly enough you have your heart set on them, perhaps to understand why he’d need such appalling variations in weapons he uses to kill. Does he crave the unfamiliarity of weapons to perform the tedious and repetitive ritual of hunting?  

A particularly heavy and grim-looking rifle stands out on the entire wall; purposed to be lethal, and beautiful at the same time. Regardless of the beauty and terror it’d induce in a prey, the gun had seemed to be unused for a while, or maybe it was a slightly older one than the rest on the wall. Walnut stock which had darkened, blued steel which had long lost its authority, fine and minute scratches along the receiver and a tiny detail carved at the base of the barrel—mystifying craftsmanship which moulded such gun couldn’t be found in this century. You’re too lost admiring the gun, reading deeply into every scratch that adorns its body to not notice Mingi’s silenced arrival in the room.  

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” his voice rumbles against your back, followed by the sound of door closing behind him.  

You turn just slightly to glance at him over your shoulder; he steps in with a tray in his hand, contents intact on it—what seems to be a sterile and clean muslin cloth, a bowl of salt and a knife, the one you had seen before in his truck.  

Turning to face him fully, you roll your shoulders out, “what is all that for?” 

“The forest floor crawls with a lot of leeches. Especially after it rains,” he replies, “would be a lot of trouble if you got some on you. Those suckers can be a menace.” 

Following his eyes and the subtle flick of his neck, you understand the cue ― he wants you to strip; without thinking twice, you push the robe off your shoulders, pull your tank top over your head and do the same with your shorts. All your clothes lie in a heap on the floor while you settle down by the edge of the bed; clad in only your lingerie, a lace set you were now starting to regret wearing. Setting the tray by your feet, Mingi grabs the knife while his reluctantly scan your skin for the bloodsuckers; you take a deep breath in, heart stomping in your chest and your stomach coiling tightly.  

“Here’s one...” he traces the tip of the knife across your sternum before dipping into the cup of your bra on your right, “can I pull this down...?” glancing up at you, his eyes seemingly soften as if to take your permission.  

Without hesitation, you nod, holding your breath. Mingi heaves out a sigh before tugging the edge of the bra with his nifty fingers and pulling it down in one swift motion, exposing your breast to him. His eyes linger on you for a second longer before he pries the tip of blade against the leech’s mouth.  

“Stay still, these bastards sink their teeth too deep,” he murmurs.  

You oblige, tensing up the moment your skin is struck by a sharp agonising sting. “Ouch, that hurts!”  

Mingi clicks his tongue, focusing on getting the hooks of the leech off from your skin. “Don’t worry, it won't hurt much in a bit.”  

In the next passing minute, the sting subsides to a dull throb; Mingi holds the wiggling little creature by its tail between his fingers. You stare, taken back mostly by how he handles the tiny, grimy-looking thing. Without wasting a second, Mingi drops it into the bowl of salt, where it shrinks and eventually dies. He then proceeds to pick up the muslin cloth from the tray, bunches it up around his fingers of his free hand and lightly dabs against the spot where the leech had been feeding from you. When your eyes shift from the squirming creature in the bowl to Mingi, your heart almost forgets to beat. Dark intentions clearly lurk in the corner of his eyes, lips trembling from the impending tension between the both of you, and maybe from the hunger churning in the bottom of his stomach. He doesn't think twice, leans in, tip of his tongue lolling out and mouth opening wide as he wraps his lips around your breast and sucks it in his mouth. His tongue swirls around your nipple, letting it harden under his touch while you cling onto his shoulders from the sudden warmth of his mouth sending shivers down your spine.  

“Mingi...” you breathe out, sliding one hand in his hair at the back, fingers tracing circles on his scalp before tugging just gently to pull him off you.  

Reluctant but ravenous, Mingi somehow manages to calm his inner beast and pulls off with a soft smack from his lips and tongue; your breast glistens with his spit, nipple still hard and standing at the attention his tongue offered.  

“Right, we have a task at hand...” he straightens his back to maintain distance between you two and resumes to what he had been doing before; he dabs the sterile muslin cloth to cleaning the remnants of blood droplets seeping out, “moving on.” 

Setting the cloth back down on the tray, he proceeds to inspect your body more closely now. His sharp eyes trace your skin with a certain kind of heat that forces your body to shudder, and a similar warmth crawl up your neck. He brings his free hand closer to your stomach, fingertips grazing your skin with dainty touches, almost featherlight. He finds one more hiding just beneath the waistband of your panties; this time, however, when his eyes seek permission for him take your panties off, you hesitate and clench your thighs closer and tighter. It hadn’t occurred to you until now, but you were aroused from the simple care he had offered, soaking your panties while your clit throbbed to be touched in ways only Yunho knew how to.  

Mingi hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties and slowly pulls them down with the same hand. His other hand held the knife, grip tight on the handle till his knuckles turned white; it was his way of trying to compose himself while you bare yourself to him. It wasn't his first time, though, you knew, he knew. It was your first time being alone with him and that made this moment even more personal and intimate than it already was. You straightened your legs for him to ease your panties off and set them right next to you on the edge of the bed.  

“Don’t move, this one’s wiggling a lot,” he says with a trapped breath while prods the tip of the blade at the point where it was attached to your skin, “you have to be really careful with these. There could be a chance of the blood flowing back into your body from theirs, it leads to infection...” 

You realised Mingi was only rambling and blabbering the information to fill up the sudden silence settled in. Howsoever, it didn't matter to you what he said, your mind was focused on the warm wafts of his breath brushing your dripping cunt. Every word he let out, forced air to fan across your sensitive folds which were starting to drench in your arousal. If you could let your heart speak on your behalf, you wouldn’t waste a second blurring the line between you two; however, your rationality is still intact, brooding and heavy on you to make the right decision.  

“There’s something about these suckers, you know. You don’t feel a thing when they sink their hooks in you, but the moment they fall off, satisfied with the amount of blood they’ve drunk, it stings like hell.” Mingi chuckles, pushing more of his warm air out to graze your aroused cunt, “very much like someone people, I’d say.”  

The sudden loss of his warmth forces you to whine softly under your breath. Mingi doesn’t notice the sound you made in the back of your throat, reaching out for the muslin cloth to wipe off the blood on your skin, while the little critter goes into the bowl of salt. Arousal slipping past the bounds of your heart, you fixate your attention onto the bowl, staring and observing how the worm squirms and thrashes before it shrinks to nothing. Seeing you distracted, Mingi lowers his head and licks up a stripe along an inch below your belly button, tasting blood on his tongue while sliding his hands on either of your thighs.  

You flinch and pull away, letting his mouth slip from your skin; a chill scatters on your skin from the air and his spit, forcing you to draw a sharp breath in. With one hand, you rub your fingers against the spot he had ran all his tongue over, and your other hand cups the back of his head, fingers threading with the silver-ish strands of hair. Mingi’s eyes meet yours, brows etched high on his forehead, lips quivering and his tongue licking them up, in a way to savour your taste. Biting his tongue, Mingi straightens up on his knees and shifts behind you. He pulls the tray closer to the edge of the bed than it had before and continues to do what he had been doing for the last twenty minutes. Your body still tingles from his touch, and fingers feel the tremors from being his hair; his warmth sears itself on your back, his own fingers dragging across your shoulder blades and spine. Silence thickens, perpetuating your body and mind.   

“What did you mean by that?” you ask, recalling the words he left behind.  

Mingi hums under his breath, closely watching the cold steel of his blade prodding at a particular angle against the mouth of a leech he found on your right shoulder blade. “I thought you were smart enough to understand, Seongmi.”  

Annoyance peeks through, trudging in your blood and in the way you let a groan out, “is it about my brother?”  

“Could be.”  

“What do you know about my family, Mingi?”  

Silence.  

You try again, “I asked you something, Mingi.”  

Silence again.  

“I swear if you—”  

“Do you know why Yunho’s the way he is?” he speaks up finally, picking out the leech from your skin and tossing it into the bowl of salt in the tray, “ever wonder why he likes control so much? Why he’s obsessed with having things go his way?”  

You take a deep breath in, annoyance fraying at the edges of your heart—curiosity beams through, however, it’s lost in the impending darkness of your mind. Mingi’s tongue is back on you, licking up the punctured skin, sucking just enough to get the mere droplets of blood off you and into his mouth.  

“You’re straying—distracting me again.”  

“Am I?”  

“You best friends sure know how to play mind games,” you scoff and let a laugh out.  

Mingi laughs along with you, pulling back all the way. “I never exclusively stated I was talking about your brother, did I?” 

Turning your head, you look at him over your shoulder. “So, what did you want to tell me about Yunho?”  

As quiet your voice is, Mingi frowns a bit and rolls his shoulders out. “Stay put, you’ve got one too many on your back.”  

You take another deep breath in, holding it in your chest till your lungs allowed you to. Mingi moves with an efficiency similar to that of a surgeon; you barely felt the tip of knife, prodding, jabbing, getting the leeches off. Each one he dropped into the bowl of salt, your heart shrunk with them—that followed light and tender dabs of the muslin cloth to wipe the blood away. Mingi didn’t say much till he got to the last one at the bottom of your spine, really close to the crevice which led to your ass.  

“Yunho wasn’t always like the way he is,” he begins, words sounding too gravelly and his voice too deep, “he was composed for the most of it.”  

He drops the knife and blood-stained rag onto the tray, hands sliding back to your shoulders , rubbing them down. “He didn’t get a childhood many children do. Growing up without a mother, with a raging alcoholic for a father, and an older brother who didn’t care if he had a brother or not, can’t certainly be normal.”  

A breath hitches at the back of your throat, straining on your chest till your lungs give out. “Yunho—Yunho never spoke to me about his family.”  

“Yeah, why would he?” he rests his chin on your shoulder, arms around your waist now, “if it’s not perfect to him, it doesn’t belong in his world. It’s never worth mentioning either.”  

You turn your head slightly, catching a glimpse of him; Mingi’s lips stretch into a straight line, eyes half-lidded as more words sound from his chest, rumbling against your back. “Your family decides your upbringing, doesn’t it? Yunho was raised by his aunt—the sister his father doted on—though, Yunho didn’t like her. More than resenting her, he abhorred her.” He takes a pause, “she was controlling, she was left with a stubborn five year old who managed to get on her every nerve. As much as she was annoyed with him, there always was a part of her that adored him.”  

A beat of silence, then he continues, “not the kind of adoration an aunt should hold for her nephew. It was twisted, taboo, forbidden to even consider.”  

You speak in, “do you mean to say…”  

“Yeah, innocent touches and thoughts became not-so innocent after he turned thirteen.” Mingi pulls away fully, his warmth still lingering on your back. “It’s sick to even think about it. How wretched do you have to be to…” he trails off, voice breaking, “…it broke him in ways you cannot fathom, Seongmi-ah. Put yourself in his shoes for a bit—withstanding physical and sexual abuse at that age, getting ignored by your father, and an older brother who never really bothered…”  

“How did he…” you slightly turn on the bed to face him, “how did he get out of it?”  

Mingi smiles weakly, looking away from you, as if he staring far off into the past of his best friend. “His brother helped him. Seven years older to him, the same man who pouted every time his little brother followed him around like a sick puppy, came through for that same puppy after all. He got him into a good medical school, somewhere out of the town he grew up—though, the day he left, was but another nightmare, similar to the ones he had experienced before.”  

You let his words sink in, the story weaves through your conscience and you, however vaguely, understand Yunho’s mind and his obsession for perfection and control. For a minute, neither of you says anything; silence eats at the both of you, Mingi stays wrapped around you and you let him be the way he is. Until, it hits you like a brick that you’re butt naked with your boyfriend’s best friend.  

“Umm, Mingi…” you whisper, “…I’m—”  

“Naked?” his breathes against your ear, fingers denting into your skin as his grip gets tighter. “Are you worried I might touch you where I’m not supposed to?”  

You stare at him, eyes boring into his; like a challenge you didn’t want to back down from. And neither did he. It must have been your first time staring so deeply into his eyes. You’ve always known, by the passing glances at times when you’d meet each other, Mingi is intense. The sharp and undeniable hunger he carried in them, eagerly lurking every time he saw you. It wasn’t just in the way he looked at you, but in the way he touched you.  

One of his hand traces below your navel, fingers dipping low while his other hand, slides up—tiptoeing his fingers up the valley of your chest. You push back into him, arching a little when his hand starts openly cupping your mound. A low groan emits from your throat, but before you could sound it properly, Mingi’s hand wraps around, thumb pressing down on your windpipe to cut off air—just enough for you to choke.  

“Scared I might make you feel better than Yunho?” he chuckles close to your ear, “is that it, Seongmi-ah? Do you think I can fuck you better than he ever did?”  

Your croak turns to a whimper halfway when his forefinger slips between your slit, “Mingi …”  

“I know. I know…” he coos, breath lingering by your ear, “you don’t have to be scared. You don’t have to feel ashamed for listening to your heart—I know it wants this to happen too. Does it not, Seongmi-ah?”  

You shake your head frantically, reaching out to grab both of his wrists to pull his hands away from you; however, reluctance is a bitch, you slowly loosen your grip on his wrists, pushing back further into him. Your chest heaves, rising and falling to the strain your lungs felt. His middle finger joins his forefinger, dipping deeper in your slit, broad pads dragging along your drenched flesh till they press hard on your clit—it knocks out all air from your lungs, forcing you to gasp and throw your head on his shoulder. You stare up at him, eyes welling up with tears of pleasure and unrestrained desire—the same desires you shouldn’t be expecting to have for a man who’s not your boyfriend.  

Yet, you couldn’t help but buck your hips and grind on Mingi’s fingers; pace steady and unhurried, your folds bulge and spread apart on his chunky rings, the cold sensation punching another whimper from your chest.  

“Mingi…”  

“Say the word and I’ll stop,” he whispers, close to your ear, stern enough to cut off all the second thoughts you had. “I know you won’t, Seongmi-ah. I know you’re enjoying this a little too much.”  

Your nails dig in the wrist of his hand wrapped around your throat; he tightens it, pushing his entire thumb to crush your windpipe and cut your air out. Squeezing your throat in the palm of his hand is so effortless for him, he’s not even using half of his strength to control you. The pain is blinded by the pleasure, building gradually between your legs; Mingi’s fingers are relentless in what they do, rubbing you down while teasingly nudging into you. Filthy sounds resound soon after he picks up his pace, torturing your clit with tight-wound circles and dragging his fingers through your slit.  

Suffocation leads to lightheadedness, you start seeing black spots floating in your vision. Desire heightens your senses, making your body blur the lines between pain and pleasure. The sting of his fingers denting around your throat is merely negligible to the ecstasy of his fingers on your cunt.  

“What do you say when you want things you shouldn’t?”  

“Please…”  

Mingi clicks his tongue, squeezing your throat tighter, “uh-uh-uh, ask nicely, Seongmi.”  

Your brain, deprived of oxygen, has no idea how to go on about his request; you’re fuzzy, mind mangled with an eerie satisfaction that you can’t even form words. Or maybe, you had your words ready at the tip of your tongue, but your tongue had gotten too heavy to speak. Regardless, you manage to take a deep breath in through your mouth and whimper what you couldn’t before.  

“Please, sir?”  

“Yeah, that’s right,” Mingi praises.  

The praise is a cruel little thing, a sentiment dripping with satisfaction like venom that makes your stomach roll and your thighs to tremble wider. His hand on your throat stays firm, keeping you right at the edge of unconsciousness, where the colours of the room bleed to nothing but blinding static. You can’t feel your eyes anymore, neither can you perceive the tension coiling in the pit of your stomach, all you can comprehend is the power dynamic stemming from his strength. Mingi pulls your body back into his chest like you’re a mere doll, laughing right by your ear, his hair brushing up your neck and cheek.  

“Such a good little rabbit,” he murmurs, his voice low, “knowing your place is so very important when you’re out of your depth.”  

A whine ruptures from the back of your throat when his fingers leave your eager cunt soaking and dripping on the edge of his mattress. Mingi eventually, loosens his hand around your throat, making you chase the sweet feeling of trapping air in your chest. You gasp, heave, cough and gradually feel at ease, shoulders rolling out against his chest and head lolling back on his shoulder. Your eyes, teary, vision glassy, try to match his silhouette with the same man who had been so caring and kind the first few days you had engaged with him.  

It happens in the blink of an eye—you’re pushed down on the bed, upper half of your body spilling past the edge of the bed and sprawling over the floor while your legs stay propped on the bed, toes curling into the mattress from the anticipation. Mingi doesn’t waste any time in peeling his sweat-drenched tank top from his body; he flexes his arms and shoulders the moment your eyes catch every movement quaking under his skin. He’s a stunning man—map of scars trail from his right shoulder to the span of his chest and finally end on his navel. Silver gashes, glimmering under the dim lights of the room, might hold countless stories he won’t ever get himself to tell you. Or maybe he might.  

Mingi’s arms hook under your knees, pulling your body slightly towards him so that only your head hangs off the edge of the bed. Your legs bracket his hips, arms instinctively coming to rest on his chest—unsure if you should push him or pull him closer to you. Desires have started speaking louder than your rationality, coercing spaces for all the lies you’d tell Yunho once he’s back. What would he do if he found you fucking his best friend behind his back? You’re breaking his trust, aren’t you? Though, if it was so much about the trust, then why did he let his best friend watch him fuck his girlfriend?  

So could this mean you’re getting back at him? Rebelling against his ideologies?  

“Thinking about Yunho, Seongmi?” he takes a deep breath in, bringing one of his hands to holds yours on his chest, “thinking if he finds out about us he’ll absolutely lose it? Or are you thinking you’ll hide this from him forever?” a loud and smug chortle bubbles from his chest, you feel the vibrations beneath your fingers, “nothing goes unnoticed by him, you know. Fucker knows how to—he knows everything.”  

And in one breath, your body shudders, mind fogging up with dread and somehow, pleasure as well. Mingi holds your arms by your wrists, bringing them both down to pin them above your head against the floor, forcing them to bend in an awkward angle which caused much pain than anything else. Your back arches beautifully, hips bucking up to seek anything, any kind of friction that could alleviate the tension growing between your legs. Mingi leans over, trapping your body under his; inching closer till his face hovers right above you, he grabs both of your wrist in his hand and uses the other to grab your jaw. He forces you to look at him, a smirk growing till his lips stretch and his intentions come clear.  

“You can still stop this, Seongmi. But something tells me you want this more than anything else,” he teases, scowling slightly while pushing his hips against yours—deliberately letting you feel his half-hard bulge through his sweatpants. “You want this, don’t you? Want to know how it’d feel to be my prey?”  

For a minute there, you swear you caught a glimpse of the predator you saw back in the woods; the warmth of his care, what he did to help you a couple of moments ago, comes to nil, and fear strains every muscle of your body.  

You shudder, squirming to get out from under him, “Mingi…I don’t think—” 

He cuts you off by crashing his lips onto yours; the initial touch itself hungry, as if he had been starving himself for ages to get a taste of you. Lips burn, teeth peeking out to bite and bruise, and his tongue occasionally slips out to relieve the sting of his teeth from your lips. One of his hand stays wound around your wrist, pinning your body down to a place while his other hand moves between your bodies; fingers trace along lines, simmering their touch across your sides before dipping down the navel and finding your soaking cunt. Two of his fingers drag down your slit again, while his mouth takes your breath away with every tug and bite.  

You don’t understand if you’re willingly kissing him back, or obliging because your body is forcing you to. Fitting together like two pieces of puzzle, cut and twisted perfectly to belong together, you push yourself into his chest and a moan erupts from the back of your throat. Mingi takes it as an opportunity to slither his tongue into your warm mouth, diving and dwelling in corners before tackling your own down. His fingers, still relentless and now slick with your arousal, rub down your slit until the plunge into you. Feeling your taut walls stretch around his fingers and the chunky rings, Mingi groans and bites your lower lip. He tugs it back with him when he pulls away to take a breath in, having suffocated himself with the kiss already.  

Thrusting his fingers in and out of you, grunting every time your walls spasm around his fingers, Mingi observes your face—he closely notices the way your face twitches with pleasure. “Enjoying it?”  

With a sigh and a belittling smile, he increases his pace; the rhythm of his fingers never falters, now openly fucking you with them. He lets go of your wrists, bracing the same hand by your head as he positions himself in a way to easily glance down where his fingers disappear into you. Every stretch, every squelch, every dragging inch of his fingers on your walls is a testament of how far he is willing to go. You’re out of breath, body numb and limp from the pleasure—you don’t make an attempt to stop him, you don’t think about the consequences, all you want—no, all you need, was him. Yunho’s pushed to the very back of your mind, his presence lingering but never letting its weight stop you from acting on your desires.  

You yearned for Mingi, and as you stare at him, the pining comes back to you ten times stronger than it had been the first time you met you him. Whimpering, you close your eyes and let the delicate ecstasy of his fingers sawing you through wash over you, tears trailing down the side of your face as you do.  

“Mingi…” you try to moan but it drags out of your chest like a whisper, “fuck—fuck, yeah…I am.”  

“I know, precious,” he coos, angling his fingers deeper into you, while his thumb reaches out and grinds down your clit. “My name sounds so good coming from your mouth. Isn’t that right?”  

You nod, fluttering your eyes open to watch him; he’s leaning close, sweat beading on his forehead and giving his skin a light sheen. The moment he deliberately curls his fingers inwards, your back arches and you bring your hands to clutch his shoulders for support. Mingi feels you clench around him, grunting and nuzzling into your neck, lips featherlight as he traces kisses and bites along your skin.  

“Mingi…” you whimper yet again, throwing your head back and sliding one hand from his shoulder to the back of his head; you cradle him, fingers twisting and tugging at his hair—he doesn’t feel the pain, and even if he did, it’s nothing compared to how you were squeezing his fingers deeper in you.  

Mingi hums along with you, “that’s it, little rabbit. Squeeze me. Show me how eager you are to be wrecked by me.”  

Your body spasms, something that wasn’t in your control, when his fingers curl snugly around that one spot against your walls—the searing hot flash pleasure melts into every tremor of your muscle, feeling a knot tighten deep within your stomach while your throat dries out from moaning too much.  

He lets a small chuckle out, changing the rhythm of his fingers—they now mercilessly hammer into you, still angled to hit your g-spot. The way you start mewling at him, boasts his ego and makes pride twist in his chest; Mingi could tell, from the tight spasms of your walls, that you were close. He doesn’t waste any more time and pulls his fingers out with a loud plop—your arousal coating them in a thin layer, shining under the dimmed lights.  

Without hesitation, he brings his fingers to his mouth, lips parting just enough to suck both of his fingers inside. You hear him growl in satisfaction, eyes fluttering close and open to train on you. He never breaks the eye contact, not until he’s licked every inch of his fingers covered in you.  

“Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined you would,” he rasps, smiling wide as he pulls his fingers out with a loud pop. A string of spit connects his lips to his fingers, stretching till it breaks in the air.  

Your hips twitch with an useless plea, and watching you, Mingi chuckles darkly, the sound vibrates from his chest as he leans down to grip your thighs harder and spreads them wider. His fingers are bruising, holding you open to him and for his hungry gaze to feast on your glistening cunt. Your arms slide off his shoulders and fall to your side, hands fisting into the sheets beneath you. The mattress has a wet patch from your drenched cunt, your arousal leaking consistently.  

“Look at you,” he mumbles under his breath, voice dipping down a baritone, “so helpless under me—so willing to—still thinking about him, Seongmi-ah?”  

You shake your head and whimper, weakly bringing one of your hands to his wrist, “Mingi…please…” 

“Please what, darling?” his vaguely wide smirk dithers to a frown, and he clicks his tongue, as if annoyed, “well, since you’re asking me so nicely…” 

He trails off, reaching his other hand out for the knife in the tray by the bed; you squeeze your hand tighter around his wrist of the hand he doesn’t move from your thigh. When the anticipation and intentions clash, you realise what he’s trying to do. Mingi holds the knife under the light, the sharp blade glints once, then twice before he brings to your inner thigh, dangerously close to your throbbing cunt. You squirm, nerves jolting with a reflex that asks you to run instead, however, you’re transfixed by Mingi’s eyes on you. The same dark brown ones which hold predator-like challenge in them, taunting you, unlike the warmth they had back when he was cleaning you up.  

Mingi switching between his two personalities was really smooth; one moment you could tell he was trying his best to control his urges, the next he let the same control slip and snap, making him commit to what his desires are. You’ve always wanted to play with the devil—not Mingi—your devil, Yunho. It was a known fact that Yunho wouldn’t tolerate any of what you’re doing with his best friend, but did it concern you? No. Maybe in the slightest. You weren’t moved by it whatsoever. If this was a way of him testing your loyalty to him, then you know by agreeing to Mingi and conforming to your own urges, you’ve already signed your death certificate.  

“Fuck…!” you gasp loudly when Mingi’s cold blade drags up a line along your inner thigh, “Mingi—fuck—wait…”  

Fear and anxiety causes for your body to shudder, for your eyes to close shut your thighs to clench—but Mingi keeps you open with one hand, and pressing himself between them. He flattens the blade on your clit, pressing as hard as he could, till you saw stars in the back of your eyes and almost caught your breath in your throat. With deliberate care and extra patience, he ground the blade in circles, trapping your throbbing clit under it.  

“Wait—wait for what, precious?” he pushes himself closer to you, chest brushing yours, the mere friction sending shivers to your sensitive nipples, “you don’t expect me to wait—I’ve waited long enough.”  

Pressing the blade harder against your swollen clit, grinding slow circles, he makes sure the sharp edge is angled in a way to keep from tearing your skin. But the threat is heavy—one wrong word and he might do something he’s not supposed to. Every rotation sends sparks of pleasure and pain shoot up your spine.  

“Fuck—fuck—Mingi just—be careful.” You breathe out.  

“Don’t worry,” he grumbles, continuing his ministrations, “I’ve done this  few times before. I won’t nick you. You’re too precious for that, Seongmi-ah.”  

Before you could say anything, the tight, coiling sensation returns to pit of your stomach, weighing you down further on the flattened edge of his blade and you whimper loud enough to spur him on. Concise circles slowly begin to disperse and vanish, Mingi pulls the blade away from you and tosses it aside, letting it clatter against the floor. He replaces the cold haze of the blade with the warmth of his mouth.  

“Ah—fuck…!” you immediately slap one hand over your mouth and tangle the other one in his hair. “Hmmmpf—fuck—Mingi…” moans muffled by your hand still reach him and they only encourage him.  

His lips are sealed around your swollen and throbbing clit, sucking and grazing it with his teeth as subtly as he could. The soft and tender touches delve into rougher and more aggressive bites and licks; his tongue swipes in circle and then press harder, setting your nerves on fire. Your body shudders and you couldn’t control yourself; your breathing shatters your lungs, heaving your chest and arching your back when the edge of ecstasy slowly dissipates under your skin. Tugging tightly at his hair and pushing head harder between your legs, you groan and chant his name in a series of breaths before crashing down altogether.  

The sensation is remarkable, sheer bliss taking over every sense of your body before it reaches a peak and makes you see stars in your head. Mingi continues sucking on your clit, tongue swiping out occasionally to taste your arousal seeping through, while you come undone, breaking down with every single lick of his tongue. Your walls flutter around nothing, clenching so hard it almost blinds you to a certain sting on your soaking folds. The pleasure takes over, hitting you like a bucket of cold water before Mingi’s tongue warms you up again.  

Breathless, you let your hand slip away from your mouth to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You didn’t realise how impactful the orgasm was, not until you felt a stream of tears rolling down your cheek. Mingi doesn’t pull away, even as your walls spasm for a few more times and eventually come to a rest—he continues eating you out, letting his tongue lick a stripe up your slit before attaching his lips back on your clit. The pleasant feeling of his suckles overrides your senses and soon it becomes a little too much to bear. Overstimulation was never really your cup of tea, but the way he’s doing it, you might have to reconsider.  

Pressing the tip of his tongue one last time on your clit, he licks down your slit and plunges it deep into you. A low grumble of satisfaction and elation vibrates in his chest when he prods at your walls. Your fingers twist and turn in his hair, not bothered if you hurt him by pulling on the nifty strands too much. You were certainly lost in the rapture, your body had never been this eager to have a man’s head between your legs.  

“Fuck…Mingi…” that’s all you’ve been murmuring and blabbing for the past hour, only because you’re unsure how else you’d address this between you two. “That’s enough—that’s really enough—ah! You’re killing me…!” 

Mingi chuckles against your soaking cunt, the low juddering of his sound sending a jolt of absolute pleasure through your overstimulated body. He thrusts this tongue into your dripping hole, letting your walls squelch and flutter around him while he presses his nose on your clit. Setting a brutal rhythm of his tongue, he fucks you relentlessly and intentionally, with a purpose of getting you off again. The second orgasm isn’t as impactful as the first one, but it’s still something you weren’t expecting at all. Your walls spasm and try to suck his tongue deeper into your cunt, your clit throbbing and pulsating, while you throw your head back and cry his name out.  

“Mingi…!”  

Your gaze follows an imaginary line on the floor to the wall of weapons; guns, swords, machetes, and various other things have you trembling already. In a wicked way, they remind you of the most grotesque and daunting few hours of being chased by him in the woods. The phantom fear resurfaces and causes your body to twitch without your control. Recounting the moments reels you back to the thrill you felt, and you grow wetter against Mingi’s tongue. Mind fuzzy and aching with overstimulation, you tug your hand in his hair this time to pull him off of you, but he doesn’t budge. Mingi’s tongue continues to fuck into you, nose toying with your clit as his warm breath only tips you further into madness.  

Disappointment leaves a void in your chest when he pulls away from you, tongue sliding right out as he does an resting against your throbbing clit. Through your vision, albeit it being blurred around the edges, you catch a red light blinking in the corner of the room, towards the left side of the wall with the weapons on display. For a moment, dreads licks up your spine and a heavy, sentimental doubt comes alive in your mind—was someone keeping an eye on you? And if it was, why was it Yunho? Your chest convulses, body melting into the spasms and sheer terror from the newly gathered piece of information.  

Astonishingly, Mingi hauls your body up with little to no strength, arms under you, fingers on your back. You straddle his lap, still comprehending the blurring sight of the weapon wall and the little blinking red light. Mingi’s arms slide up your back, fingers tracing your shoulder blades then running down the length of your arms to bring them around his shoulders. His eyes don’t leave yours, assessing the darkness in your eyes with a newfound curiosity before dies to a bottomless pit of hunger and despair.  

“Enough? Precious—you don’t get to decide what’s enough for you.” He laughs, catching the unmissable tattoo on your left tit—the lone heart with Yunho’s initials in it. “Where did you get this done?” he brings his index finger to trace the outline of the heart, “Yunho inked it on you, didn’t he?”  

You nod, taking a deep breath to appease the coiling strain under your skin and his finger.  

“I’ll carve my initials on you too, the same way he—” he pauses, sliding his fingers down to your abdomen where the fading scars and scabs of the cuts Yunho made litter your skin, “—the same way he carves you out with himself. You like it, right, Seongmi-ah. Like it when his blade splits your skin and makes you bleed, don’t you?” 

 You barely are able to make a sound when Mingi’s fingers dig into your flesh. It didn’t come off as envy, perhaps an edge of possession marked with tragic affection. Mingi’s arms wrap around your waist, pulling you as close as he could, as much as the space between you two allowed him to; when you were smushed against his chest, he lets out a predatory growl following it with a snicker.  

“You’re mine as much as you’re his.”  

[wxxyxung]

"NEED A HAND?" ── k.hongjoong┆fem best friend!reader

── ۶ৎ in which despite your friendship hanging by a thread, Hongjoong has a bad break up and asks you to go with him to get a new piercing. he doesn't tell you what kind nor why you have to take a 30 minute car trip to the next town to get it. soon after you get to the tattoo studio, things get out of hand

wc: 9k (how)

content: friends to lovers, angsty, fluff + 18 MINORS DON'T INTERACT; public sex, car sex, handjob, fingering, nasty nasty fingering, hongjoong is a pathetic whiny little bitch in heat, porn with a plot. hongjoong is implied to be self conscious about his size. praise kink? maybe? pathetic!hongjoong

warning: mentions of blood / pain (piercings)

a/n: I had to make this blog just to post this. idc if people see this or if this shows in tags I had to get it out of my system. can you tell I was full ovulating when this happened

part 2 ┆ MASTERLIST ┆tag list

Hongjoong had been surprisingly quiet on the car drive to the tattoo shop so far, which given the fact it was thirty minutes away instead of your usual spot was sort of concerning. It's not like he wasn’t a quiet person, most people would be surprised to find out he was, but this wasn’t the kind of silence you were used to. The car had looked exactly the same it had last time you had ridden on it a few months ago. Actually, you were pretty sure the empty bottles and snack wraps might have really been the same, some of them might even have been yours.

It still smelled of that strange air freshener that always made you a bit nauseous when mixed with Hongjoong’s signature cologne, and the seatbelt still felt sharp and uncomfortable on your neck. For some reason you had almost expected the car to have changed somehow, just like with Hongjoong. Sitting there with everything above the surface apparently as it was felt like playing pretend. You had expected for him to drive you into one of the usual shops around town you were already acquainted with, so when he had taken that turn into the highway you had started to get suspicious.

“Can’t get it done anywhere here” he had said “Has to be a real professional”

You had raised an eyebrow at him. He answered, or more like avoided most of your questions without taking his eyes out of the road for even a second. Hongjoong was surprisingly a good driver when he wanted to, but the way his eyes stayed glued straight ahead seemed to be more of an excuse to not look at you. However it might have just been the awkwardness between you two, a conversation to be had that you both were avoiding. Is not like you didn’t want to have it, in fact you had already had the conversation in your mind multiple times after he had texted you “wanna come get a piercing?” after two months of silence. In the end you had just sent “sure” and all the things you had planned to say you had left outside when you had closed the car door.

“Damn” you kicked an empty Monster can that pilled among other things at your feet on the passenger seat “What are you getting?”

“You’ll see. Well...” he trailed off, a soft chuckle as result of a joke you weren’t a part of yet “Not really, I guess”

“...okay?” You could tell without even asking. The eyebags under his eyes, his unkempt hair, the bitterness of the laugh that had just escaped his lips. He wasn’t over it. He wasn’t over her. After all, it had only been a week “You are not doing like, anything crazy, right?”

“Define crazy”

“I don’t know, like... I don’t want you to get something you’ll regret when you forget about her in a month”

“I don’t regret any of these" You had known Hongjoong ever since his skin had been bare, watching as ink left its mark in him one tattoo at a time. You could recollect every single one by memory, even those fans would never get to see. Her name fell from his lips after a brief silence, catching you off guard "That was her name”

“I know”

Of course you did. How could you not when she had been the last thing Hongjoong had talked about before it all went down. She had been a “miracle” as Hongjoong had called her, a meeting brought by fate at some event. You had seen her on his finsta stories, never in person. Embarrassingly, you had stalked her profile a few times like a complete masochist. You didn’t know much about her though, as Hongjoong seemed too busy to keep you updated on the relationship once she had agreed to go out with him. It had lasted about two months, which was within the usual window of time that it took Hongjoong’s relationships to end. It was always like this. Passionately fall for a girl, crash and burn, and then this: new addition to Hongjoong’s body. Well, this time there had been a slight change, but neither of you would bring it up.

“She was okay”

“I wouldn’t know” it pissed you off how you were supposed to be walking on eggshells around him, a little biting wouldn’t hurt him. You could tell it had though. Still, the car drive would be a nightmare if the mood got completely sour, so you decided to liven it up with a joke "Just don't get a full black sleeve or something like that just because your manager isn't here”

Hongjoong seemed to appreciate the breather.

“I know, don't worry. But it is... special”

There it was again, that lower register in his voice. You knew him all too well to understand that there was something that was troubling him. The idea of him doing something absurd for a girl he’d dated for two months pissed you off. That she could be that important while you were the backup friend he'd use when he needed someone to tag along. It made you feel worse that you had actually come to him.

“You sure you are not doing anything weird?”

“Can you stop worrying?”

“Well can you stop fucking around for a second?” Hongjoong looked out of his window, hands gripping the wheel a bit tighter, rings reflecting the sunlight. It didn’t feel good to snap at him, especially not when he was in a vulnerable state like that. But how long could you indulge him? How long could you silently forgive him? “Actually I have no idea why you asked me to come” Hongjoong didn’t look at you, his eyes glued to the asphalt and body stiff under your gaze. You sighed and looked out of the window, giving up “I guess time out is over”

The direct sunlight blinded you for a moment before you closed your eyes. You crossed your arms over your chest as it rose up and down with a heavy sigh. Hongjoong eyed you through the corner of his eye, his tongue slowly wetting his lips as if getting ready to say something. Whatever it was it felt heavy on his chest.

“I need someone with me” he murmured loud enough for you to hear, a slight shakiness in his voice “Someone I trust”

You opened your eyes and turned to him, catching his a second before he set them back ahead. There was worry but also determination.

“Okay, you are really freaking me out now”

“I am making it sound worse than it is, trust me”

“Then why don’t you just tell me?”

“It’s... complicated. Listen, I just--” he shrugged, hands leaving the wheel for a second “I can’t ask anyone else. It has to be you”

Far from easing your worries, the bare rawness of his voice worried you even more.

“Okay, stop the car. You are acting crazy”

“I keep making it sound weird but it’s true, okay?” he cackled somehow genuinely at your reaction “And if we get there and you don’t want to hold my hand you can wait outside but...” his shoulders shook with a brief shrug, then a short pause “It’ll hurt less knowing you are there”

You hated how much his words affected you.

“You really are not going to tell me”

“I sort of, maybe... want to see the face you make when you find out”

You saw the smile tug at the corner of his lips, the first one you’d seen since getting in the car. The first one you’d seen in months that didn’t come from a picture with him and his ex on his instagram story.

“Oh... so you are fucking with me. Thank god, I was starting to get worried. Turns out you are just your usual asshole self”

“If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it”

You shook your head with a scoff “Idiot”

You felt his eyes on you, the silence still tense but somewhat lighter.

“Thank you for coming, though”

You bit your lip and your eyes wandered to the landscape across your window again.

“Had nothing better to do”

-

The tattoo shop was by far the most professional looking you had ever seen Hongjoong step into. The receptionist even smiled at the both of you as he saw you come in. You sat on the red velvet couch propped against the black wall, perfectly decorated with framed designs and art pieces in clean, minimalistic frames. Hongjoong walked towards you with the paperwork to sign in hand and sat next to you, closer than you had expected him to. You were still walking on eggshells around him, but he didn’t seem to be doing the same. He should have. He should be the one worried about making the wrong move, say the wrong thing, sit too close to you. And yet there he was, elbows propped on his knees that bruised against yours like it was okay to just do so. Like the last two months hadn’t happened. You both got taken into the room almost immediately where a man in his mid-thirties welcomed you two with a warm, formal smile The smell of sterilizer hit your nose almost as strongly as the white light had hurt your eyes. There was a black tattoo bed in the middle of the room where you assumed Hongjoong would sit, with two small stools resting nearby.

“We already went over all the details during your consultation and I trust you read the paperwork as well. I know you are familiar with all this but I just want to make sure you are ready”

“Yes sir, I am”

Whether it was anticipation or fear you couldn’t tell, but you knew him well enough to hear the nervousness behind the casualness of his voice.

“Okay! Get comfortable on the bed and pull down your underwear. You need to get erect for me to work the piece so I’ll give you guys a few minutes”

What?

You hadn’t said that aloud, and yet Hongjoong turned towards you like he had heard you. All color drained from his face as he saw the artist leave the room, the soft click of the door as it closed the last noise that room heard for a few seconds as you both stayed still.

“I did not think about that” Hongjoong finally said, pointing towards the door “Fuck, I should have told you earlier. I’m sorry” he passed both his hands through his hair, messy strands of freshly dyed black hair standing in all directions “This is fucking weird. I’m sorry, I--”

“What exactly is going on?”

“So... remember that idea I mentioned a year ago?” he asked hesitantly, forcing a smile

It took you a bit of effort to remember, and then your mouth fell open.

“You are out of your mind” your eyes unconsciously traveled down to his black sweats before you shut them tightly, attempting to compose yourself and ignore the heat creeping up your face “You brought me for this?”

“No! I didn’t-- shit, the plan was for you to just hold my hand” he held your gaze, and you saw the confidence leave him as his eyes moved somewhere else in the room as the reality of the situation seemed to hit him “Or you can wait outside, as I said--”

“What the fuck” you said, attempting to make sense of the situation. Of course. Only Hongjoong could get you both in a situation like this “Is that why you said I was the only one you could ask?”

“No, fuck. I’m sorry, seriously. I didn’t think of this. Shit” he laughed nervously “You can just leave and come back with him, close your eyes and all that” Hongjoong pondered for a moment, just how selfish he could get “Or you can just not come back. I just wanted you to hold my hand while it goes in but it’s okay, it’s stupid ”

No matter how amusing it had been seeing him panic in such a way, the sound of his voice, beaten and ashamed was not something you enjoyed. And yet.

“I should have known it was something crazy when you called me. I mean... after two months? You must have been desperate”

Hongjoong lowered his head, eyes fixed on his beaten black Converse. He blinked a few times and he pinched the bridge of his nose with a deep frown. He shifted his weight where he stood and you just waited.

“I’m sorry” he finally said, voice lower “I should have spoken to you”

You fell quiet, your soft smile and confidence disappearing.

“We already spoke about that”

“Not really. Not properly”

“It was nothing, Hongjoong”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you”

You sucked in your bottom lip, chest feeling tight.

“I said it was nothing”

You had said that. You both had.

Back in the same car you both had driven to the tattoo shop in. He had driven you home after one of your regular late night hang outs. Car drive, radio on and a “goodnight” that had stretched until early in the morning. You could still see him as he had been, head turned to you on the driver seat, smile wide as he laughed at something you couldn’t quite recall. The engine had been turned off a while ago when you both had realized the conversation would last longer than expected once again. That had been the night he had told you about the “miracle girl”, every detail he gave you about her making a bit more nauseous. There were years of practice to the way you could smile at Hongjoong as he spoke to you about other girls, but there was nothing you could do about the suffocating pressure of your chest whenever he did so. Your body had been turned to him, seatbelt unlocked, simply watching him under the dim light of a distant street lamp. It hurt every time you realized how much you loved him, and as you always did when the truth hit you, you became small and felt inadequate no matter what you said or did. You always tried to run away from him when that happened.

“I didn’t even have to ask for her number, she just gave it to me!”

“That’s bold” you matched his tone, hoping that would make lying easier. It usually did.

“Right? I don’t know. It was kind of hot”

“I bet. It’s your lucky day”

You wish you could have said the same thing. Your shift at work had been an absolute nightmare, the kind that made you want to lock yourself in the bathroom and angry cry for a few minutes. Your whole week had been like that, really. The only thing that had made it bearable was the plans you had made with Hongjoong on a rare spot where he was schedule-free, and now there you were: listening to him talk about how he had met the woman of his dreams that also happened to be really interested in him. You wished you could be an adult and be happy for him, but you were just a person, and the fact you couldn’t bring yourself to do so made you feel like a terrible one.

“You good?”

Hongjoong sounded worried, and when you finally rose your head to look at him he looked like it too. You hadn’t realized you had zoned out, lips wrapped around the straw of your empty drink and eyes fixed somewhere far away.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just tired”

Hongjoong shifted on his seat and fully turned to you.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Of course you couldn’t fool Hongjoong. He knew you too well. That’s why it scared you so much whenever your act slipped even if just a bit. He would know.

You forced a smile, your acting not as sharp under the scrutiny “I’m fine, sorry. I’m excited for you, really” you had said, with the type of casualness that took effort. He had stilled at that, as if you had said something wrong. You had noticed the look he’d give you sometimes when you did things like these, like he somehow knew something was wrong. His eyes would scan your face for something, and it worried you that one day he might find it. Maybe he had already. You felt the familiar overwhelming feeling creep up on you, and you knew you couldn’t bear it much longer “Is late and all we are doing is talking so...”

You were looking for a way to finish the sentence and excuse yourself when he interrupted. His voice was low and the words stuck together with a mix of heat and confidence.

“Got any other suggestions?”

The heat crept from your chest to your face so quickly you almost felt feverish. You let out a nervous giggle and Hongjoong’s lips stretched into a smile, his heavy lided eyes dragging from your avoiding eyes to your lips that were still toying with the straw. Hongjoong took the empty cup from your hands and dropped it somewhere at his feet. The sudden silence in the car had made your heart start racing, and you would have said another stupid thing to break the tension if he hadn’t leaned over and kissed you. His lips pressed against yours, shut tight and a bit dry, nothing like you had imagined a hundred times before. His fingers buried themselves on your hair, stiff at first, then loosened when you hummed in satisfaction. He pulled away just enough to let you say something, and when you didn’t he kissed you again, tongue briefly draging along your lips. The sound of your mixed jaded breathing felt loud and obscene in the dead quiet of the car, and the idea that someone could pass by and see you through the windows worried you and excited you all the same. The idea that someone could see you kissing Hongjoong is one you had fantasized about for so long it felt ridiculous by then, and yet there he was, moaning against your lips and hand gently dragging up and down your knee before making its way upwards to your tigh. His thumb brushed along your jeans before he pulled away enough to whisper:

“This okay?”

His voice made you giddy, so close and low and hot against your mouth. You got to nod only once before a bright light blinded you, making you both wince and turn to it. It’s was his phone that vibrated against the holder with an incoming call. Her name was displayed in bold black letters against the white background. There was a few seconds in which you had to make a choice, and as usual the one you took was the easy one that would cause you the most pain. You just laughed.

“Calling at two in the morning? You better pick that up”

The muscles pulling at your smile ached, and the strain to keep your voice steady hurt your throat. You pulled away from Hongjoong, in more ways than one. He could feel it immediately. The coldness, the distance.

“I mean... it’s just--”

“It’s okay Hongjoong” you had already opened the door, body turned away from him and your leg already on the ground “I'm cool on you”

That had been the last time you both had seen each other. There had been some awkward texting trying to emulate a casual conversation for a few days before he told you he was dating that girl, and then the conversation had died until he had asked you to come get the piercing with him.

“I’m sorry” he repeated, a bit louder, shakier. He looked at you from barely a few feet away, but the distance between you two felt bigger and way colder “You can wait in the car if you want. I’ll take you home later. Or I can call you an uber and you can leave now”

You didn’t want to leave, and despite everything, you didn’t want things to be like this.

“Hongjoong, I’d do this for you any time, but...” you hestitated, and you understood why he couldn’t look at you as you found yourself avoiding his eyes too. It was shame, fear “Getting a new girlfriend and shutting me off for months only to ask me to come here and do this? Like you knew I’d come back to you like a lap dog?” you felt your jaw quiver, cutting your speech short “It doesn’t feel great”

“That wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to see you” Hongjoong scoffed “That’s kind of w...” Hongjoong trailed off and silence settled once again “I kept talking about you” he finally said “That’s why we broke up”

You stared at him, and to your surpise he was looking at you. You saw his pupils shake, but he didn’t look away, no matter how much he wanted to.

“What a stupid reason” you whispered.

“Yeah”

Your arms unfolded and fell to your sides.

“Do you want me wait outside?”

A shrug.

“Do you want to leave?”

“I asked first”

“I asked second”

You both laughed softly, and for a moment it all felt like it’d all be alright. You pondered for a few seconds before you walked to the door and disappeared behind it. Hongjoong nodded, more to himself than to you.

“Fucking stupid” he muttered to himself as he pulled down his sweats, just as the door opened and you entered the room again “Shit! What--”

Hongjoong hurried to pull his pants up again, hitting the stools and making a crashing noise reverberate through the room as he fell forward on the bed. You would have laughed if you hand’t been fighting the dizziness that came with your eyes quickly snapping to the other side of the room. You had seen nothing, and you needed to keep telling yourself that so the heat wouldn’t turn your cheeks bright red.

“Sorry! I should have knocked. I asked him if he could give us a few more minutes”

“Wh--”

He looked completely lost and embarrassed as he straightened up. His hands were still tightly gripping the waistband of his pants as he saw you walk inside the room and towards him.

“You are all depressed now, there’s no way you are going to get hard so--”

“Wow, can you not say that?” he asked with almost a wince, his eyes closed tightly as if you were the one suddenly undressing in front of him with no warning.

You gave him a confused look.

“What? Get hard?” a crooked smile spread across your face as you saw the slight pink at the tip of his ears “I’m pretty sure you’ve heard worse things”

“Yeah, not from you. It feels... wrong”

“What happened to ‘it has to be you’” you mocked.

“I meant for you to hold my hand”

You pursed your lips, furrowing your brows in confusion.

“So you don’t need any help?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I sort of... thought that’s what you actually meant when you asked me if I wanted to stay”

You could see the gears turning in his head, painfully slowly.

“No! No, I’d never--” Hongjoong closed his mouth, then opened it again “I mean, not... never”

“Whatever, Hongjoong. I’m a woman. I’m your friend. It’s cool with me” you said, feigning aloofness “You can just... touch me or something, imagine I’m her or whoever. I don’t know”

Hongjoong stared at you for what felt like minutes before he spoke again.

“You are crazy”

“Actually, I am ‘the only one you could ask’”

“Stop it, I’m going to kill you” the threat was loud and genuine, but you could also see the way his eyes scanned your body in one swift look before falling silent again.

His eyes wandered around the room. You bit your lip, worried that this was it. Everything could break apart in an instant, the fate of your friendship at the tip of Hongjoong’s tongue.

“He’s going to charge you over time” you joked, trying to backtrack.

“Shut up”

Silence again.

“Hongjoong” you called for him in a soft voice, and he finally looked at you “I can leave, it’s okay. I’ll be on the other side when--”

“No” he instinctively took a step forward, as if you were going to walk away “It’s fine is just...”

You didn’t notice when Hongjoong had walked backwards towards the bed, bringing you with him as his hand still held your arm. He had sat down on the bed and as he rested his back against the back of it you knew he wouldn’t say anything else. There was no need for it. He let go of you and sat with his hands resting over his lap as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was looking at you, waiting for you to approach him. Under any circumstances you would have laughed, but you just crossed the distance and stood closer to him.

“Where did that big talk go?” he joked, the excitement and nervousness evident in his voice.

You panicked for a moment, the situation becoming real all too suddenly.

“Do you want to make out or...?”

“I don’t know what we are doing” he said and you laughed together “But it feels good”

“I haven’t even touched you yet”

“You are gonna touch me?” he said, halfway between a question and a plea.

You absentdmindedly reached for his hair, burying your fingers in the soft black locks while trying to ease your own heartbeat. The moment your fingertips had ran through the base of his scalp he stilled, a shiver running down his back. Hongjoong inhaled softly and deeply, eyes fluttering before fixating on your lips.

“Is that alright?”

Your voice was low, the question spoken like a secret. Hongjoong nodded lazily, face dangerously close to yours. 

“Feels good”

His voice dived an octave lower, which you took as an invitation to drag your nails a bit further through his scalp. Hongjoong shifted on his seat and he closed his eyes. You took in his features, still the same as you had remembered these last few months, and yet something had changed. Maybe it had been you.

“I missed you” you confessed with a shaky breath.

“Me too”

“Don’t do that again”

Your fingers grabbed onto his hair, softly pulling at the locks and earning a sharp inhale from him. Hongjoong opened his eyes, brown eyes piercing through yours, eyelids heavy.

“I won’t”

He brought his hand to your waist, taking a moment to gauge your reaction. You expected him to have reached higher, towards the thin lace of your bra. He could have felt the drumming of your heart against your chest, almost begging to be felt. Instead he drew his fingers across your waist, his hand hesitantly sneaking underneath your top and caressing your lower back. Goosebumps covered every inch of your skin, you were sure Hongjoong would be able to see it. His eyes darted around your body, seeing it stiffen as his fingers caressed further up your back with lazy moves. His head fell forward, almost resting against your shoulder, nested against your neck. You felt the hot fanning of a breathing against your neck, and Hongjoong saw your swallow before his eyes fluttered shut as he stirred on his seat. The motion made his nose bump against your neck, and your hand instinctively held his shoulder as if you thought he would fall, fingernails digging slightly into his skin when you felt the softeness of his lips brush against your ear for just a second. Then again, a bit bolder but hesitant chaste kiss to your neck with a soft noise.

You felt his shoulder muscles under his skin as he moved his arm, followed by the rustling of clothes. He struggled awkwardly for a few seconds in which his grip on your waist tightened. The side of his face felt burning hot against your neck, and you wondered if he was embarrassed.

“Do you need help?”

“No” he was “I’ve got it”

The hand on his shoulder ventured downwards, anticipation jolted through your body before you had time to feel ashamed of it. You felt the hard bits of the old band t-shirt Hongjoong wore, the name faded away and rough under your fingertips. You felt his chest rise up and still as your hand stayed there for a second, feeling the faint drumming of his fast heartbeat, before continuing your way down. The fanning of his breath against your neck stopped and his body froze when he felt you push his hand that was resting on his crotch to the side. His other hand that had been low on your back, pinky finger toying with the hem of your jeans stopped altogether. Saying he was half hard would have been an understatement. It felt hot as you palmed it softly over his sweats. A soft whine escaped his lips, so pathetic you felt it directly between your legs. You stilled for a moment, savoring and processing the sound of it. It must have been too long because with a hot sigh Hongjoong's hand rested on top of yours, squeezing himself with your hand in a silent, desperate and pathetic plea. You palmed him, a bit drunk on how desperate he felt, head limp on the crook of your neck, his body so hot you could feel it. His fingernails digged slightly on your lower back as he whined against your ear, holding onto you as if steadying himself. You could feel yourself getting wet. If this was the state you were both in by simply touching each other over clothes, just how much--

Hongjoong moaned against your neck when you passed your fingers under the waistband of his sweats. Of course he wasn't wearing underwear, it would be too uncomfortable after the piercing was done. His skin felt hot, sweat making it a bit sticky too. When you finally grabbed his cock his mouth opened in a silent moan. He was hard by now, heavy under your touch, gratefully twitching when you had started dragging your hand painfully slowly. He was dragging his tongue through your neck in open mouth kisses, lost in the way you pumped him slowly.

"Can I put it out?" you asked, sounding way hornier than you wanted him to know. He shook his head, but the way his hand gripped at the flesh of your waist told you the idea was somewhat to his liking "I want to see it"

He thrust himself into your hand, giving himself away almost like it had been an accident. He moaned weakly into your neck, and soon he found himself doing it again, and again, and again. The chair rocked slightly, the frantic screeching of its swaying filling the room and giving away the pathetic way Hongjoong was fucking himself into your hand, holding onto you for dear life. His hands gripped at your shoulders and waist, putting you at a very uncomfortable position, but the sound of his panting on your ears and the feeling of his now slick cock desperately thrusting onto your hand was too exhilarating for you to care. Then you heard his airy voice against the shell of your ear, loud and hot. It sent the most pleasant chills down your spine.

“You can tell him to come in”

You both could tell neither of you wanted to stop, but he knew he'd cum if he thrust into you even once more. You put your hand away, resting it against his chest to stabilize yourself. His clothes felt strangely warm, and the feeling of his fast heartbeat strangely flattering. You expected him to look away when you pulled away from him but he didn’t, his clouded eyes stuck to you like a madman. He fixated on the way your chest rose up and down, your exposed waist where he had lifted your top, the small wet patch on your neck where he had drooled. Your chest, where he seemed to regret not touching you. Your flushed face and hazy eyes staring down at him, mirroring his.

“Hurry, or I’ll finish” he moaned against your mouth.

You turned around and exited the room under Hongjoong’s burning gaze. It felt embarrassing to call for the artist in such a state, wondering if he'd know. When you entered the room your eyes stayed glued to the floor until you had been next to Hongjoong, his hand warm holding tightly onto yours. It felt so strange doing this after what had just happened. The metallic clanking behind you made you shiver and you tried not to think about what would be going down soon. Next to you, Hongjoong’s eyes were glued to the ceiling, the strong white light reflecting on his glassy blue eyes.

“It’ll be just a moment” his eyes fell onto you and despite the nervousness still evident in them, they softened “You are going to look so cool”

His grip on your hand tightened. It really was just a moment, but to Hongjoong it probably felt way longer than it had been. Your hand would hurt for a while after the way he had held onto it, but you wouldn’t tell him that. His jaw tensed as he held in a pained cry, and despite not being able to see what was going on, the implication made you wince. A single tear streamed down his cheek, softly wiped them away by you. His breathing seemed to steady as you heard the familiar sound of gloves being pulled out.

“All done. Bleeding for a few days will be normal, it’s nothing to worry about. Clean the wound twice a day, dry it gently, don’t touch the piece, the usual. No swimming. No oral or penetrative sex for a month" none of you said anything, but you both were obviously disappointed "Erections are okay but there might be some bleeding too... I think that’s it. I’ll let you fix yourself and I’ll be waiting outside, okay? See you in a minute, guys”

“Thanks” Hongjoong’s voice was raspy but he felt alright “Wait outside, I’ll be right there”

“Okay”

-

You had expected for Hongjoong to walk with a bit more difficulty than he did, but despite the slight hint of discomfort on his face there weren’t many tells. He might be able to hide it from the members after all. After Hongjoong had arranged for his follow up visit you both exited the place, the clear mid-day sky welcoming you despite the chill air. You expected things to get awkward, but it surprised you how much you both just seemed horny and frustrated.

“You hungry?” Hongjoong asked as he fished inside of his jacket for his car keys.

“I could go for a bite, yeah”

His hand grabbed onto the handle of the driver’s seat and you both sat down inside.

“Thank you. Really” he said.

“No need. And I am sorry”

Hongjoong frowned.

“Sorry for what?”

“For your girlfriend breaking up with you because of me”

His lips shaped into a crooked smile.

“Who said she’s the one who broke up?” You looked at each other for a moment before he leaned forward and he kissed you. It was soft, and slow. So slow that it was obvious it was far from innocent. His eyes trailed down your body with a sigh "What about we go back to your place, actually?"

You bit your lip and shook your head. Your thighs pressed together.

"Didn't you hear what he just said"

"He said no oral and no sex, on me" his eyes bored into yours, hungry "There are so many things I can do for you" his hand rested on your knee, lazily moving upwards "Please?" Your legs parted and his hand eagerly touched your through your jeans. Hongjoon let of a soft groan, even through the thick fabric he could feel the heat "How wet did you get?"

"It's your fault" you complained, aware of the way Hongjoong would soften up at your pouty demeanor from time to time.

"Is it?" he feigned innocently, his fingers uselessly pressing harder over your entrance through the jeans, as if your cunt was desperately calling out to him. It was nothing short of disgusting how horny you both were in plain daylight, parked on the street with people passing by "Should I fix it?"

-

You both tried to make the ride back to your apartment, but thirty minutes proved to be too much. Heat was blinding Hongjoong, eyes darting around like a crazy man, so impatient he'd hit the claxon at any car that took more than one second to floor it after the light turned green. He was trying hard not to touch you with his free hand, and you were busy ignoring how uncomfortably your panties stuck to your pussy. He had driven inside the parking lot of a mall, half empty, as you questioned him.

"I'm sorry" he had said, before finding the emptiest, most secluded part of it and parking against the wall "get in the back" he demanded, but there was desperation underneath it.

He winced like something hurt, and it was then you could see he was fully hard underneath his sweats. You wanted so badly to see the piercing. Touch it, suck around it, feel it deep inside. A moan escaped your mouth just thinking about it as you let yourself fall on the back seat, Hongjoong coming through the door and slamming it behind him. His hands went for your zipper right away, pulling at the waist of off your jeans with impatient hands. You stopped him.

"All the way?" you asked, your panic as strong as how feverishly horny you felt.

"No one will see" he said before he kissed you, mouth open and tongue dragging across it.

Hongjoon moaned at the difficulty he had when he tried to pull your pants down. He had become painfully aware of your plush thighs and pretty ass for a long time now. He had thought about humping you like a dog whenever he took notice of how well fitted your pants were, or when you'd sit down next to him in a playful minskirt. He didn't even think about fucking you, the simple idea of humping your ass, fully clothed and cumming in his boxers was enough for him. The jeans pilled in an awkward way at your ankles, but it was enough for Hongjoong to maneuver. He didn't waste time and pulled your panties to the side. Breath hitched on his throat when his fingers touched your pussy. You could see the blissful surprise in his eyes, locked on yours, before he had to look down to make sure he wasn't going crazy. He trailed his fingers across it, so wet they easily slid across it.

"Fuck" he said in a pained whine, like he couldn't believe his eyes. He closed them for a moment, trying to concentrate on the nasty, slick sounds that embarrassingly filled in the quiet of the car as his fingers spread your lips. It made his dick twitch painfully.

His eyes went back to yours again, as if asking you if this was real. You looked away, embarrassed. It drove him insane, your flushed face, shiny shy eyes and brows furrowed in shame. All while he felt his fingers wet and sticky against your cunt that seemed to be pleading for him to fuck you.

He didn't even try, his fingers seemed to slip inside your pussy with ease, getting sucked in in a way that had you both moaning into each other's mouths. He pulled them out, taking off the rings on his fingers and unceremoniously tossing them somewhere in the car. He put his fingers right back in as deep as he could, his other hand trying to push your knee as far away as the jeans at your feet allowed it. He groaned almost childishly, taking his fingers away again.

"Take the pants off"

He leaned forward to take your shoes off, but you stopped him again.

"What if someone sees"

"The windows are tinted"

It shouldn't have been enough to convince you, but it did the job. You let him take your shoes and jeans off, horny by just seeing how desperate he was to just finger you. He turned you slightly, your back now pressed against the car door, him sitting on the back seat with your pretty pussy in full display for him. Your back hurt, uncomfortable, but the way he was looking at you was worth it. You could see his fully hard dick pressing against his sweats and you knew it must hurt against the restrain. He pushed your knees apart, but you closed them. It almost made you feel bad, the way he looked at you like he had done something wrong. Before he had time to wonder if he had messed up, you said:

"Pull your pants down, friction is going to hurt you"

Hongjoong bit his lips, it did hurt.

"It's okay..." he started saying, until he saw how you pressed your legs together, hiding you from him. The simple act of losing sight of your leaking pussy for even a second seemed to do the trick, his hands quickly pulling the waistband of his sweats down and freeing his hard, red cock. You could faintly see the piercing, glistening faintly under the fluorescents of the parking lot. You pussy clenched around nothing, around the mere thought of fucking his pierced cock deep inside you.

"Do you like it?" he asked, a hint of shyness laced on his heated breath.

"When it gets better, can I fuck it?"

Hongjoong nodded slowly, as if taking in your request. He parted your legs, slightly pressing them against your chest, making you whimper at the nasty way he was eyeing you. With a whimper he went back to trace his fingers across your pussy, tantalizingly slow for someone who was so desperate to be knuckles deep inside you seconds ago.

"I want to spit on it but you don't need it"

You understood then why he had fallen so quiet, why he was toying with your entrance. He was savoring the sound of it. The slick, faint and nasty sound your pussy made whenever he graced his fingers across it. You pushed your hips, almost begging him, and he obeyed. His fingers slid right inside again, this time perfectly going all the way in until his knuckes pressed against the entrance. How he wished he could put more in, fuck you like a pathetic bitch in heat in the back of his car. The way you moaned brought him back to reality. You clenched around him, and he worried he might cum. Slowly he pulled his fingers out, savoring the slick coat of arousal around your fingers before pushing them back in. They filled you up again, your hips moving on their own again. He pumped them inside you slowly, lost in the small pants that left your mouth, your eyes glued to the way his hand got sucked inside your cunt over and over again. His thumb started to press at your clit whenever his fingers went all the way in, and the loud moans you were trying to suppress turned into pathetic cries whenever it did. The cries, the exposure, your hot pussy, the filthy sounds. He was going to cum. He needed to compose himself.

He pulled his fingers out, and you let out a whimper that sounded like a question. He dragged your legs towards him, until he had your back arching across the back seat. His hands grabbed at the neck of your tank top, pulling it down unceremoniously to expose your tits to him. The way he seemed so desperate to do so got you clenching around nothing. His hands moved to them, palming them with a satisfied groan, brows furrowed as he took the whole sight in. You, sprawled in the back seat of his car, chest exposed and your legs open just for him to see and touch, thighs wet with your own arousal. His hands dragged down, nails scratching at your stomach and thighs on their way back to hold the back of your knees against your chest.

"I want to fuck you" he said, as if it were a confession "I've always wanted to fuck you"

Maybe it had been a confession, an apology he felt he'd owe you soon. He winced, and you thought the piercing might hurt, but you understood once you saw and felt him cum on you and the leather seat. A thin string connected his cock to the cum that now covered your gaping pussy. It felt hot, but not as hot as the sight in front of you: Hongjoong hunched forward, head down in shame and panting slightly.

"I'm sorry" he breathed out, an you could tell he was embarrassed.

He heard you groan lowly, and for a second he worried he really had ruined everything, until you said:

"You are so hot"

His head shot up when he felt you grabbing his wrist, coating his fingers on his own cum before moving your hips to fuck yourself onto his hand. Hongjoong moaned loudly in surprise, which startled him so much that he turned around to make sure no one had heard. He brought his attention back to you quickly, not wanting to miss a single second of what was going on inside his car. Neither did you. The sight of his shiny eyes, fucked-out expression and parted lips making you squeeze his pretty fingers, dragging another whine from him.

"You are fucking me so well" you said, speaking for the first time. You voice was strained, dry "Can't you feel how much I love it?"

You clenched around him on purpose, and the way his face twisted anyone might think he was severely hurt.

"Does it feel good?" he breathed "Do my fingers feel good? Tell me they feel good"

His desperation made you clench again "It feels so fucking good, can't you hear it?"

He could hear it, that filthy sound now exacerbated by his cum getting pushed in and out of your cunt. He was getting hard again, watching you hold onto his hand and thrust into it, using it to abuse your own pussy with such a pleased, eager expression.

"You are so pretty. You have such a pretty pussy" the words left his mouth like a lost thought. He wasn't really thinking anymore.

"I want you to fuck it"

"Shut up" he groaned.

Hongjoon leaned in and kissed you, the drool that had formed at the sight of you now falling down your chin in a clash of teeth and tongue. He pressed his tongue against yours, forcing it deep inside your mouth just as he buried his fingers deep, deep inside you. The moan that rose from your throat choked on his tongue. He pulled it out of your mouth it with a nasty sound, a thread of saliva connecting your lips. Just by the way he looked, you knew he was hard again.

"I'm going to fuck you so good. I promise you"

He pulled his fingers back again, and proceeded to finger you at a speed that made it clear he was trying to get you to cum before he did again, and he was close.

"You sound so fucking good"

He patted at his sweats with his free hands, hand looking for something like a desperate puppy. He finally found it: his phone. When you realized what he was doing, both embarrassment and heat spread through your lower belly, making you whine in a way that made Hongjoong's hand shake, but his pace never faltered. He had opened the recording app and placed it close to your pussy, making sure every filthy little sound was saved for later.

You came with a loud cry, and Hongjoong savored every small clench, every small wet sound that came from your orgasm as he moaned himself, painfully hard and wishing he could use you like a fleshlight. He rode out your orgasm by recording every sound, fingers going inside and out, stretching you out and dragging them across your cunt to record as much as possible. When he was done, he pulled them out, and sat with a deep sigh, placing his hard cock insde his sweats with a wince. He took a look at you, then leaned forward and kissed you softly on the lips. It was soft, careful, like the first one you had shared in that same car. You were both riding the high, and you felt blissful enough to do him the favour of cleaning his fingers by bringing them to your mouth, tongue dragging across them in small licks.

"You are awful" Hongjoong said, voice strained and eyes going dark again.

It made you chuckle, and baring your teeth you bit them playfully before placing a chaste kiss on them.

He pulled your top back up, and helped you sit comfortably after lying in such a straining position for so long. The truth was, if he let you stay in that position for longer, he might be tempted to bury his fingers deep inside you again. God, he already missed the feeling of your pussy around them. He looked around to make sure there was no one around.

"You good?" he asked, lips pressed against your cheek in a soft kiss.

You humed in response.

"I'm sorry about your car" you said, guiding Hongjoong eyes to the part of the back seat between you two that was covered in cum. Hongjoong's chest rose and fell with a deep sigh.

"It's my fault. I was too impatient"

"How are you going to survive a whole month?"

Something flashed in Hongjoong's eyes. Something soft and unguarded.

"I think I'll manage, if you help me out"

You bit your lip. It was obvious he was still incredibly horny. So were you.

"Do you think you'll last until we reach my apartment?" you didn't miss the way Hongjoong's eyebrows rose, eyes shining, then it disappeared after he took a quick glance at the time on his phone.

"I have to go back to the dorm..."

You playfully shrugged.

"You could be very quiet" you whispered into his lips before kissing them so softly it made his dick twitch.

"I can't be, you just saw" he retorted, but you could tell he only needed a little push.

"It's easy if your mouth is busy" you kissed his neck, tongue dragging swiftly through te spot "Buried under my pretty pussy"

"Okay" that's all he said before he got out and got on the driver's seat "Stay there, I can't drive if you sit next to me, please"

[redemptions]

hiiii just wanna say your ateez works have been my comfort reads for a while and I wanted to request a fluffy omegaverse for ot8, something like omega reader nesting in weird areas of their dorm because certain spots smell like the boys: like the kitchen is drenched in wooyoungs smell for example

hello nonie!!! that's such a nice thing to hear, i'm glad you enjoy the stories I write :)

thank u for the request. I love this idea and I hope you liked what I wrote!

wc: 1.7k

genre: poly ateez, ateez x fem!reader, omegaverse, alpha!ateez, omega!reader, a/b/o dynamics, a lot of scent talk, nesting, mentions of upcoming heat, sappy affection, pet names, ateez are suitably dramatic

masterlist // requests: open

--------------------------------------------

The first time, Hongjoong nearly kicked you. It's early morning and he hadn't got to his bed yet, music and beats still running through his head. he'd transferred from the studio at KQ to the one he had at home, and was prepared to settle in for what would end up being 48 hours without sleep.

his mission to get a coffee - the only thing sustaining him right now - was cut short by the way his house slippers caught on your blanket.

Hongjoong squinted down at it, the soft strands of the fluff tickling the sides of his bare feet. he recognised it instantly. of course he did. it was one of your favourites, the throw always curled around your body when you got too cold. it took a second in his chaotic and half asleep haze to identify the lump wasn't just a blanket but you as well.

strands of your hair stuck out the top of the blanket cocoon you had made, head resting back against the bottom of the kitchen counter. despite the strangeness of the situation, Hongjoong couldn't help the immediate noting of how pretty his omega was when she slept. Soft, relaxed, bottom lip pushed out into a pout that he wanted to kiss away.

he found himself smiling fondly as he crouched down, hands moving to brush loose strands of hair from your cheeks. He whispered your name and tapped your cheek.

you sniffed, shifted and angled your head into his hand, seeking the touch of your alpha even in your slumber. Hongjoong's heart did a leap - if it were possible to fall in love with you all over again, he might have just done it.

he tried again, voice a little louder, touch a little firmer, until your eyelids began to flutter.

"...joongie?" you asked, voice heavy with sleep and confusion.

"hello baby girl," he murmured.

you looked at him through heavy eyes and tried to blink away the tiredness. "I didn't think you'd be back tonight..."

fuck, you sounded so surprised when you said it. not accusing, not upset, just pleased. his alpha whined a little, unhappy that he'd left his omega alone for so long. "thought the change of scenery would help," he admitted and ran his scent mark over your cheek, "what are you doing on the floor baby?"

you untangled your arms to hold his hand there, fingers warm and claiming as you dipped your head to nuzzle at his pulse point. you yawned. "smells like woo here," you admitted, shy but honest.

Hongjoong immediately wanted to lower himself and beg for forgiveness. it was comeback season and it was busy. songs that were supposed to be finished had been sent back with a list of changes. more and more photoshoots and filming schedules were put into their calendars. they'd signed on to do a showcase and that meant extra practice. the days seem to stretch on and on with no end in sight.

they'd apologised, warned you in advance. You'd smiled and promised you understood - "just look after yourself, okay?"

and then in the middle of all that, was you seeking the scent of your pack because you missed them so terribly. god, what a shitty fucking alpha he was.

"woo's bed smells like him too," Hongjoong reminded, "and softer."

you shook your head. "its not the same without him there," you confessed, "none of your rooms are."

his alpha whimpered. Hongjoong might have let it slip out.

"come to bed with me," he said as he urged you to your feet. you followed obediently, let him gather you close and tug your blanket around your shoulders.

"don't you have work?" you asked.

he did but there was no way it was going to get done tonight. not with your words in his head, your scent fresh around him and that hopeful light in your eye. "I was just getting water before I sleep," he lied, "so come with me."

you didn't argue with him, let him lead you across the house - half empty with their pack mates on other sides of the country for work - and into his room. the covers were still messy from the last time he'd slept there and you slid into them as if they were your own.

they were, he supposed, just like he was.

You slept with your face pressed against his scent gland, against the mating mark you'd put there. Hongjoong held you tight, anything to make up for lost time.

-

hongjoong: everyone better get their asses home as quick as possible

hongjoong: our girl needs us

-

jongho had never wanted to get home faster in his life. the message from hongjoong sat in the group chat - the one specifically reserved for work, not pack related things - and any follow up message went unanswered. the flight from jeju to Seoul was only an hour and yet it felt like a lifetime, his alpha pacing and tugging at his control.

he barely held back asking his manager to break the speed limit.

you had been theirs for nearly three years and yet he still felt like it was all so fresh when he thought of you. it was like he was still fumbling, trying to find his place with you and desperately afraid of fucking it up.

jongho looked at the group chat again. estimated arrival times and demands for answers still sat without response. he'd be the first one to arrive, the others on later flights because of their schedules.

of course, his mind jumped to the worst - to hurt and pain and death - and he felt sick. but that couldn't be, right? they were all busy but something like that - Hongjoong would have called. his manager wouldn't be humming songs playing on the radio under his breath. the world wouldn't continue turning.

so he tried to breathe through the initial panic, told himself that he was going to curse the pack alpha out for making him nauseous with worry, and assure himself that you were all in one piece.

he barely said goodbye to his manager, stumbling out of the car with his overnight bag slung over his shoulder, and took the steps up two at a time.

and there you were, on the corner of the sofa. your legs were tucked underneath you, a familiar blanket over your feet and clothes that were definitely Mingi's judging by the size on your body. your messy from sleep and your eyebrows were narrowed in concentration as you read something on your phone.

jongho's chest hurt as it always did at the sight of you.

your face lit up as soon as you saw him. "jjong!"

he dropped to his knees in front of you. his hands slid around, desperately seeking for signs of pain or injury, while his eyes jumped over your face. perfect, unblemished and mildly amused by his wandering limbs. he sniffed but couldn't detect any pain - only your sweet honey mixed with the tinges of delight that he was back in front of you.

your own fingers slid up the plains of his chest, hooking in the chain that hung from his neck. "I thought you weren't going to be back until tonight?"

"hongjoong-hyung said you needed us," jongho said softly, "so I came."

he watched the happy surprise dance across your face before it melted into embarrassment. "I didn't," you murmured, shook your head and ducked it low to hide the flush rising on your cheeks. "it could have waited."

jongho let his fingers smooth the creased the fabric at your waist. "nothing waits with you," he said, patient, honest, "what do you need?"

you ducked your head, the top bumping against the centre of his chest. his alpha rumbled at the contact and he dropped his head to press a kiss to the back of your head instinctively.

"I missed you," you whispered, "nothing smells like you anymore and I'm nesting so I was looking your scent and - did you know that the gym still smells like you and sannie?"

understanding hit him then. the tension he still held in his shoulders let him on the next exhale.

"where's hongjoong?" jongho asked patiently.

you smiled shyly. "getting supplies before pre-heat hits properly," you said.

jongho hummed in understanding. "do you need help making your nest?" he asked, "somewhere not on the gym floor."

the tips of your ears went pink. "help me?"

he kissed the curve of your lips. "yeah gorgeous, whatever you need."

your eyes dancing over his shoulders and jongho didn't even need you to ask. he was already shrugging his coat off his shoulders and tugging the jumper off his body. the way you hugged it close, eyes dilating and the way the tension left your shoulders was answer enough.

"Wait," you hesitated, "you said us? Does that mean the others too?"

you looked so adorably excited.

"will be with you in an hour," he promised.

you scrambled onto your feet. "okay, nest. I gotta get it ready. Ready for you."

it was all omega talk, a blabber about a safe place for your alphas to enter. the usual signs that you were about to start your heat. You never spoke that like that normally, never referred to any of them as your alphas in. normal conversation. still, it made jongho's alpha whine in delight and he watched, fond, utterly in love.

their managers would have a field day about the change of schedules, he was sure, and professionally, jongho knew it would cause more trouble later on. right now though, he didn't care. not with his omega reaching for him, his scent mixing with yours and your fingers interlocked with his.

he pressed a kiss to the back of your hand and nudged his nose along the insight of your wrist. "tell me what you need me to do baby," he murmured, "I got you."

-

jongho: no one is hurt or dying, beautiful is nesting

san: he couldn't have said that???

wooyoung: he made sangie cry

yeosang: you cried too!

seonghwa: why didn't he answer?

jongho: Hongjoong let his phone battery die

mingi: it is acceptable to cuss out our pack alpha?

yunho: he's gonna pay for my medical bills from this HEART ATTACK HE GAVE ME

hongjoong: I was half asleep!

hongjoong: it wasn't supposed to be so dramatic

yeosang: have you forgotten who your pack mates are?

jongho: [1 photo attachment]

jongho: our omega says hurry up

mingi: !!!!!!!

yunho: running

wooyoung: i might cry again

----------------------------------------

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[yungistiny]

rewrite the stars

[ S. Mingi ]

╚═════════ part one: the prince

summary: y/n has lived her entire life underground until the crown prince of earth decides she’s his new favorite thing in the galaxy

warning: suggestive themes, virgin reader, slow burn, more will be added

genre: scifi dystopian, romance, smut, slight enemies to lovers, forbidden romance

pairing: alien mingi x human afab reader

word count: 11k

part two

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The first thing the city heard every morning was the hum. Not cars. Not birds. Those had disappeared from Solaria Prime a long time ago. The hum came from above. Massive transport ships drifting between levels of the capital. Imperial engines vibrating through steel foundations deep beneath the city until the sound became part of daily life itself. Constant, heavy and inescapable. The underground district never truly slept beneath it. Dim neon signs flickered against rusted pipes. Steam curled from vents in the walls and ceilings. The air smelled like overheated wiring, engine oil, crowded bodies, and fried food from the market three streets over. Somewhere nearby, music rattled through thin apartment walls while old transit tunnels groaned beneath thousands of people moving through them like blood through veins.

And above all of it… Solaria Prime glittered. Even from down here. Through the narrow slits between upper sector platforms, pieces of the imperial city could still be seen. Brightly lit towers disappearing into clouds. Holograms large enough to paint color across the night sky. Glass bridges suspended in the air like they’d been woven from light itself. A different world hanging over theirs. Y/N hated looking at it. She adjusted the hood of her worn jacket as she moved through the overcrowded market corridor, shoulder checking past people trying to sell scraps, machine parts, counterfeit upper sector jewelry, stolen ration cards. Overhead screens flickered between advertisements in alien dialect and heavily accented English.

LOYALTY BUILDS PEACE.

THE EMPIRE PROVIDES.

A silver eyed woman smiled down from the screen before the image shifted to the imperial crest burning gold against black. Y/N looked away immediately, remembering how her grandfather used to like telling the story of how he remembered the day the aliens came. The thought drifted through her head automatically, familiar after years of hearing it repeated at tiny dinner tables and during blackouts and every time someone in the underground got too hopeful. He was eight years old. He said the ships blocked out the sun. That they had been peaceful in the beginning. Until they weren’t. That was 74 years ago. He used to tell the story softly near the end. Like if he spoke too loudly the empire itself might hear him. How humans welcomed them at first. How the aliens arrived speaking of knowledge, trade, medicine, peace between worlds. How they looked almost human back then too. Just… better. Ethereal. Beautiful enough to make people trust them immediately. Then came the laws. Then came the military. Then came the emperor before Garus. And by the time humanity realized what was happening, Earth already belonged to someone else.

Y/N stepped around a leaking pipe as two workers argued nearby over credits. Further down the corridor, a group of human workers lowered their heads as three alien officers walked through the market. The crowd shifted instinctively around them, conversations dimming just slightly. Fear still lived here. The officers barely looked at anyone. Tall. Beautiful. One shaded a light blue, the other pale. Silver insignias gleaming beneath market lights. The blue one laughed at something the pale one said as they passed. Y/N’s jaw tightened unconsciously as a child darted past her through the crowd holding a glowing toy ship probably stolen from one of the upper markets. Somewhere nearby, someone cursed as electricity flickered. Above the underground, another transport ship rumbled overhead. She stopped near a vendor station glowing blue beneath faulty lights. “Two wraps,” she muttered, sliding credits across the counter. The old woman behind it gave her a tired look. “Prices went up again.”

“Again?”

“Imperial tax.”

Of course it was. Y/N exhaled sharply through her nose and handed over another credit chip as above them, one of the giant screens flickered again. This time the imperial family appeared. The emperor and his son. The crowd’s reaction was immediate. Some humans looked away while others stared openly. Emperor Garus stood at the center in dark ceremonial robes threaded with gold, calm faced and impossibly composed even through static interference. Beside him stood Crown Prince Mingi. Y/N only glanced once before regretting it immediately. Tall. Broad shouldered. Silver blond hair swept back from his face. He had a faint pale marking near his right eye that caught the light like liquid metal beneath skin. Royal blood. Even through a damaged screen he looked unreal. Like something designed instead of born.

A reporter spoke rapidly in alien dialect beneath subtitles discussing trade expansions and upper sector construction projects. “Pretty, isn’t he?” the vendor muttered absentmindedly as Y/N grabbed the food wraps from the counter. “He’s an alien,” she said flatly and disappeared back into the crowd beneath the glow of Solaria Prime. The lower district quieted slightly the deeper Y/N moved into the residential sectors. Not quieter in sound. Quieter in energy. The market chaos faded behind her, replaced with cramped hallways lit by weak strips of flickering overhead light. Old pipes lined the ceilings like exposed veins, dripping occasionally onto rust stained floors. Apartment doors stacked one over another climbed upward through the massive underground structure, thousands of tiny living spaces crammed together beneath the weight of Solaria Prime above. The hum from the upper city never stopped. Especially here.

Y/N climbed the narrow metal stairs toward the fifth level, boots echoing softly against grated steps. Someone nearby was arguing through paper thin walls. A baby cried somewhere above her. The smell of cheap noodles and machine grease lingered in the air. Home. Or close enough. She reached the top landing just as her neighbor’s apartment slid open. “All right, there you are.” Y/N resisted the urge to sigh immediately as Allara leaned against the doorway holding some glowing tablet in one hand, dark curls piled messily on top of her head while excitement practically radiated off her. Unlike most humans in the underground, Allara loved aliens. Or at least loved the idea of them. She wore imitation upper sector makeup, copied alien fashion trends from underground feeds, and spent most nights watching royal broadcasts like they were entertainment instead of propaganda. Y/N still didn’t understand it “What?”

“All right, first of all,” Allara said, pointing the tablet dramatically at her, “you are not allowed to give me that look because I have news.”

“That sentence alone already makes me tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

“Living here does that.”

Allara ignored her completely, practically vibrating now. “The royals are replacing palace staff.” Y/N paused halfway through unlocking her apartment door. “What?”

“The imperial palace,” Allara repeated. “Upper sector staffing rotation. Apparently a bunch of the emperor’s human subordinates got reassigned or something.” Y/N stared at her. “And why exactly do you know this?”

“Because unlike someone, I pay attention to things happening outside this moldy tunnel.”

Y/N snorted softly, pushing her apartment door open. Inside, the unit was barely bigger than a storage pod. Tiny kitchenette. Fold down cot. Old vent fan rattling near the ceiling. One narrow window screen displaying a simulated desert skyline instead of the concrete wall outside. Allara followed her inside without invitation as usual. “I’m serious,” she said. “They’re selecting humans from lower sectors too.”

“Sounds terrible.”

“It sounds life changing.”

“It sounds like volunteering to become decoration in some rich alien’s house.”

Allara rolled her eyes dramatically. “You are so dramatic.”

“And you’re weirdly obsessed with people who conquered the planet.”

“They didn’t conquer me,” Allara shot back before lowering her voice slightly. “Besides, not all of them are bad.” Y/N tossed her jacket onto the back of a chair. “That’s what everyone says right before getting screwed over.” Allara huffed, then turned the tablet around toward her. A recruitment notice glowed across the screen beneath the imperial crest.

UPPER SECTOR SERVICE INITIATIVE

SELECTED HUMAN APPLICANTS WILL RECEIVE:

* RESIDENCY

* HEALTH BENEFITS

* INCREASED RATION ACCESS

* EDUCATIONAL OPPORTUNITIES

SUBORDINATES MAY BE ASSIGNED DIRECTLY TO MEMBERS OF THE IMPERIAL HOUSEHOLD.

Y/N immediately looked away. Nope. Absolutely not. “You know they choose based on compatibility profiles now?” Allara continued excitedly. “Personality tests, education records, work history. They literally pull people from all over the city.”

“Great. Sounds invasive.”

“It is invasive. It’s the palace.”

Y/N grabbed one of the food wraps and dropped onto the edge of her cot as Allara studied her for a second before grinning slowly. “You’d actually have a shot, you know.” Y/N nearly choked. “At what?”

“Getting picked.”

Y/N barked out a laugh. “Please. They’d take one look at my file and launch me directly into the sun.”

“You’re educated, you’ve never been arrested, your work reports are good…”

“My attitude alone disqualifies me.”

“That’s fixable.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Allara flopped down beside her dramatically. “Imagine it though,” she said dreamily. “Upper sector views. Real sunlight. Imperial parties.”

“Alien surveillance. Alien control. Alien nonsense.”

“Alien men.”

Y/N gave her a flat look and Allara grinned wider. “Oh come on. You’ve seen the prince, haven’t you?” Y/N rolled her eyes, taking a bite of her wrap. “Everybody has seen the prince.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Allara leaned closer like she was about to confess state secrets. “He’s hot.” Y/N stared at her. “You need help.”

“He’s objectively beautiful.”

“He’s objectively the face of an empire that treats humans like pets.”

Allara rolled her eyes again. “You’re impossible.” Maybe. But Y/N still glanced once toward the flickering screen on Allara’s tablet before looking away. Sure he was hot but he was still the prince of the entire planet now. Probably spoiled. An asshole. Thinks of humans beneath him.

Dangerous.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Far above the underground districts, morning in Solaria Prime looked artificial it was so bright. Sunlight spilled across the palace towers in sheets of gold so perfect it almost hurt to look at. Massive glass structures reflected the desert horizon endlessly while floating transport lanes curved through the sky beyond them. Waterfalls poured down white stone terraces into glowing pools hundreds of feet below. Everything in the imperial sector was clean. Polished and silent. Even the air smelled expensive.

Seonghwa hated mornings here. Especially this morning. The doors to the prince’s chambers slid open with a quiet hiss as he stepped inside carrying a datapad beneath one arm. The room was enormous, naturally. Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the entire capital, giving a direct view of Solaria Prime stretching endlessly into the desert. Thin translucent curtains drifted softly in the conditioned air while low music still played somewhere from the previous night. Clothes littered the floor. Jewelry sparkled forgotten across tables.

And in the center of the massive bed, completely unconscious and very naked, lay the future emperor of Earth. Seonghwa sighed. “Your Highness.” Three alien women looked up sleepily from beneath tangled black sheets. Two green skinned. One pale pink with silver markings running along her shoulders. One of them groaned dramatically as Mingi finally surfaced enough to drag an arm over his face. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Tell him I died.”

“He’ll ask for proof.”

Mingi cracked one eye open toward Seonghwa before slowly sitting up, hair completely ruined from sleep and last night’s activities. Even half awake he still looked unfairly ethereal. The silver white marking around his right eye glimmered faintly beneath the room’s soft lighting. Seonghwa hated that. Not the marking. The fact Mingi could look like a divine celestial being while acting like an overgrown menace. “You have ten minutes,” Seonghwa said.

Mingi stretched lazily, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing. “You’re so hostile in the mornings.”

“And you’re impossible.”

One of the women reached for Mingi again only for Seonghwa to immediately point toward the door. “Out.”

“Rude,” the pink skinned alien muttered.

“Very.”

Still, they obeyed quickly. Nobody ignored palace orders. Especially not orders involving the emperor’s son. The alien women gathered their discarded fabrics and jewelry before slipping out of the chambers laughing quietly among themselves as Mingi finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a groan. “If this is another lecture about gambling, I’m throwing myself off the palace.”

Seonghwa handed him a dark robe. “It’s worse.”

Mingi blinked slowly. “Impossible.”

“Your father wants to discuss a possible joining between your bloodline and House Vaelor.”

Mingi made a deeply offended noise. “Absolutely not. Azura is fucking crazy.” Seonghwa watched him disappear toward the dressing area before speaking again. “The emperor considers it politically advantageous.”

“Of course he does.” Mingi’s voice echoed from behind the partition now. The sound of drawers opening. Fabric shifting. Jewelry clinking against marble counters. “Do I at least get to reject her dramatically?”

“No.”

“Cruel.”

Seonghwa moved toward the windows overlooking the city below. From this height, Solaria Prime barely looked real. The lower sectors vanished beneath sunlight and glass towers. The underground city wasn’t visible at all from here. Humans became statistics at this level. Numbers inside reports. Workers moving through systems built by people more powerful than them.

Mingi emerged a moment later dressed in loose black layers threaded subtly with silver. Rings glinted along his fingers while the pale marking near his eye caught the light again. Royal and completely untouchable. Spoiled beyond reason. And unfortunately one of Seonghwa’s favorite people in the galaxy. Mingi grabbed a glass from the counter before pausing suddenly. “Tonight’s the Remembrance Festival.”

Seonghwa immediately frowned. Every year humans gathered in lower sectors to remember Earth before the empire. Candles. Music. Stories from survivors and descendants. Quiet resistance disguised as memorial tradition. The palace tolerated it mostly because banning it entirely decades ago had caused riots. “Yes,” Seonghwa said carefully as Mingi took a slow drink before smirking slightly. “I think I’m going.”

Seonghwa stared at him. “Why?” Mingi shrugged lazily. “Why not?”

“Because the lower districts barely tolerate imperial guards, let alone the crown prince wandering through their streets.”

“That’s what disguises are for.”

“That’s what common sense is for.”

Mingi grinned immediately at that. There it was. That reckless curiosity. The thing that drove the entire palace insane. Most royal bloodlines kept distance from humans naturally. Even kind nobles maintained the separation. The empire functioned on hierarchy. But Mingi looked at forbidden things and wanted to walk directly toward them. “Humans are interesting,” he said simply as Seonghwa folded his arms. “Humans hate us.”

“Some do.”

“Most do.”

Mingi only smiled faintly at the city beyond the windows.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The emperor’s private council chamber sat near the highest point of the palace. Not even because of symbolism. Because Garus liked the quiet. The higher levels of the imperial tower were nearly soundless compared to the entertainment sectors below. No music. No gambling halls. No drifting crowds of nobles filling corridors with gossip and politics. Only stillness. Massive windows curved along the walls overlooking Solaria Prime in its entirety, the desert horizon glowing gold beneath the artificial atmosphere regulators suspended miles above the city.

The doors opened as Mingi entered without announcement. Naturally. Nobody stopped the crown prince from going anywhere. Garus stood near the windows with his hands folded behind his back, dark ceremonial robes flowing around him in sharp elegant lines. Age touched him differently than humans. After thirty years on the throne, he still looked powerful rather than old. Silver threaded faintly through dark hair near his temples while pale markings disappeared beneath the collar of his robes. The resemblance between father and son was obvious. Same sharp eyes. Same unnerving stillness when they chose to use it. But where Mingi carried chaos barely hidden beneath charm… Garus carried control. “You’re late,” the emperor said calmly.

Mingi walked straight toward the drink table. “I was asleep.”

“You were occupied.”

“Also true.”

Garus sighed once through his nose. “I assume Seonghwa informed you about House Vaelor.”

“He did.” Mingi poured himself a drink. “I hated every second of the conversation.”

“This joining would strengthen the southern colonies.”

“It would bore me to death.”

“Mingi.”

“There it is,” Mingi muttered dramatically before taking a sip as Garus turned fully toward him now. “You are twenty five years old.” Mingi immediately groaned. “Not this speech again.”

“You are the heir to the imperial throne. To Earth.”

“And yet somehow still allowed to have opinions.”

“You will inherit this empire. This planet.”

Mingi rolled his eyes so hard it almost looked painful and the emperor’s expression tightened slightly. “You continue treating your responsibilities like temporary inconveniences.”

“Because they are temporary inconveniences.”

“They are your future.”

“No,” Mingi corrected calmly. “They’re your future that you keep trying to hand to me.” Silence settled briefly between them as far below the palace transport ships drifted between towers in glowing streams of light. Garus studied his son carefully. “You still speak of leaving.”

“I still mean it.”

“You would abandon the throne.”

“I would rather explore the outer systems than spend decades arguing trade routes and pretending nobles enjoy each other’s company.”

“You speak like a child.”

Mingi laughed softly at that, leaning back against the table. “No. I speak like someone honest enough to admit he doesn’t want this.” Garus turned back toward the city again. “You think ruling is about desire?”

“I think ruling sounds miserable.”

“It is necessary.”

“For you maybe.”

“For our bloodline.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened slightly at that. Always the bloodline. The empire. The future. Royal heirs weren’t raised as people first. They were raised as continuations of power. Garus’s voice softened only slightly. “When I inherited the throne, I was younger than you are now.”

“And deeply traumatized,” Mingi replied immediately causing his father to look at him sharply and Mingi just shrugged. “You never talk about grandfather unless someone forces you to.” Garus said nothing. Which was answer enough. The previous emperor had ruled through brutality. Entire human sectors burned under his reign during the occupation years. Even alien nobles had feared him. Garus spent three decades rebuilding the empire’s image after inheriting the throne at nineteen. To aliens, he became respected. Measured. Modern. To humans….. less monstrous was still monstrous. “You have freedoms I never did,” Garus said eventually.

“I know.”

“And still you complain.”

“I’m not complaining,” Mingi replied. “I’m telling you I don’t want to spend my life trapped in this palace.”

“You are not trapped.”

Mingi glanced around the enormous chamber. The polished stone. The guards outside every door. The expectations stitched into every wall. Then he smiled humorlessly. “Sure.” Garus watched him for a long moment before changing direction entirely. “You’ve been visiting the lower sectors again.” Mingi froze for half a second before recovering smoothly. “Maybe.”

“You are increasingly careless.”

“I wear disguises.”

“You are six foot three with royal markings.”

Mingi grinned despite himself. “Fair point.”

Garus’s gaze sharpened. “The humans are restless lately.”

“They’re always restless.”

“They remember too much.”

That sentence sat heavily in the room and Mingi looked away first this time. Tonight’s Remembrance Festival. Garus moved toward the council table slowly. “You would do well to remember that curiosity toward humans is not the same as understanding them.” Mingi tilted his head slightly. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Garus said carefully, “you are attaching to them.” Mingi snorted softly. “That sounds dramatic.”

“You spend enough time among them to become fascinated. Fascination clouds judgment.”

Mingi swirled the drink in his glass lazily. Or maybe humans just seemed more alive than everyone in this palace. He didn’t say that aloud though, instead he smirked slightly. “You’re worried I’ll run away with a human from the underground?” Garus looked entirely unimpressed. “You joke now.”

Mingi only grinned wider.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

By the time Y/N left her apartment again, the underground had shifted into evening rhythm. The markets were louder now. Busier. Narrow streets crowded with workers finally off shift, neon signs buzzing overhead while steam curled from vents along the walls. Somewhere deeper in the district, music echoed through old transit tunnels mixed with distant laughter and the rumble of passing cargo rails overhead. The Remembrance Festival had already started. Not officially. Officially the gathering wouldn’t begin until later tonight when candles were lit through the lower sectors and stories passed between generations like sacred things. But the feeling of it was already everywhere.

Humans moved differently on Remembrance night. Softer. Sadder. Prouder. Old Earth flags appeared in windows despite technically being prohibited. Someone nearby projected faded images onto a concrete wall of oceans untouched by imperial terraforming. Children ran through the streets carrying paper lanterns while elders watched them with exhausted fondness. For one night every year, humans allowed themselves to remember they used to belong to this planet.

Y/N pulled her hood up slightly as she crossed another crowded intersection before turning down a quieter corridor lined with older businesses. Most of the shops down here barely survived anymore. Imperial imports and upper sector production crushed small human owned places years ago. But some still held on through sheer stubbornness. Including the Choi family repair shop. The glowing sign above the entrance flickered unevenly: CHOI ELECTRICAL & REPAIR Half the letters no longer worked.

Y/N smiled despite herself as the front door slid open with a loud mechanical protest as she stepped inside. Warm air hit her immediately. The smell of machine oil, soldering metal, and fried food wrapped around her in a way that felt dangerously close to home. Parts cluttered every available surface. Old radios sat disassembled beside alien tech stripped for scraps. Music played softly from somewhere in the back while tools clinked against metal. “You’re late.”

Y/N looked toward the voice automatically. San stood behind the main counter holding some half disassembled circuit panel in one hand, dark hair falling into his eyes while grease streaked one side of his jaw. His sleeves were shoved to his elbows, exposing toned forearms covered in tiny old burn scars from years working around overheated wiring. He looked tired. Then again, everyone did these days. “You say that every time I come here,” Y/N replied.

“Because every time you come here, you’re late.”

“I wasn’t aware this was a scheduled emotional support visit.”

San snorted softly under his breath before setting the panel aside. Unlike Allara, San hated aliens almost as much as Y/N did. Maybe more. He just hid it quieter. The Choi family had owned this repair shop before the empire ever reached Earth. San’s grandparents still talked about old Los Angeles sometimes like ghosts lingering in conversation. Y/N practically grew up here after her parents died. Long nights sleeping in the back office while her grandfather worked. Shared dinners. Shared grief. This place was the closest thing she had left to family.

San’s eyes narrowed slightly as she approached the counter. “You look annoyed.”

“I’m always annoyed.”

“No,” he said. “This is specific annoyance.” Y/N leaned against the counter with a sigh. “Allara’s convinced the imperial palace is selecting humans for staffing rotations.” San visibly recoiled. “Disgusting.”

“Thank you.”

“She said I’d probably get picked.”

His expression immediately turned horrified. “You absolutely would.” Y/N stared at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m serious.” He pointed at her vaguely. “You’ve got that whole… competent thing going for you.”

“What a romantic compliment.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately she did. Imperial staffing selections were invasive. They scanned work history, health records, psychological evaluations. Humans chosen for palace service usually disappeared into upper sectors permanently. Some came back richer. Others came back quieter.

San folded his arms now, expression darkening slightly. “My dad says they’ve been increasing selections this year.”

“Why?”

“Political image probably.” His jaw tightened. “Make the empire look generous.” Y/N glanced toward the old holoscreen mounted near the back wall. Static flickered across a news report showing upper sector preparations for some royal gathering. Alien nobles drifted through the screen in glittering fabrics while reporters spoke excitedly. Royal bloodline negotiations.

San scowled. “They make my skin crawl.”

“The royals?”

“All of them.”

Y/N hummed softly in agreement. The thing about imperial broadcasts was that they always looked beautiful. Perfect lighting. Elegant speeches. Ethereal faces staring calmly into cameras while the underground fought over ration credits beneath them. Sometimes Y/N wondered if that was the point. Make oppression look pretty enough and eventually people stop calling it oppression.

“San!” San’s mother yelled. “Did you finish inventory?”

“No!”

“Then do it!”

Y/N barked out a surprised laugh while San groaned. “She’s impossible.” Y/N smiled faintly at that before moving toward the back counter where boxes of festival candles sat stacked beside old Earth photographs. Her grandfather used to come here every Remembrance night. Used to sit at that exact counter telling stories about oceans and stars before alien ships filled the sky.

“You going tonight?” San asked. Y/N looked over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she said quietly, waiting for San to finish up. And by nightfall, the underground city looked almost beautiful. Not polished like the upper sectors. Not sterile and glowing beneath palace lights. This beauty was human. Messy. Loud and alive.

The Remembrance Festival flooded the lower districts in color and noise as thousands of people crowded the old tunnel streets beneath Solaria Prime. Strings of warm lights hung between rusted support beams while lanterns painted the concrete walls amber and blue. Music echoed through the underground from handmade speakers and old instruments humans refused to let disappear.

Y/N walked beside San through the packed festival streets while heat and noise wrapped around them from every direction. Children darted through crowds carrying paper stars. Vendors shouted over one another from glowing stalls lined with old Earth foods and handmade trinkets. Someone nearby projected pre occupation photographs onto the tunnel ceiling, oceans, mountains, cities before alien architecture swallowed them whole.

Y/N always forgot how crowded Remembrance became until she was in the middle of it again. San nudged her shoulder lightly as they squeezed past another group gathered around musicians playing something old and melancholy. “You’re glaring.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes but the corner of her mouth twitched slightly anyway as a smell hit her a second later. Sweet. Warm. Sugared dough and cinnamon. Both of them slowed instinctively. The tiny dessert stall ahead already had a ridiculous line wrapped around it, steam curling into the air while an exhausted old man fried golden pastries behind the counter and San groaned softly beside her. “Absolutely not.”

Y/N looked at him immediately. “You literally stopped walking first.”

“They’re overpriced.”

“They’re once a year.”

“They’re robbery.”

“You’re getting in line.”

San muttered something under his breath but followed her anyway. Some traditions survived everything. Including Remembrance sweets. The recipe supposedly dated back before the occupation. Before Solaria Prime. Before the empire. Nobody even knew if that was true anymore, but every year humans lined up for them anyway like tasting something old enough could connect them to a world they’d never seen. The line moved painfully slow. By the time they finally reached the front, San looked personally victimized by capitalism. “This better change my life.”

“It won’t,” the vendor replied immediately.

“Then why is it twelve credits?”

“Inflation.”

San looked offended enough to start a revolution himself as Y/N laughed softly as she handed over the credits before he could continue arguing. The old man passed them two paper trays piled with warm pastries dusted in sugar crystals that shimmered faintly beneath the festival lights. The first bite nearly burned Y/N’s tongue. Worth it. Warm dough. Sweet cream filling. Cinnamon and spice melting together instantly. San closed his eyes dramatically after biting into his own. “All right,” he admitted. “I forgive inflation.”

“Thought so.”

They moved away from the stall slowly, drifting back into the river of people moving through the underground. Somewhere overhead, distant fireworks from the upper sectors flashed faintly through the cracks between levels of the city. Imperial celebrations for something entirely different. Down here, humans celebrated memory instead. Y/N glanced around as they walked. Elderly survivors sat outside crowded cafés telling stories to younger generations. Candles lined windowsills. Music spilled from old bars packed shoulder to shoulder with workers finally allowed one night to breathe.

And for the first time in a while she felt lighter. Until San suddenly stiffened beside her. Y/N looked over immediately. “What?” He frowned toward the crowd ahead. At first she didn’t understand what he noticed. Then she saw him. Tall. Far too tall to blend into the underground properly. Dressed in black layered fabrics with the hood pulled low over pale blond hair. Most people wouldn’t notice but Y/N did. Something about the way he moved felt wrong for this place. Too graceful. Too composed.

The stranger stood near one of the lantern stalls watching the festival quietly while crowds moved around him. Then he looked up. And even from halfway down the street, Y/N caught the faint glimmer of silver near his right eye beneath the hood. Royal blood. Her stomach dropped instantly as San saw it too. “What the hell is a royal doing down here?” he muttered darkly. But before either of them could move, the stranger’s gaze landed directly on Y/N and he smiled.

Y/N’s stomach tightened. Nope. Absolutely not. “Come on,” she muttered immediately, grabbing San’s sleeve lightly. “Let’s go the other way.” San didn’t argue. One look at the silver glint near that man’s eye and he was already steering them deeper into the crowd. Humans shifted around them shoulder to shoulder beneath strings of lanterns while music echoed through the underground tunnel streets. Behind them, Y/N could still feel it. That gaze. Not threatening exactly. Interested. Which somehow annoyed her more. “Maybe he’ll disappear back to wherever he crawled out of,” she muttered.

San snorted softly. “That was definitely royal blood. Do you think it was the Prince? Couldn’t see much of his face.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you think he’s doing down here?”

“Probably slumming for entertainment.” The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth as they turned another corner into one of the wider market sections where handmade lanterns floated overhead like tiny stars. Up ahead, a crowd had gathered around the festival fireworks station near the old rail platform. Fireworks. Technically. Humans weren’t allowed access to real explosive displays anymore after the occupation riots decades ago, but underground engineers had learned to improvise. The result was usually colorful plasma bursts and enough smoke to make everyone cough for an hour afterward.

San suddenly perked up slightly. “That’s my dad.” Y/N looked over toward the platform where Mr. Choi stood beside a half built launcher arguing animatedly with another older man. Mr. Reynolds. Of course. The two of them nearly started electrical fires every festival. “They’re gonna blow themselves up,” Y/N said.

“Probably.” San handed her the remainder of his paper tray. “Hold this.”

“You trust me with food?”

“No. But I trust them less with explosives.”

Y/N laughed softly as he disappeared into the crowd toward the launcher platform. For a moment she stayed where she was, leaning lightly against one of the old support beams while festival noise swelled around her. Then she saw Vernon and her entire mood crashed instantly. The older man stood near one of the alley entrances speaking to two larger men beside him, thick fingers glittering with cheap rings beneath the lights. Vernon always looked sweaty no matter the temperature, his face permanently twisted into something between annoyance and greed. Loan sharks thrived in the underground. Especially after the empire.

And Y/N still owed him credits from when her grandfather got sick. Wonderful. She turned immediately but Vernon’s eyes locked onto her through the crowd. “Well now,” he called and Y/N muttered a curse under her breath and started walking faster, tossing her and San’s trash from their treats away.

“Y/N!”

She ignored him as people shifted around her in the crowded street while music pounded through the tunnels. She cut sharply down one of the side alleys between vendor rows hoping to lose him. Didn’t work though. Bootsteps followed immediately. Then another set. And another. Y/N barely made it halfway down the narrow alley before Vernon and his men boxed her in beneath flickering overhead lights. The sounds of the festival dulled slightly back here.

Vernon smiled humorlessly. “You’ve been hard to find lately.” Y/N crossed her arms. “Funny. I’ve been trying.” One of the larger men snorted but Vernon didn’t. “You know,” he said slowly, stepping closer, “I tried being civil with you because of who your family was.” Y/N leaned back, folding her arms casually despite the tension curling in her stomach. “Aw. That almost sounded emotional.”

Vernon’s jaw tightened. “Your grandfather was respected.”

“Unlike you.”

The larger man to Vernon’s left stepped forward immediately. “Watch your mouth.” Y/N only rolled her eyes. “Or what?” Wrong answer apparently because the man lunged forward suddenly and Y/N instinctively stepped backward only for her spine to hit something solid behind her. Not wall. Warm. Tall. Very tall. Y/N frowned slightly before turning her head. Black hood. Silver blond hair. And faintly glowing beside his right eye beneath the shadows… that marking. Fuck. San had been right on who the Royal was.

Vernon visibly paled and his men backed up instantly. Every trace of aggression vanished so fast it was almost embarrassing. “Y…. your Highness,” Vernon stammered as behind Y/N, the prince said nothing at first before calmly saying, “Continue.” Vernon looked like he wanted to evaporate. “N…. no, your Highness. Just a misunderstanding.”

“Mm.” That single sound somehow carried more authority than shouting ever could. The alley stayed frozen another painful second before Vernon grabbed his men and practically fled back toward the festival crowd. Cowards. Y/N immediately stepped away from the prince once the alley cleared. “I could’ve handled that.” The words came out sharp automatically. No fear. No bowing. No awe. Just irritation.

Mingi stared at her openly beneath the hood of his disguise. Most humans either froze around him or overcompensated trying to impress him. This girl looked genuinely annoyed he existed. “You’re welcome,” he said finally and Y/N scoffed softly before turning and heading back toward the festival streets with Mingi following without hesitation. “You always talk to royalty like that?” he asked.

“You always follow women into alleys?”

“Only interesting ones.”

Y/N snorted as Mingi’s gaze drifted lower for half a second as they walked beneath the glowing lantern lights spilling into the corridor straight to her ass and of course she noticed. “Stop staring at my ass.” Mingi blinked once before grinning slowly. “I’m not one of the dumb humans who crawls into alien beds,” she added over her shoulder and his grin widened instantly. “I have you know,” he replied lazily, “I’ve never slept with a human before.”

Y/N looked back at him flatly. “Congratulations. You want a cookie?” Mingi laughed. Actually laughed. Bright and surprised and completely genuine beneath the underground lights. And against all logic…. Y/N noticed it sounded painfully human as the festival swallowed sound around them again the closer they moved back toward the main streets. Y/N could already spot San near the fireworks platform arguing with his father and Mr. Reynolds over some crooked launcher tube that looked one bad decision away from exploding sideways into the crowd.

She started toward them immediately while behind her, Mingi fell into step again. Still smiling. Still entirely too entertained by this. “You know,” he said casually, “most people are at least a little nervous around me.”

“That sounds exhausting for them.”

“It has benefits.”

“I’m sure.” She caught San glancing up from across the crowd now, confusion crossing his face immediately at the sight of her walking beside the prince and Y/N moved faster just as Mingi reached for her. Not aggressively. Not enough to stop her. Just fingertips brushing lightly around her wrist to keep her attention for one more second. But the second his skin touched hers Y/N jumped as a sharp pulse shot up her arm like static electricity snapping beneath her skin.

Y/N pulled her wrist back immediately as her pulse kicked harder than it should’ve and Mingi stared openly now, eyes flicking briefly toward the hand that touched her then back to her face. “What’s your name?” The question came quieter this time. Less teasing. Which somehow made it worse. Y/N took another step backward toward the crowd and away from him as around them, festival lights reflected gold and blue against the alley walls while music echoed through the underground tunnels and the crown prince of Solaria Prime stood there beneath human lanterns staring at her like he’d just discovered something fascinating.

Y/N’s survival instincts screamed it immediately. Because this was how powerful people ruined lives. Curiosity first. Possession second. She refused to become some underground story about the prince who got bored with a human girl for two weeks. So instead she tilted her head slightly, “You’re a prince.” Mingi blinked once as Y/N stepped backward into the crowd fully now, already turning away. “I’m sure you can figure it out.” Then she disappeared back into the festival lights before he could stop her again.

And Mingi stood there motionless in the middle of the underground city smiling slowly to himself. Because she was right. He absolutely could.

By the time Y/N reached the fireworks platform again, her heart still hadn’t settled properly. Which was irritating. It was just a touch. One touch. Probably some weird alien static thing from all the tech flooding the underground tonight. Definitely not something worth thinking about. Absolutely not something worth replaying in her head while the feeling still lingered faintly beneath her skin.

San spotted her immediately the second she pushed back through the crowd. Mr. Reynolds chose that exact moment to accidentally trigger one of the launchers, sending a sputtering stream of purple sparks sideways into a food stall that made people scream. “NOT AGAIN.”

San barely looked at the fireworks disaster unfolding behind him. “Why,” he asked slowly, “was the fucking prince talking to you?” Y/N shook her head, brushing it off. “He wasn’t.” San stared at her. “You were literally standing together.”

“He was standing. I was trying to leave.”

“That was Crown Prince Mingi.”

“I know.”

“Why was he following you around the festival like some undercover psychopath?”

Y/N shrugged casually despite the fact her wrist still tingled annoyingly where he touched her. “He’s weird.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“He probably got bored in his giant evil palace.”

“Y/N.”

She exhaled dramatically. “Vernon cornered me in one of the alleys. The prince showed up. Vernon pissed himself. End of story.” San blinked. Then blinked again. “The prince saved you from Vernon?” He stared at her another long second before groaning and dragging a hand down his face. “This is bad.”

“How is this bad?”

“The crown prince knowing you exist feels bad.”

Y/N snorted softly at that. “Trust me, he’ll forget about me in like twelve hours.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The palace felt colder after the underground. Not temperature wise. Emotionally. Mingi noticed it immediately stepping off the private transport platform high above Solaria Prime. The warmth and noise of the human festival disappeared the second the palace doors sealed behind him, replaced by polished silence and soft artificial lighting stretching endlessly through marble corridors. Everything here echoed. Every footstep. Every voice. Every expectation.

Imperial guards bowed as he passed. Servants lowered their eyes. Mingi barely acknowledged any of it, already halfway distracted by one thing….. Her. The human girl with a sharp tongue and too much attitude who’d looked at him like he was a problem instead of royalty. The faint sensation from touching her wrist still lingered annoyingly in the back of his mind too. That had definitely been strange. Alien sensory instincts rarely reacted unpredictably. Especially not with humans.

Mingi rounded another corner quickly only to stop short seeing his father standing near the central observation hall. Garus turned slightly at his approach, expression unreadable as always. “You were in the lower sectors.” Mingi shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat lazily. “Maybe.” The emperor studied him for half a second. Long enough that most people would’ve started panicking but Mingi didn’t and Garus surprisingly let it go. “Your cousin Wooyoung will be arriving in a few days.”

Mingi blinked once before immediately groaning. “Oh no.” A faint hint of amusement flickered across Garus’s face despite himself. “Your aunt requested he remain here temporarily.”

“That sentence alone sounds threatening.”

“Wooyoung has responsibilities to learn.”

“Wooyoung actively avoids responsibilities.”

“He reminds me of you.”

“That’s deeply insulting to both of us.”

Garus ignored that smoothly. “The southern delegates arrive next month. Behave accordingly.” Mingi nodded distractedly already halfway focused elsewhere. “Mm.” The emperor narrowed his eyes slightly. “You are not listening.”

“I’m listening enough.”

“Mingi.”

“Father,” he replied automatically before immediately continuing past him as Garus watched his son disappear down the corridor with visible suspicion. The crown prince almost never moved with urgency unless chaos was involved. Mingi barely noticed the palace around him anymore as he cut through multiple secured corridors toward one of the restricted lower levels beneath the imperial residence. The Interface Room. Technically only authorized for imperial administration and intelligence access. Which for Mingi meant, completely accessible whenever he wanted.

The doors slid open as he approached. Darkness greeted him first. Then light. Massive holographic interfaces flickered awake across the circular room, projecting endless streams of information into the air. Population records. District surveillance. Employment databases. Citizen files. The empire documented everything. Mingi moved straight toward the center console. “Search lower district festival surveillance,” he ordered and the system chimed softly. “Specify target.”

Mingi paused before he smirked faintly to himself. “Human female. Twenty ish. Annoyed at my existence.” The system remained silent as he ran a hand through his hair before focusing properly now. Lower district sector. Approximate location. Festival timestamp. Faces flickered rapidly through holographic screens around him as the system filtered thousands of citizens from tonight’s crowds. Mingi leaned closer impatiently. “Come on…” he muttered. More faces. More names…… the screen froze.

Her. Captured mid turn beneath lantern light, irritation written all over her face and Mingi grinned immediately. “There you are.” The file expanded beside her image automatically.

HUMAN CITIZEN RECORD:

Y/N L/N

AGE: 22

RESIDENCY: LOWER DISTRICT 5-C

EMPLOYMENT STATUS: ACTIVE

FAMILY STATUS: DECEASED

“Y/N…” he repeated her name quietly. The sound of it settling strangely in his chest. Then his eyes flicked lower across the file and slowly his grin disappeared. Because suddenly this wasn’t just some random girl from the underground anymore. Now she was real. Documented. Trackable. Reachable. And Mingi had never been very good at leaving interesting things alone.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Morning sunlight poured through the upper palace levels in sheets of gold and white, reflecting endlessly against glass walls and polished floors until the entire imperial residence glowed like something divine suspended above the desert. Mingi hated mornings here. Too quiet. Too clean. Too many expectations waiting behind every door. Usually Seonghwa had to physically drag him out of bed before noon while threatening palace embarrassment and diplomatic incidents.

Today, however, Mingi walked into his father’s private office before sunrise fully dressed and carrying a datapad under one arm. That alone immediately made Garus suspicious as he sat near the massive curved windows overlooking Solaria Prime, already halfway through reviewing council reports while steam curled from a dark cup beside him. His robes today were simpler than ceremonial wear, though simplicity still looked expensive on him. The faint markings near his throat disappeared beneath dark fabric while pale morning light sharpened the tiredness hidden beneath his otherwise composed expression. “You’re awake.”

Mingi dropped into the chair across from the desk lazily. “Tragic, I know.” The emperor narrowed his eyes slightly. “I didn’t even have to send Seonghwa.”

“He’ll survive the disappointment.”

That suspicion deepened. Garus had raised Mingi long enough to recognize when his son looked too pleased with himself. Which was often. But this particular expression usually meant problems. Mingi slid the datapad across the desk casually. “I found my new subordinate.” Garus narrowed his eyes. “That quickly?”

“I’m efficient.”

“You are many things. Efficient is rarely one of them.”

Mingi grinned faintly as his father finally picked up the datapad with visible caution. At first his expression remained neutral as the file opened. Human citizen. Lower district. Work history. Then Garus reached the attached image and immediately sighed, gaze flicking back toward Mingi slowly. “Absolutely not.”

Mingi looked offended instantly. “You read that fast?”

“You chose an attractive human woman from the underground after sneaking into the lower sectors during Remembrance Festival.” Garus tossed the datapad back onto the desk. “I do not require additional context.” Mingi leaned back further in the chair, completely unashamed. “She’s qualified.”

“You are incapable of subtlety.”

“That feels unrelated.”

Garus gave him a deeply unimpressed look. The emperor knew his son too well. Knew the recklessness hidden beneath the charm. Knew Mingi’s fascination with humans wasn’t rooted in cruelty or novelty the way it often was for other nobles. That almost made it worse. “She has excellent work evaluations,” Mingi continued smoothly, gesturing vaguely toward the datapad. “No criminal history. High education scores considering district limitations. She’d function well within palace administration.”

“She insulted you, didn’t she?” Mingi went quiet for half a second and Garus sighed again. “There it is.”

“She’s interesting.”

“She’s human.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened slightly at the dismissal in his father’s tone. Not openly cruel. Just instinctive. The kind of ingrained superiority every noble in the empire carried whether they admitted it or not. Garus stood slowly from behind the desk now, moving toward the windows overlooking the capital below. “You become fascinated too easily,” he said calmly.

“She’s not some dangerous revolutionary.”

“That is not what concerns me.”

Mingi watched him carefully as that subtle shift in Garus’s voice whenever the subject turned personal instead of political happened. “You think I’m going to sleep with her,” Mingi said flatly and that made Garus look back at him. “You already brought her to my desk less than hours after meeting her.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

The emperor stayed silent long enough that the answer became obvious anyway and Mingi scoffed softly, standing now himself. “You’re dramatic.”

“No,” Garus corrected calmly. “I know you.” Mingi started pacing lazily instead of arguing outright. The office stretched massive around them, sunlight spilling across polished floors while Solaria Prime glittered beyond the glass. Somewhere below, transports drifted through the air between towers like glowing veins through the city. “She hates aliens,” Mingi said suddenly and Garus raised an eyebrow slightly. “That is meant to convince me?”

“She’s not trying to impress anyone. She doesn’t care who I am.”

“Which is exactly why you’re interested.”

Mingi opened his mouth then frowned because unfortunately his father was irritatingly correct. Garus folded his hands behind his back again. “You are the future emperor of this empire. Of this planet.”

“There’s that sentence again.”

“You cannot afford impulsive fascinations.”

“It’s a subordinate assignment, not a marriage proposal.”

The emperor gave him a long look at that. Because both of them knew Mingi rarely pursued things halfway. Finally Garus exhaled quietly through his nose. “Pick another.”

“No.”

“Mingi.”

“I already submitted the authorization request.”

“You did what?”

Mingi smiled slowly and suddenly Garus realized exactly why his son had arrived before sunrise. The emperor stared at him in disbelief for a full second. “You manipulative little….”

“It should already be processing through palace administration by now.”

Garus looked genuinely offended. “You went around me.”

“You were going to say no.”

“Yes!”

“Exactly.”

For a moment the office filled with silence. Then, somehow impossibly, Garus laughed once under his breath. Disbelieving and almost exhausted. “You are exactly your mother’s child.” Mingi grinned immediately. “I choose to take that as a compliment.” Garus shook his head slowly before glancing once more toward Y/N’s file glowing faintly across the datapad. Human. Lower district. Young. Pretty enough to immediately catch his son’s attention. This was a terrible idea. Which meant Mingi had already fully committed to it.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Y/N stood in the tiny kitchenette of her apartment trying to convince herself stale caf and half burnt toast counted as breakfast while the old vent fan rattled overhead loud enough to sound medically concerning. Outside her window screen, the artificial skyline projection flickered twice before correcting itself again. Another perfect day in the underground.

She barely slept after the festival. Every time she closed her eyes she kept seeing silver blonde hair beneath lantern light and hearing, “What’s your name?” Annoying. Deeply annoying. She shoved the thought away aggressively while pulling on her work jacket. The underground already buzzed awake outside her apartment walls. Pipes groaned overhead while neighbors argued down the hall about water credits while somewhere nearby, music blasted faintly through thin metal walls.

Y/N grabbed her bag from the chair just as loud knocking suddenly rattled her front door hard enough to make her jump and for her stomach to tighten instantly. She frowned and crossed the room quickly before sliding the door open and froze. Two imperial guards stood in the hallway and everything inside her went cold immediately. Tall. Silver armored. One blue and one green. Royal insignias gleaming beneath the corridor lights. The entire apartment level had gone silent around them. Doors cracked open all down the hall while neighbors stared openly in shock.

Including Allara who stood halfway out of her own apartment looking seconds away from ascending directly into another dimension. “Oh my god,” she whispered and Y/N ignored her completely as the guards remained expressionless. “Y/N L/N,” one of them said formally and every instinct in her body screamed danger. “Yes?”

“You have been selected for appointment as subordinate staff to the imperial household.”

Y/N blinked once, brows furrowed and confused before shaking her head, scoffing. “No thanks.” Behind her, Allara made a choking sound but the guards didn’t react. “It is not optional.” Y/N stared at them. “What?” The blue guard stepped forward slightly holding a sleek dark datapad. “Per imperial selection authority, you are to be relocated immediately to upper sector royal residency under direct assignment.”

Y/N laughed once in disbelief. “You cannot be serious.” The blue guard continued calmly like she hadn’t spoken. “You have one hour to gather approved personal belongings before transport escort.”

“This is insane.”

“This is law.”

Y/N’s pulse started climbing fast now. “No. No, absolutely not.” She pointed vaguely toward the city above them. “I don’t want to go work for aliens in some giant palace.” Allara looked personally offended by that statement. The guards, meanwhile, remained infuriatingly calm. “Resistance to selection is considered obstruction of imperial process.”

Y/N folded her arms tightly. “So what, you’re kidnapping me politely?” Neither guard answered. Which honestly answered enough. The hallway had gone dead quiet now. Neighbors stared openly from cracked doors. Fear. Curiosity and jealousy. Some humans spent years hoping for selection because it meant escape from the underground. Y/N felt like she was being marched toward execution. Her mind raced immediately. Why her? How her…… Silver blonde hair. Sharp grin. Prince. “I’m sure you can find it.”

That absolute asshole. Her eyes narrowed instantly. Oh he did not. The guard extended the datapad toward her. “Please prepare accordingly.” Y/N snatched the tablet aggressively enough to make Allara flinch. Across the screen glowed imperial authorization codes beneath one line….

DIRECT SUBORDINATE ASSIGNMENT:

CROWN PRINCE MINGI

Her eye twitched as Allara finally lost control completely. “THE PRINCE?” Y/N looked ready to commit a crime. “That smug alien psycho.” One of the guards, the green one, cleared his throat lightly as if he were trying to cover a laugh. “You will address the Crown Prince respectfully.” Y/N looked him dead in the eye. “I’d rather throw myself into traffic.” The blue guard actually hesitated slightly at that. Probably because nobody ever spoke about royal bloodlines like this to their faces.

Allara rushed over immediately the second the guards stepped back down the corridor to allow Y/N time to pack. “Oh my god,” she hissed. “Oh my GOD.”

“This is not exciting.”

“This is literally life changing!”

“This is kidnapping with better lighting!”

Allara grabbed her shoulders dramatically. “The crown prince of the planet picked you personally!”

“I know!”

“How do you know?”

Y/N threw the datapad onto the cot. “Because I met him last night!” Allara stared at her before screaming. Y/N dragged both hands down her face in exhausted disbelief while outside her apartment the imperial guards stood motionless in the hallway waiting to escort her out of the underground forever and the underground suddenly felt different once Y/N knew she was leaving it. Smaller somehow. Temporary. Like every hallway and flickering light and rusted pipe had already started slipping away from her before she’d even gone.

The imperial guards waited outside her apartment while she shoved necessities into an old duffel bag with growing irritation. Clothes. Credit chips. Her grandfather’s old lighter she didn’t even use. A tiny photograph tucked into the side pocket. That was the worst part. They expected humans to just… leave. No warning. No choice. No understanding that people had lives down here. Allara followed her around the apartment practically vibrating with secondhand excitement while Y/N internally spiraled harder every minute.

“You have to take something nice to wear.”

“I own three jackets and a pair of boots.”

“Okay but now you’re going to the palace.”

“I’m going to prison with prettier architecture.”

Allara ignored that immediately. “Do you think he likes you already?” Y/N stopped packing long enough to stare at her in disbelief. “He met me for maybe six minutes and stared at my ass.”

“And?”

“And I insulted him repeatedly.”

“That means yes.”

“Please seek help.” But underneath the sarcasm, anxiety curled tighter and tighter in her chest. Not because of the palace. Not even because of Mingi. Because of San. The realization hit fully once she stepped out into the hallway carrying her bag and saw the guards straighten immediately beside the apartment door. Upper sector assignments were permanent more often than not. Humans selected for palace service rarely returned to the underground except under supervision. Everything suddenly felt too final.

Y/N barely remembered walking through the crowded tunnel streets after that. People stared at the guards escorting her openly. Some with envy. Some with pity. Word spread fast underground. By the time she reached the Choi repair shop, half the damn district probably already knew. The familiar flickering sign buzzed overhead as she pushed inside and the smell hit her immediately. Machine oil. Burnt wiring. Home. San looked up from behind the counter mid sentence while arguing with a customer. His eyes moved from her face… to the bag over her shoulder… to the two royal guards visible through the shop windows outside. The customer wisely decided this was no longer his business and left immediately.

Silence settled heavily through the shop as San slowly set his tools down. “No.” Y/N swallowed hard. That one word hurt worse than she expected. “San…”

“No.” His voice sharpened this time. “No. Tell me this is not what I think it is.” Y/N gripped the strap of her bag tighter. “I got selected.” San stared at her. Actually stared like maybe if he looked hard enough the words would rearrange themselves into something better. “The palace?” She nodded once. “When?”

“This morning.”

“And you’re just leaving?”

“I don’t exactly think the empire accepts scheduling conflicts.”

San swore under his breath violently before turning away from her completely and Y/N’s chest tightened. The shop suddenly felt too small now. Too warm. Every familiar thing inside it twisted painfully because she realized she didn’t know when she’d see any of it again. Or if she ever would. “They picked me specifically,” she admitted quietly and San turned back immediately. “What?”

“The prince.”

His expression darkened instantly. Realizing Mingi meeting her last night apparently wasn’t enough for the prince. San laughed once in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” For a second neither of them spoke again after that. Outside the shop, the underground continued moving like normal. Festival decorations still hung through the streets from yesterday while distant music echoed from somewhere deeper in the tunnels. Life continuing while hers suddenly tilted sideways. San dragged both hands through his hair roughly. “This is bad.”

“I know.”

“You can’t trust him.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know what he wants from you.”

“I KNOW.” The sharpness in her voice echoed briefly through the shop before silence crashed down again and Y/N exhaled shakily, looking away first. “That’s kind of the problem.” Because beneath all the anger and panic sat one terrifying truth…. she did know what this was really about. Or at least had feeling what it was. A prince got curious and now her entire life belonged to that curiosity.

San moved around the counter slowly until he stood directly in front of her. “You don’t have to let him change you.” The words caught her off guard as Y/N looked up at him finally. San’s expression had softened now beneath the frustration. Worried. Protective. Angry in the helpless way people got when something bigger than them made decisions anyway. “You’re acting like I’m leaving forever,” she muttered weakly.

San didn’t answer immediately. Which was answer enough. Her throat tightened painfully. The underground had always felt suffocating growing up. Loud and crowded and impossible to escape. Now suddenly the thought of leaving it made her chest ache. “I’ll come back,” she said quietly and San looked like he wanted to believe her. Instead he reached forward and pulled her into a tight hug hard enough to almost knock the breath from her lungs. Y/N closed her eyes immediately.

“You better,” he muttered against the top of her head as outside the repair shop, two imperial guards waited beneath the glowing lights of Solaria Prime’s underground ready to escort a human girl into the world above.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Morning sunlight spilled through the massive windows of Mingi’s chambers in pale gold sheets, illuminating towering glass walls and polished black floors that reflected the skyline of Solaria Prime beyond them. Transport ships drifted silently between upper sector towers outside while somewhere far below, buried beneath layers of steel and imperial architecture, the underground city continued waking for another day beneath alien rule.

Inside the prince’s chambers, however, there was peace. Unusual peace. Which was exactly why Seonghwa immediately knew something was wrong. The doors slid open behind him with a soft hiss as he stepped inside carrying a datapad under one arm, already prepared for the usual disaster scene, Mingi unconscious, half dressed, probably hungover, and aggressively refusing to attend whatever political nightmare waited for him today. Instead…. Mingi was awake, dressed and lounging across one of the curved couches near the windows looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Seonghwa stopped walking immediately. That alone was alarming. Mingi wore loose black layers beneath an open hooded jacket, silver chains resting against exposed skin while white trousers contrasted sharply against the dark fabric. His hair fell messily into his eyes like he’d barely bothered fixing it after waking up, and sunlight caught the pale silver marking near his right eye every time he turned his head slightly. Worse than all of that though… he was smiling. Not fake public smile smiling. Actually smiling.

Seonghwa narrowed his eyes instantly. “What are you up to?” Mingi glanced up from the tablet in his hands lazily. “Good morning to you too.”

“You’re awake before noon.”

“Tragic, I know.”

“And dressed.”

“I usually wear clothes, Seonghwa.”

“You look,” Seonghwa said slowly, gesturing vaguely toward him, “like your father just informed you you no longer have to become emperor one day.” Mingi barked out a laugh at that. “That would actually improve my mood significantly.” Seonghwa walked further into the room carefully now, suspicion growing stronger the longer he looked at him. Mingi only got this relaxed after causing problems. Usually large ones. “You did something.”

“I do things constantly.”

“Mingi.”

The prince leaned back further into the couch cushions with zero shame whatsoever. “I’m offended by your lack of trust.”

“You once stole a council transport because you were bored.”

“In my defense, it was very boring.”

“You flew it into restricted airspace.”

“Allegedly.”

Seonghwa stared at him flatly as Mingi grinned. The problem with Mingi was that he rarely looked like someone carrying the weight of an empire on his shoulders. Even surrounded by luxury and royal expectations, he somehow moved through life like he was permanently one bad decision away from running off world for fun. Garus carried power heavily while Mingi carried it carelessly. And that terrified palace officials constantly.

Seonghwa set the datapad down onto a nearby table before crossing his arms. “Why do I suddenly feel like I should be concerned?”

“Maybe because you’re dramatic.”

“No. Because you’re in a suspiciously good mood.”

Mingi glanced back toward the skyline outside the windows, smile pulling faintly at one corner of his mouth again. The underground lantern lights from the night before flashed briefly through his mind, thinking about her, how much bite she through at him and his grin widened slightly and Seonghwa immediately caught it. “There it is,” he muttered. “That look.”

Mingi blinked innocently. “What look?”

“The one you get right before palace security has to apologize to someone.”

Mingi laughed softly under his breath before finally standing from the couch in one fluid movement. Tall. Effortlessly graceful. Entirely too aware of the effect he had on rooms without even trying. Royal bloodline genetics made most nobles striking but Mingi weaponized it accidentally just by existing. “You worry too much,” he said casually.

“You concern me too often.”

“Fair.”

Seonghwa eyed him another long second before sighing heavily. “Well whatever you’re planning,” he muttered, “I’d appreciate at least six hours before it becomes a diplomatic incident.” Mingi only smiled to himself again as he wandered toward the massive windows overlooking Solaria Prime while Seonghwa continued watching him with growing distrust. Outside, the capital stretched endlessly beneath the morning sun. Glass towers gleamed gold and white against the desert. From up here, the city looked perfect but Mingi knew better.

He leaned one shoulder lazily against the window frame, turning the tablet in his hands once. “I’ve got a new subordinate on the way.” That immediately got Seonghwa’s full attention. “You what?” Mingi glanced back over his shoulder casually. “New palace assignment.” Seonghwa frowned instantly. “You don’t do subordinates.”

“I absolutely do.”

“No,” Seonghwa corrected flatly, “you avoid them.” Which was true. Most members of the imperial family kept direct subordinate staff constantly. Assistants. Human attendants. Alien aides. People assigned specifically to manage schedules, social appearances, political communication. Mingi burned through them accidentally. Not because he was cruel but because he ignored structure entirely. The last subordinate assigned to him transferred departments after six months claiming the prince was organizationally catastrophic. Mingi still considered that dramatic.

“The last one you had was years ago,” Seonghwa continued suspiciously.

“Maybe I got lonely.”

“You don’t even answer your messages.”

“I answer important ones.”

“You left the southern delegates on read for twelve days.”

“They were annoying.”

Seonghwa dragged a hand down his face tiredly before narrowing his eyes again. “Why now?” Mingi shrugged lightly, though the grin threatening at the corner of his mouth immediately ruined the casual act and Seonghwa once again noticed. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re smiling again.”

“That’s incredibly judgmental.”

“Why are you smiling?”

Mingi looked away toward the skyline again, trying and failing to suppress it entirely. Because honestly? He still couldn’t stop replaying last night in his head. The underground lights. The way she looked at him like royalty meant nothing. That sharp irritated voice. Stop staring at my ass. Mingi grinned again before he could stop himself and Seonghwa looked horrified as he put two and two together. “You met someone.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You absolutely met someone.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then why do you look like this?”

Mingi finally laughed softly under his breath, pushing himself away from the windows. “She insulted me like six times in maybe ten minutes.” Seonghwa blinked looking almost flabbergasted. “Excuse me?”

“And threatened to throw herself into traffic rather than speak respectfully to guards that went to retrieve her I have been told.”

Now Seonghwa looked genuinely confused. “Who is this person?”

“A human.”

“Oh this is a terrible idea.”

Mingi barked out another laugh immediately. “You don’t even know the idea yet.”

“I know enough.”

“She’s interesting.”

“That sentence alone is concerning.”

Mingi dropped back onto the couch lazily, one arm thrown across the back cushions while sunlight cut sharply across his black clothing and pale hair. “She hates aliens,” he admitted.

“Most humans do.”

“She really hates aliens.”

“That still isn’t helping.”

Mingi tilted his head slightly, remembering the way she looked at him in the alley. Not afraid. Just annoyed. Like he was just another problem standing in her way instead of the future emperor of Earth. No one had ever treated him like that before. “It’s weird,” he admitted quietly. “She doesn’t care who I am.” Seonghwa stared at him a long moment before he sighed heavily. “Oh you’re doomed.”

Mingi snorted softly. “Relax. It’s a subordinate assignment, not a bonding ceremony.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re the crown prince getting emotionally invested in a human woman from the underground after one conversation.”

Mingi immediately pointed at him. “First of all, emotionally invested is a crazy accusation.”

“You are going to give your father stress related organ failure.”

“He’ll survive.”

“And the human?”

That question settled differently. Mingi’s grin faded slightly for the first time all morning. Because beneath all the curiosity and amusement… he did know this would change her life completely. “She’ll probably hate me for it,” he admitted as Seonghwa folded his arms. “Will that stop you?” Mingi looked toward the towering city beyond the windows again. Somewhere down there, she was probably furious right now. Good. He liked that about her. “No,” he said honestly.

And somehow that answer worried Seonghwa more than anything else.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @seungminniemin @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies @hannahstacos @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @love--in-stayville @hartsablaze @remi-young @bubbly-moon @fvxyxnh0 @herpoetryprincess @prchiquita8 @dreamgirlevilera @booposaurusrex @onecursedkitty @dvrktvnnel @atinynoona @metalheadatiny @uchihabbynic @eggielix @dodot04lover @thenumberoneangelcollection-blog @navydotz @auxiny @chanscappuccino @fixonmingi89

[annejangle]

"For the good of Humanity" they say. Yet we are nothing but game for them to hunt, animals to be used as fodder to what lurks beyond.

We are not heroes, we are not brave, we are cowards who fear the unknown just as anyone would be.

"For the good of Humanity" they repeat, and bide their time, making what lurks complacent by shoving us to it.

They will get their bait,

but I will live.

And I will live free of the humanity that stripped me of my freedom.

I will live.

I will.

And they will never hear of me again, just as they wanted.

[bigbabygremlin]

YEAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH

[annejangle]

"For the good of Humanity" they say. Yet we are nothing but game for them to hunt, animals to be used as fodder to what lurks beyond.

We are not heroes, we are not brave, we are cowards who fear the unknown just as anyone would be.

"For the good of Humanity" they repeat, and bide their time, making what lurks complacent by shoving us to it.

They will get their bait,

but I will live.

And I will live free of the humanity that stripped me of my freedom.

I will live.

I will.

And they will never hear of me again, just as they wanted.

[yungistiny]

camgirl ═ chapter fourteen

[ S. Mingi ]

chapter fourteen : not going anywhere

╚═════════

summary: mingi just really needs some cash and he was told all he had to do was hold a camera. simple enough. he just didn’t anticipate the type of content he’d be helping to create

warning: emo mingi, stoner mingi, possessive mingi, unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of ex abusive relationship

pairing: mingi x afab camgirl reader

genre: smut, angst, drama, romance

word count: 10.4k

chapter thirteen

chapter fifteen coming soon

masterlist

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The city blurred outside the windshield in streaks of gold and gray. Seoul traffic crawled tonight, brake lights glowing beneath a sky threatening rain, and Mingi barely noticed any of it. One hand rested loosely at the top of the steering wheel while the other tapped absentmindedly against his thigh to the bass thumping low through the speakers from a linkin park song.

Y/N’s car smelled like her. Vanilla perfume soaked into the seats. Strawberry lip gloss somewhere in the console. One of her claw clips abandoned in the cup holder beside an empty iced coffee she swore she was going to throw away two days ago. Usually being in her car relaxed him but tonight it just made him worry more.

Mingi exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight as he stopped at another red light. She’d been quiet. Not angry. Not distant. Just… quiet. Too inside her own head. The last few days after her dad found out had been strange in a fragile sort of way. Her father handled it better than either of them expected. Better than Mingi honestly thought possible. But Y/N still kept drifting away. Not physically. Physically she stayed close. Curled against him at night. Wearing his clothes around the house. Sitting between his legs on the couch while Gladiolus slept on both of them like some spoiled little dictator.

But mentally? He could feel her slipping somewhere he couldn’t reach. She laughed quieter now. Thought longer before answering things. Caught herself zoning out constantly. They hadn’t streamed since her dad found out. And worst of all…. She stopped teasing him as much. Which honestly scared the shit out of him more than anything.

Mingi turned into the familiar alley leading toward Johnny’s apartment, tires crunching softly over uneven pavement. Neon signs reflected across the Camaro’s hood while groups of smokers lingered outside convenience stores, shoulders tucked against the cold. His fingers tightened around the wheel because maybe he was overthinking. Maybe she was just exhausted. But Mingi knew her now. Knew the difference between tired and hurting. The girl who used to smirk at him from across rooms like she had every secret in the world had been looking at herself lately like she didn’t know who she was anymore and he hated it.

Mingi rubbed his hand over his mouth, frustration and helplessness twisting together in his chest. He wished he was home. Hated that she was sitting there alone with her thoughts while he was thirty minutes away trying to buy weed. He looked down at himself, at the rings on his fingers tapping against the steering wheel, already wanting to turn the car back around without even going inside.

A few months ago, the idea of belonging anywhere would’ve made him itch. Now he got anxious being away from her too long. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face before finally climbing out of the car. The smell of weed and incense invaded his senses the second Mingi got inside and up to Johnnys. “Look who’s alive,” Johnny called from behind the counter the moment he spotted him after Jaehyun let him in. “Thought your ass moved into your girl’s house permanently.”

Mingi flipped him off automatically while shrugging his jacket off. “Shut up.”

Johnny barked out a laugh as he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he looked Mingi over knowingly. “Nah, seriously. You vanished.” His brows lifted. “San said you barely even sleep at your own apartment anymore.” Mingi grabbed the bag Jaehyun slid toward him, inspecting it absentmindedly. “I’ve been busy.”

“Mhmm.” Jaehyun looked deeply unconvinced. “Busy getting pussy and playing house.”

Mingi glared at him. Normally comments like that rolled right off him. But hearing it now only pissed him off. Because Y/N was more than that. She was everything if he were being honest with himself. And yeah…. Maybe he was playing house a little. Cooking dinner in her kitchen. Falling asleep with her legs tangled with his. Grocery shopping together at midnight. Arguuing over which candle smelled better while Gladiolus screamed at both of them for treats. Domestic as hell. Terrifying. And somehow the happiest he’s ever been.

Johnny noticed the expression immediately and pointed at him dramatically. “There it is!”

“What?”

“That look.” Johnny narrowed his eyes accusingly. “You’re gone.” Mingi scoffed, pulling his wallet out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You smile different now.” Jaehyun pointed out.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You do!” Johnny was full laughing now. “Bro used to look one inconvenience away from committing arson. Now you walk around looking like somebody tucked you into bed and told you you’re pretty.”

Mingi wanted to be offended but instead he just rolled his eyes harder as Johnny took the cash, still grinning like he’d uncovered state secrets. “So…” He dragged the word out dramatically while packing up the rest of Mingi’s order. “You settling down now?” That made Mingi pause. Not visibly long but long enough and Johnny and Jaehyun both caught it instantly.

“OHHHHH,” Johnny yelled loudmy as Jaehyun laughed. “Holy shit. That’s a yes.”

“It’s not a yes,” Mingi argued automatically, though even he heard how weak it sounded and Johnny looked delighted. “That’s exactly how people sound before they accidentally get married.”

“Fuck you.” Mingi rolled his eyes, and waved them both off as he left , shoving the small neon green vacuum sealed bag down the waistband of his boxers the second he got back into the Camaro, hissing quietly at the cold plastic against his skin before tugging his hoodie back down over them as rain started to pour down on him and the city. “Jesus,” he muttered, adjusting himself in the driver’s seat. “This is how people lose their dick.” Neon signs blurred across the wet glass of the windshield while thunder rolled somewhere distant over Seoul.

It was late. Way later than he meant to stay out. Johnny had disappeared for hours handling another pickup and by the time Mingi finally got his text he was home, it was already pushing midnight. Now it was ten minutes past 1:00 am and Y/N was probably still awake waiting on him. That thought alone made guilt twist in his chest because lately she wouldn’t fully relax unless he was home. And honestly? Neither would he.

Mingi started the car, windshield wipers squeaking softly as they pushed rain aside. His rings tapped once against the steering wheel while he pulled out onto the slick street, jaw tight with exhaustion. The roads were mostly empty now. Just taxis, delivery bikes, the occasional drunk group stumbling under umbrellas. His hoodie smelled faintly like Y/N’d detergent and made him want to get back home as fast as possible. His entire life smelled like her lately.

Mingi exhaled slowly through his nose, turning at the next light and that’s when headlights appeared behind him and his stomach dropped instantly when the red and blue lights flicked on. “Fuck.” His pulse spiked so hard he physically felt it in his throat. No no no no. Not tonight. Not with weed shoved down his fucking underwear. Not with Y/N already spiraling emotionally. The Camaro slowed as Mingi’s brain short circuited at lightning speed. Maybe they weren’t pulling him over. Maybe it was somebody else but that hope went away when the siren chirped once. Definitely him.

“Fuck,” he repeated louder this time, running a hand through his hair. The bleached strands had gotten a little longer and Mingi almost buzzed it off completely until Y/N said she liked how long it was getting. Rain started to hammer harder against the roof now and his hands were already sweating as Mingi pulled into a dim side street beside a closed convenience store, heart pounding violently against his ribs as the police car stopped behind him and he stared straight ahead for half a second before he grabbed his phone. Not Y/N. Absolutely not Y/N. She’d panic instantly.

His thumb hit San’s contact and the phone rang twice before San answered groggily. “Why are you calling me this late….”

“San.” Mingi’s voice came out too calm somehow. Which honestly made it worse. “I think I’m about to get arrested.” There was immediate silence before San’s voice came back sharp and alarmed. “What?”

“I got pulled over.” Mingi looked in the rearview mirror, spotting the cop getting out of the cruiser through streaks of rain. “And I have Johnny’s best in inventory in my fucking underwear.” San sat straight up so fast Mingi heard something crash on the other end. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?”

“Yes!”

“Oh my god.”

“Just…” Mingi scrubbed his hand over his face frantically. “If I go to jail, let my dad know before my mom finds out on Facebook or something.” San sounded fully awake now. “Mingi, why are you talking like you joined the mafia?”

“Because I’m about to die.”

“You are not about to die!”

“Might actually.” Mingi glanced back again as the officer adjusted his hat against the rain and started approaching the car. “Okay nope definitely dying.”

“DO NOT SAY ANYTHING WEIRD TO THE COP.”

“I ALWAYS SAY WEIRD THINGS WHEN I’M NERVOUS.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of!”

Mingi’s knee bounced violently now as rain streaked down the windows and the flashlight beam hit the side mirror. “San,” Mingi whispered urgently.

“What?”

“If I get arrested tell Y/N I love her but don’t let her come bail me out because she’ll look too hot walking into a police station and I’ll get jealous.” San made a strangled sound. “This is not the time to be possessive!” A sharp knock hit the driver’s side window and Mingi nearly threw the phone across the car. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath one last time before locking the screen and tossing it onto the passenger seat.

The flashlight beam swept across the interior again. Slow and deliberately as the rain pelted against the roof hard enough now that it almost drowned out the sound of the officer tapping against the window. Mingi rolled it down carefully and cold rain immediately misted into the car as the officer leaned slightly toward the opening, expression unreadable beneath the glow of the streetlights. Older. Broad shouldered. Tired eyes. “License and registration.”

Mingi swallowed. “Yeah.” His voice cracked slightly and he had to clear his throat. “Yeah, one second.” His hands felt clumsy as he reached for his wallet. Don’t act nervous. You always act nervous like in Busan. Having to try and explain to police how a mattress was thrown out the hotel was something Mingi never wanted to experience again. He handed over his license before opening the glove compartment and the registration sat tucked beneath a pile of napkins and Y/N’s insurance papers. The officer took both, eyes flicking from the registration to Mingi. Then back again. “This your vehicle?”

Mingi shook his head quickly. “No, sir. It’s my girlfriend’s.” The officer hummed quietly, rain dripping from the brim of his cap while he looked everything over and Mingi tried not to visibly sweat. The weed pressed uncomfortably against his lower stomach beneath the waistband of his underwear and suddenly it felt like the bag was glowing neon through his hoodie as the officer shined the flashlight briefly through the car again. Passenger seat. Backseat. Floorboards. Then finally he handed the registration back halfway before stopping. “Step out of the vehicle.”

Mingi’s stomach dropped straight to hell. “What?”

“Out of the car.”

Mingi stared at him for half a second too long before forcing himself to move. “What did I do exactly?” he asked carefully, trying and failing to sound casual instead of like he was getting annoyed. He was never good at hiding when he was pissed off. The officer’s expression didn’t change. “You took that turn too fast and drifted over the line.” Shit. Mingi pushed the door open slowly, sneakers splashing against wet pavement as cold rain instantly soaked through the shoulders of his hoodie.

The officer stepped back to give him room. “Hands where I can see them.” Mingi obeyed immediately, pulse roaring in his ears now. Everything felt too loud. The rain. The traffic in the distance. His own fucking breathing. “Face the car.”

“Seriously?” Mingi asked before he could stop himself and the officer’s tone hardened slightly. “Face the car.” Mingi clenched his jaw and turned, palms pressing against the cold wet hood of Y/N’s Camaro as rainwater streaked down the black paint beneath his fingers and his heart hammered violently when he heard the officer step closer. Then rough hands grabbed his wrists, pulling them behind his back briefly while the officer searched him down quickly and efficiently making Mingi stiffen immediately.

“Relax.”

Hard to relax when I’ve got enough weed in my underwear to spiritually exit my body, Mingi thought hysterically as the officer checked his hoodie pockets first. Empty. Then his jeans. Wallet. Lighter. The officer paused slightly at the lighter. “You smoke?” Mingi’s brain short circuited. Cigarettes? Weed? Fucking dirt from stress? “Yes,” he answered carefully and the officer continued searching. Mingi felt panic spike violently when the hands moved lower toward his waistband. Don’t react. DO NOT REACT. Rain soaked through his clothes completely now, wet hair dripping into his eyes while his entire body locked up trying not to visibly panic.

The officer paused and his hands pressed briefly against the front waistband of Mingi’s jeans causing Mingi to stop breathing entirely. For one horrible second neither of them moved. Then headlights swept across the street behind them, briefly distracting the officer as another car passed through the intersection nearby and the officer stepped back slightly instead. “You carrying anything illegal?”

Mingi laughed. Actually laughed. Too fast and nervous. “No, sir.” The officer stared at him like he could sense Mingi was lying and Mingi stared back trying not to look like a man actively hiding weed against his dick as thunder rumbled overhead again. “Sure.” The officer scoffed and then his hand moved straight to the waistband of Mingi’s jeans and Mingi’s entire body locked. “Wait….”

The officer tugged sharply, fingers hooking beneath the fabric before pulling the neon green bag free from where it had been hidden against Mingi’s lower stomach and the world stopped as the officer held the bag up between two fingers, flashlight glinting off the plastic. “Then what’s this?” Mingi’s stomach dropped so hard he physically swayed. Oh. Oh he was fucked. Actually fucked. Rain slid down the back of his neck while his mind blanked completely for half a second. Then everything hit him at once.

“Fuck…” Mingi whispered, voice hollow as the officer’s face hardened immediately. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.” Mingi obeyed, brain disconnecting from his body now, cold panic spreading through his chest while the officer grabbed his wrists roughly and pulled them behind his back and cold metal cuffs clicked around them. The sound made something inside Mingi sink straight to the floor.

Holy shit.

He was actually being arrested.

Rain poured harder, soaking through his clothes while the officer guided him toward the cruiser and Mingi barely noticed. All he could think about was Y/N. How she was gonna probably get a phone call in the middle of the night that her boyfriend got arrested with weed shoved down his pants like an absolute fucking idiot. His chest tightened painfully. Because the worst part? It wasn’t even about him going to jail. It was knowing this was the last thing she needed after everything Hyun already put her through.

The officer opened the back door of the cruiser and Mingi finally found his voice again. “Can I make one call first?” The officer looked unimpressed. “You’ll get your call downtown.”

Downtown.

Jesus Christ.

Mingi ducked his head automatically climbing into the backseat, wet cuffs digging into his wrists as the door slammed shut behind him. The inside of the cruiser smelled like rainwater, old coffee, and stale cigarettes. Across the wet window, Y/N’s Camaro sat abandoned beneath flickering streetlights and for the first time in a very long time, Mingi genuinely didn’t know what to do.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The house felt too quiet without Mingi in it. Rain tapped steadily against the windows while the tv played low in the living room, something Y/N had turned on over an hour ago just to fill the silence. Now even that wasn’t helping. Gladiolus was hiding under the couch from the thunder while Y/N sat curled beneath a blanket in one of Mingi’s hoodies, her laptop abandoned beside her untouched.

She checked the time again. 1:47 am. Her stomach twisted. Johnny’s never took this long. Especially not on a weeknight. Y/N pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, glancing toward the front door like Mingi might magically walk through it if she stared hard enough. The hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands completely. It still smelled like him. Weed. Laundry detergent. That stupid expensive cologne he pretended he didn’t care about but absolutely did that she bought him.

Usually Mingi would’ve texted by now. At minimum something annoying like: “ur cat misses me” Or “buy snacks im omw home” Or worse “thinking about ur tits at red lights” A tiny smile almost tugged at her mouth before fading again and her chest tightened slowly. Y/N grabbed her phone off the couch cushion beside her and opened their messages. Nothing new. Last text from him was almost two hours ago: “johnny finally back. b home soon baby” That had been at 11:42 pm. She sat up straighter now as rain rattled harder against the windows.

Gladiolus lifted his head slightly out from under the couch, eyes blinking nervously toward her before disappearing again and Y/N pressed call before she could overthink it. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer. Her brows furrowed immediately because Mingi answered her calls almost obnoxiously fast most of the time. Even when he was busy. Even half asleep. Especially lately.

The line finally went to voicemail. “Hey, it’s Mingi. Uh…” His recorded voice crackled softly through the speaker followed by San yelling something unintelligible in the background. “Stop recording over my shit!” Then back to Mingi laughing. “Leave a message or don’t. I probably lost my phone again anyway.” The voicemail beeped and Y/N swallowed. “Hey…” Her voice came out quieter than intended. “Call me back when you get this, okay? It’s late.”

She hung up slowly and the anxiety in her chest sharpened. Not panic yet. But close enough she could feel it creeping at the edges as she stood from the couch, blanket falling away as she paced toward the kitchen. Her nails tapped anxiously against the marble countertop while she stared at the rain outside. Maybe he forgot his phone in the car. Maybe Johnny dragged him into something stupid. Maybe he was too high right now to drive. Maybe San called him over. Maybe maybe maybe.

Her brain was spiraling too fast now. She hated this feeling. The waiting. The not knowing. Y/N glanced toward the front door again just as thunder rolled low outside. Still nothing. Her fingers hovered over San’s contact for a second then stopped. No. She didn’t want to be dramatic. Didn’t want Mingi teasing her later for acting like he died because he took too long buying weed. But another ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. 2:27 am flashed across her screen and her stomach dropped harder now. Because something felt wrong. Really wrong.

By 3:30 in the morning, Y/N was pacing. Not the casual pacing where she wandered around with a drink and overthought things. No. Real pacing. Back and forth across the living room, phone clutched so tightly in her hand her knuckles hurt. Her heartbeat felt wrong. Too fast. Too sharp. Every worst case scenario her brain could invent had already happened at least twice in her head. Car accident. Fight. Hyun. Hospital. The silence was killing her. She’d called Mingi seven times now and every single one went straight to voicemail. San twice. No answer. Wooyoung four. Also no answer which was odd as hell for her best friend.

Rain hammered against the windows harder now, thunder rattling faintly overhead while Gladiolus watched her from the couch cushions now with wide eyes like even he could feel the panic soaking into the room as Y/N dragged both hands through her hair, breathing uneven. “Come on…” she whispered to nobody, tears welling in her eyes. “Come on, Mingi…” Headlights suddenly swept across the front windows and Y/N froze instantly as a car door slammed outside followed by another and relief hit her so fast it almost hurt.

She hurried toward the front door barefoot, heart slamming against her ribs, already halfway to angry tears because she was fully prepared to scream at Mingi the second she saw him but when she yanked the door open, it wasn’t Mingi standing there. It was Wooyoung and San. And one look at their faces made her stomach completely bottom out. Wooyoung looked pale. San looked stressed. And neither of them spoke immediately. Rain soaked through San’s hoodie while Wooyoung clutched his jacket tighter around himself, mascara slightly smudged beneath his eyes like he hadn’t bothered wiping it off before bed.

Y/N’s voice came out thin instantly. “Where is he?” San glanced once toward Wooyoung before looking back at her carefully. “Mingi’s in jail.”

“What?”

Wooyoung stepped forward quickly when her knees visibly weakened. “Babe…”

“What do you mean jail?” Her voice cracked sharply now. “What the fuck do you mean jail?” San exhaled hard, rubbing both hands down his face. “He got pulled over.” Y/N stared at him blankly as realization hit. The weed. Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh my god.”

“He called me before they arrested him,” San admitted quietly. “He had weed on him. A lot.” Y/N physically swayed backward and Wooyoung caught her arm immediately. “Hey, hey….”

“He’s actually in jail?” she whispered like she still couldn’t process it. “Like a cell?”

“Temporary holding,” San said quickly. “Probably overnight until his dad gets him out in the morning.” But Y/N barely heard him. All she could picture was Mingi alone somewhere cold and fluorescent lit with tired eyes and that stupid soft look he got whenever he looked at her and tears burned instantly behind her eyes. “This is my fault.”

“What?” Wooyoung snapped immediately. “No the fuck it is not.”

“He was gonna wait until tomorrow but I …. I needed something tonight…. I’ve been so…”

“Y/N.” San’s voice cut through sharply. “No.” She shook her head frantically anyway, panic spiraling higher now. “He went out because I’ve been freaking out all week and he was trying to calm me down and now he’s in fucking jail because of me….”

“He went to buy weed because he always buys weed,” Wooyoung interrupted bluntly. “That man has the survival instincts of a raccoon with car keys.” Despite everything, a broken sound escaped her that almost resembled a laugh as she looked back at San desperately. “Did he sound okay?”

San hesitated just enough to terrify her. “He sounded nervous,” he admitted honestly and that wrecked her instantly. Because Mingi hid nerves and fear behind jokes and sarcasm and cockiness almost all the time.

Y/N covered her mouth with trembling fingers as tears finally spilled over. “Oh my god…” Wooyoung immediately wrapped both arms around her, pulling her against him tightly while she shook. “He kept asking me not to tell you,” San admitted quietly from the doorway. “Didn’t want you panicking.”

“Well that clearly worked out fucking amazing,” Wooyoung muttered but San ignored him, gaze staying on Y/N. “His dad knows already.” That made her look up instantly. “What?”

“He called him from downtown after processing.” San shoved wet hair back from his forehead tiredly. “Mr. Song will handle it.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The holding cell smelled like bleach, damp concrete, and somebody’s old cigarettes soaked into fabric. Mingi sat on the hard bench with his elbows resting on his knees, orange tinted fluorescent light buzzing faintly overhead while exhaustion settled heavy into his bones. It was freezing in here. Not literally. Just enough to make everything feel uncomfortable and too real.

His hoodie was gone. His rings too. Everything taken and logged somewhere behind the desk outside while he sat there in a wrinkled black tshirt and jeans that still smelled faintly like rainwater and Y/N’s detergent. 4:03 am glowed red from the clock mounted outside the bars. Mingi hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even come close. His wrists still hurt faintly from the cuffs. But none of that compared to the gnawing anxiety eating through his chest. Because Y/N definitely knew by now and he knew exactly how her brain worked when she panicked. She’d blame herself. Somehow. Even though this was entirely his dumb ass decision.

Mingi leaned his head back briefly against the cold wall behind him and closed his eyes. God. The disappointment he was expecting to be on her face would kill him faster than the arrest itself. A tired sigh left him as he dragged both hands over his face. At least his dad had answered. The call happened about two hours ago now. Mingi still remembered sitting at the processing desk under harsh fluorescent lights with a cop watching him like he might spontaneously commit another crime through sheer inconvenience.

“Phone call,” the officer had grunted as he handed Mingi his cell back momentarily, his fingers hovered over Y/N’s name first automatically then stopped. No. Absolutely not. Calling her from jail at two in the morning felt like something that would emotionally damage both of them permanently. So he called his dad instead. The line barely rang once before he answered.

“Mingi?” His father sounded half asleep but immediately alert underneath it and Mingi swallowed hard. “Hey.”

“What happened?” No hello. No confusion. Just immediate parental dread as Mingi stared hard at the stained floor tiles beneath his sneakers. “I got arrested.” Silence followed. Not shocked silence but more like deeply exhausted silence. “For what?”

“Weed.”

His father sighed heavily through the phone. “Your mother cannot know about this.”

Even sitting in a jail cell hours later, Mingi almost laughed remembering it. His father would come. Eventually. But Y/N… she was probably spiraling herself sick. He could practically picture it. Her pacing. Checking the windows every five minutes. Calling his phone over and over. Gladiolus probably following her around confused as hell. The image made his chest ache violently as Mingi tipped his head back against the wall again, eyes closing briefly.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered quietly into the empty cell. Because somehow even sitting in jail, the thing hurting him most was knowing she was probably scared.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

8:15 am and Mingi was still behind bars. He’d dozed off a few times but never for long. He’d figured his dad would have been there already….

“Song Mingi.” An officer finally appeared to open the holding cell and Mingi sighed in relief as he followed him back to the front of the station and immediately froze. Because his dad hadn’t come alone apparently. Y/N’s dad seemed to be arguing with the police chief, eyes narrowed and sneering as Mingi’s dad watched looking exhausted. And then…. Y/N. She stood beside his dad, eyes red, she had clearly been crying. Her arms were folded across her chest in one of his hoodies.

As soon as she saw him Mingi could see the relief wash over her as she shoved past one of the officers and made quick haste towards him. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. “You asshole….” She scolded him half angry and full of worry and exhaustion. “you should have called me…. I thought…” she didn’t finish. She couldn’t voice the scenarios allowed. Thinking them had been enough.

“I’m sorry.” He wrapped his arms around her as her dad’s voice raised louder in the station. “I don’t care! My daughter’s car better be pulled into this parking lot before I walk out that goddamn door.” Mingi and Y/N turned as watched as her dad lowered his voice saying something only the chief could hear as Mr. Song walked over towards them. “I tried myself but weed is a big no no with them.” His dad looked at the way Y/N clinged to his son like she was afraid she’d let go and Mingi would be thrown in a cell again. “I called Y/N to let her know and she just said she was on her way…. that she would handle it.”

“Technically…” Y/N pulled back just enough to let Mingi wrap an arm around her shoulders and keep her at his side. “my dad’s handling it.” They all turned to watch Y/N’s dad move from the police chief, walking over, giving Mingi a once over. “You good, son?” His tone immediately changed to a concerned parent compared to the man he just was towards the chief. Mingi glanced from Y/N’s dad to his own and then back again. “You’re… not like…. pissed?”

“The only thing I’m pissed at is the fact these son of a bitches purposely stopped you on an anonymous tip.” Y/N’s dad shook his head, clearing his throat. “The chief owes me or else they were gonna try and get you time.”

Mingi furrowed his brows together, putting the pieces together…. anonymous tip? “Hyun?” Y/N stiffened beside him as his dad arched a brow, clearly he had many questions that Mingi didn’t have the energy to answer right now. “I’m handling it.” Y/N’s dad turned towards Mr. Song. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances.” The two older men fell into conversation about the song family restaurant as they waited for Y/N’s car to be brought from the impound.

“Is it bad I want a blunt right now?” Mingi mumbled just low enough for Y/N to hear making her roll her eyes even though she was thinking the same thing. “You’re unbelievable.” She snorted before looking up at him, gaze softening, the worry she had hours before gone now. “Don’t worry….” She pulled him down a little, giving him a soft kiss, letting it linger. “Wooyoung gave me the rest of his stash.” Mingi kissed her again, lingering longer, pressing his forehead against hers. “I love you.”

They stayed like that a moment before the police chief grumbled back towards them. “The car is here. 2024 black Chevrolet Camaro.” Her dad looked smug as they all followed the chief outside and Mingi had to bite his lip hard to keep from saying something smart at the cop who pulled him over handing over the car keys to Y/N’s dad as the cop who arrested Mingi gave him a dirty look before disappearing inside the police station. Mr. Song glanced at his son, repeating what he said on the call earlier that morning. “Your mother can never know about this.”

Y/N snorted. Mrs. Song finding out her son got arrested for getting caught with weed driving his girlfriend’s car that she already has made clear she hates, oh that would definitely go over well. “Trust me…” Mingi glanced at Y/N. “I know.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

“You sure you don’t want me to pay you back?” Mingi glanced back as he followed behind Y/N into her house, her dad trailing behind them. “Mingi I don’t care about you paying me back. I paid nothing. I told you, the chief owed me.” Y/N’s dad took off his suit jacket, laying it over the chair just in the opening of the living room. “Not ten minutes before my daughter called me this morning, one of my inside deputies called me, told me they just impounded her car and arrested you under an anonymous tip…” he sat down in the chair, eyes darkening, something that made him look at a lot like his daughter for a brief moment. “of course I was given the number and surprise, surprise who made the tip.”

Hyun. Once again his name hung around them like omen. “How did he even know where I was? He fucking stalking us now?” Mingi was pissed. Follow him all he wants but if he even catches that piece of shit near Y/N….. “If he comes near her…” the threat was there, more of a promise. It was funny. A few months ago, Mingi was barely holding himself together, now he was ready to make someone disappear if that meant keeping them away from the woman he loved. “I’m going to stop by, visit his father, he always liked kissing my ass.” Y/N’s dad stood back up, eying the room, gaze lingering on his daughter who was more quiet than usual. “I will handle this.” He assured her before grabbing his jacket and looking at Mingi. “You keep her together.”

“Always.” Mingi didn’t hesitate and that was all her dad needed before he left. Silence enveloped them until Gladiolus meowed loudly, prancing into the room, rubbing against Mingi’s leg, purring as he reached down to scratch the cat’s ear. “I wasn’t gone that long.” He joked and Gladiolus only meowed louder before moving away to jump onto the couch and start cleaning himself. Mingi dropped the bag with his still rain soaked hoodie in it onto the floor. His clothes had long dried on his body but there were still damp spot. He looked at Y/N who seemed to be lost in thought as she stared at his bag. “I’m gonna shower real quick.” He grabbed her arm gently, thumb brushing at her elbow before he let go and walked upstairs.

Y/N stood there a minute or two before following after him upstairs. She could hear the shower on in the bathroom as she pushed open her bedroom door. “Fuck.” She hates how out of herself she was. Hated it. The helplessness. The guilt. The way her thoughts kept circling the same drain no matter how hard she tried to stop them. Mingi had been sitting in a jail cell. A fucking jail cell because of her ex. She knew it really wasn’t anyone at fault but Hyun but her stomach twisted anyways. “If I hadn’t wanted any…”

The thought slipped in before she could stop it again. If she hadn’t wanted any weed, Mingi would’ve stayed home. He would’ve spent the night here. He wouldn’t have been driving around after midnight. Wouldn’t have been pulled over. Wouldn’t have spent the entire night locked up. Wouldn’t have looked exhausted standing in that police station.

Y/N began pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her bare feet moved across the carpet while her mind raced faster and faster. Hyun only knew about the streams because of her. Because he thought he still had claim on her. Hyun only hated Mingi because of her. Because she loves him. Her dad got dragged into this because of her. Mingi got arrested because of her. Every road somehow seemed to lead back to her.

Her chest tightened as the room suddenly felt too small. Too hot. Too loud. “You always ruin everything.” She scolded herself, glaring towards her camera they used for the streams sitting on a tripod beside the window. The voice didn’t sound like her own in her head though. It was a memory. Hyun’s. The way he’d spit the words at her during one of their arguments. The way he’d always managed to make every problem somehow become hers.

Y/N stopped pacing once her breathing had become uneven. No. She wasn’t doing this. She wasn’t. But the thoughts kept coming anyway. What if Hyun escalated? What if next time it wasn’t weed? What if next time he went after Mingi’s family? What if Mingi got hurt because of her? His mother already hates her…. What if…

The bathroom door opened across the hall, steam rolling into the bedroom as Mingi stepped out with a towel hanging low around his waist, another draped over his shoulders as he rubbed at his damp hair. He immediately stopped when saw Y/N halfway across the room, arms folded tightly across her chest, pacing. And the look on her face told him everything. “Baby?” His voice was soft and careful. Y/N froze then immediately started pacing again and Mingi sighed. Because now he knew exactly what was happening. And he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever she’d convinced herself of while he’d been in the shower.

“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly and the question broke whatever fragile thread had been holding her together. Y/N laughed once. A horrible sound. Half laugh. Half sob. Then she covered her face and Mingi froze. Because in all the months he’d known her, through Hyun, through the streams being exposed, through fights with her stepmother, through panic attacks she tried desperately to hide in the last week, he had never seen her like this. Y/N was stubborn. Defiant. Sharp tongued. Even when she was hurting, she usually wrapped it in sarcasm and rolled her eyes at anyone who got too close.

But now? Now she looked shattered. Tears slipped through her fingers as her shoulders began to shake. “Oh, fuck…” she whispered as Mingi crossed the room immediately. The second he reached her she folded with no hesitation. No pretending. No trying to be strong. She buried herself against him and Mingi caught her automatically, both arms wrapping around her as tightly as he could manage. He felt her fingers knot into the back of his towel, felt the way she clung to him like she was afraid she’d fall apart if she let go.

For a moment he didn’t say anything. Just held her. One hand cradling the back of her head. The other rubbing slow circles up and down her spine as Y/N cried harder. The kind of crying that came from somewhere deep. Months. Years. Of fear and guilt and anger finally forcing their way to the surface. “I’m sorry,” she choked out making Mingi immediately frown. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Baby, what are you talking about?”

She pulled back enough to look at him and the sight nearly broke him. Her eyes were red. Cheeks wet. Breathing uneven. “I wanted the weed.”

“What?”

“I wanted it,” she repeated. “If I hadn’t asked for it you wouldn’t have gone to Johnny’s. You would’ve stayed home. You would’ve been here. You wouldn’t have gotten arrested.” The words came faster. Messier. Like she’d been holding them in the entire time he’d been in the shower. “If I hadn’t met you none of this would’ve happened. Hyun wouldn’t know who you are. He wouldn’t be following you. He wouldn’t be calling in tips. He wouldn’t be trying to ruin your life.”

“Baby…..”

“No.”

Fresh tears spilled down her face. “He keeps going after people around me, Mingi. He did it with my friends I had when I was with him. Tried it with Woo. Now you. My dad got dragged into it. Your dad got dragged into it. Everybody keeps getting dragged into my mess.” Mingi stared at her and suddenly he understood. This wasn’t about the weed. This wasn’t about the arrest. This was years of Hyun. Years of being blamed for things that were never hers to carry. All the time she spent under him. Him telling her what to do. Him hitting her when he didn’t get his way. Years of being taught that every disaster somehow traced back to her.

The realization made something angry twist in his chest. Not at her. Never at her. At Hyun. At what that bastard had done to her. Because even now, years later, he was still living inside her head. Still convincing her that everything was her fault. Mingi reached up and grabbed her face gently. Just enough to make sure she looked at him. “Listen to me.” Y/N shook her head immediately. “Mingi…. I think…”

“No.” His voice came out firmer this time. “You listen to me.” The tears continued to fall as Mingi wiped them away with his thumbs. “If you asked me to get weed, that was my decision.”

“But…”

“My decision.” He repeated it slowly. “I got in that car. I drove across town. I bought it. Me.” Y/N looked unconvinced and Mingi expected that. So he kept going. “And Hyun?” His jaw tightened. “Hyun didn’t call that tip in because of you.”

“Yes he did.”

“No.” Mingi shook his head. “He called it in because he’s a pathetic piece of shit who can’t stand the fact that you left.” Y/N stared at him as Mingi kept trying to reassure her. “He doesn’t hate me because of you. He hates me because I’m with you. Because I love you more than his pathetic ass ever could.” Something dangerous flickered briefly behind Mingi’s eyes. The kind of anger he rarely showed. “That man could’ve met anyone you dated after him and he would’ve done the same thing.” He pulled her against him again. Holding her so tightly she could probably feel his heartbeat. “This isn’t your fault.”

She didn’t answer as Mingi rested his cheek against the top of her head. “None of it.” His voice dropped lower. “You didn’t make him abusive. You didn’t make him follow me. You didn’t make him call that tip in.” Y/N’s fingers tightened in the back of his towel. “And you sure as hell didn’t put me in jail.” A watery laugh escaped her despite herself and Mingi smiled faintly. “There she is.” Silence settled around them. The kind that only existed between two people who knew each other well enough to just exist together until Y/N whispered, “I was scared.”

Mingi closed his eyes. “I know.”

“No, I mean really scared.”

His arms tightened around her. Because he knew exactly what she meant. Not scared of the arrest. Not scared of Hyun. Scared of losing him. The same fear he’d been carrying for months. The same fear that made him panic every time someone threatened what they had. “I know,” he repeated quietly. And this time when he said it, he meant every word. Because for the first time since he met her, Mingi realized that maybe he wasn’t the only one terrified of losing everything.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

December had settled over Seoul fully now. The city glittered beneath strings of white lights draped across storefronts and wrapped around bare tree branches. Christmas music floated from every café and shopping district while cold air nipped at exposed skin. Y/N looked like she belonged in one of the luxury store displays. The cream coat hugged her waist before flaring slightly at the hips, white faux fur lining the collar and cuffs with black tights disappeared into matching white boots. “You know,” Mingi said for probably the tenth time, carrying three shopping bags while she carried none, “I think it’s rude that you decided to look like a rich widow from a murder mystery.”

Y/N glanced at him. “What?”

“You look like the woman everybody suspects did it.”

She snorted. “Did what?”

“Killed her husband for insurance money.”

“Mingi.”

“I’m serious.”

“Mingi.”

“You’d get away with it too.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. The shopping district was crowded despite the cold. Couples drifted between stores. Families carried armfuls of gifts. Somewhere nearby a street vendor was selling roasted chestnuts as Mingi shifted the bags in his hands then groaned dramatically. “What now?” Y/N asked.

“I’m thinking about Christmas.”

Immediately her smile vanished. “Yeah.”

“Your stepmother is going to be there.”

“Unfortunately.”

“My mother is going to be there.”

“Even more unfortunately.”

Mingi looked genuinely stressed. “Do you realize how bad this is?”

Y/N laughed.

“No, seriously.”

“Mingi…”

“No.”

He stopped walking and a group of teens had to walk around him. “My mother already hates you.”

“She doesn’t hate me.”

“Baby.”

“Okay, she hates me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Y/N sighed as she stared at a pair of combat boots in Mingi’s size.

“Your stepmother hates me.”

“Fair.”

“Your stepmother hates you.”

“Very fair.”

“Your stepmother worships Hyun.”

At that, Y/N’s expression darkened. “Unfortunately.”

“And my mother still thinks Nari was sent from heaven.”

Y/N immediately groaned. “Oh my God.”

“See?” Mingi pointed at her. “Exactly.” He started walking again, muttering under his breath. “We’re basically hosting a family summit between two supervillains.” Y/N laughed despite herself. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally not.” Mingi adjusted the bags again. “Your stepmother is going to say something passive aggressive.”

“Probably.”

“My mother is going to say something passive aggressive.”

“Definitely.”

“Then your stepmother is going to respond.”

“Most likely.”

“And then my mother is going to take that personally.”

“Very likely.”

“And then your stepmother is going to somehow make it about money.”

Y/N nodded. “That’s usually how it goes.”

Mingi stared straight ahead. “This is my nightmare.”

“What? Family dinner?”

“No.” His arm slid around her waist. “Watching people be mean to you.” That got her attention. Y/N looked up at him and the teasing was gone. Mingi’s expression had softened. “I know you pretend it doesn’t bother you.” She immediately looked away as Mingi sighed. Because he’d learned something since being with her. Y/N could handle almost anything directed at herself. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. “I just…” He hesitated. “I don’t want you spending Christmas defending yourself.”

The cold breeze caught a few strands of her hair and for a moment neither spoke. Then Y/N slipped her hand into his coat pocket and laced their fingers together. “You know what the funny thing is?”

“What?”

“My dad told me yesterday he can’t wait to meet the rest of your family and spend time with us.”

Mingi blinked, biting back a grin. “Really?”

“Really.”

His grin slowly spread across his face. “Your dad likes me.”

“He does.”

Mingi’s grin widened. “Your cat likes me.”

“He absolutely does.”

“Your dad likes me way more than he ever did your exes.”

“That’s a very low bar.”

“But I still cleared it.”

Y/N laughed. The kind Mingi had been trying to hear more often lately and his chest warmed immediately. “Come on,” she said, tugging him toward another store and Mingi frowned. “We have more shopping?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve bought gifts for literally everyone.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Baby, you bought Gladiolus a Christmas present.”

“He deserves one.”

“He’s a cat.”

“He’s our child.”

Mingi immediately lost the argument. “…that’s fair.” And as she pulled him into another brightly lit store, Mingi couldn’t help thinking that maybe Christmas wouldn’t be a complete disaster as Y/N immediately dragged him toward the next storefront. The bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside, warm air replacing the winter chill. The store was filled with holiday displays, shelves lined with expensive candles, tea sets, silk scarves, perfumes, and enough decorative nonsense to make Mingi nervous about the price tags. He was already regretting this.

“Okay…” Y/N slowed in front of a display table. “Your mother.”

Mingi groaned. “My mom is impossible.”

“She’s not impossible.”

Mingi stared at her and Y/N sighed. “Okay,” she agreed. “She’s mostly impossible.”

“Thank you.”

Y/N picked up a candle, sniffed it, immediately made a face, and put it back down. “I don’t want to kiss her ass.” Mingi immediately perked up. “Great. Because that would be awkward.”

Y/N snorted and rolled her eyes. “But…”

Mingi’s shoulders slumped. “There’s the but.”

“But I have to get her to like me.”

“Why?”

Y/N turned toward him like the answer should have been obvious. “Because she’s your mom.” Mingi frowned. “Baby…. Who cares. She’ll get over herself eventually.”

“No.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him toward another display. “Seriously.”

“Y/N...”

“No.” Y/N stopped in front of a collection of luxury tea sets. “She’s your mother.”

“And?”

“And I love you.” The words came out so matter of factly that Mingi’s brain short circuited for a second. Because no matter how many times she told him, it hit the same every time. Y/N continued browsing as he followed beside her still gripping the multiple bags in his arms. “I don’t need her to love me.” Mingi watched her. “I don’t even need her to like me that much. But I want her to see what you see.” That one hit him harder as Y/N picked up a delicate ceramic tea cup. Examined it and sat it back down. “Because whether she likes it or not, I’m not going anywhere.”

Mingi felt his chest do that annoying thing it always did around her lately. The thing where it became impossible to breathe normally. The thing where he suddenly wanted to never be without her again. “You know what your problem is?” he asked and Y/N glanced over, arching a brow as she examined a highly priced mug. “What?”

“You keep saying romantic shit when I’m trying to be grumpy.”

She laughed and Mingi immediately lost his train of thought again.

“Help me.”

“I am helping.”

“No, you’re following me around carrying bags.”

“That’s helping.”

“It’s not.”

“It literally is.”

Y/N rolled her eyes then her attention landed on a display of luxury pots and pans. His mother loved cooking. His family owned a restaurant…..

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You found something.”

“I might have.”

“That face means money.”

Y/N ignored him as a sales associate appeared. Ten minutes later he was standing beside her while she debated between three different color sets. Mingi, knowing his mother, pointed at the deep purple and white set. “That one. Purple is her favorite color.” Y/N looked back at the set. Then at him. Then back at the set. “You know your mom’s favorite color?” She teases and Mingi looked mock offended. “Of course I know my mom’s favorite color.”

“I don’t know my dad’s favorite color.”

“That’s because your dad wears black, navy, and gray.”

“Fair.”

Mingi crouched slightly to get a better look at the display model. “She’d actually love this.” Y/N felt herself smile. Not because of the cookware but because of him. Because every time he talked about people he loved there was this softness to him most people never got to see. The same giant intimidating man who’d put Hyun through a birthday cake now looked genuinely excited about pots and pans. “Really?”

Mingi nodded. “Really.” He picked up one of the display lids. “My mom cooks even when she doesn’t have to.”

“Then we’re getting it.” Y/N grabbed the box and immediately regretted it because the thing weighed a thousand pounds. “Jesus.” Mingi laughed, the sound one of the many things she loved more than anything now. He took the giant box from her hands. “Nice try.”

“Shut up.”

“You almost died.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Y/N stuck her tongue out at him Mingi grinned, leaning down and catching her off guard by licking quickly at her own tongue with his own. She gasped as he pulled back and looked down at the cookware set again. “You know…”

“What?”

“My mom’s probably still gonna find something to complain about.”

Y/N groaned. “Mingi.”

“I’m just saying.” He shifted the heavy box against his chest. “But…” Y/N raised a brow. “But?” Mingi looked at the purple cookware set. Then back at her and smiled. “She’s gonna use the hell out of these.” For some reason that felt like a bigger victory than either of them wanted to admit.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The curtains were drawn, but thin stripes of light cut through the room, casting golden lines across the rumpled sheets. Dust floated in the beams like lazy ghosts, the house heavy with the smell of sleep, skin, and the faded scent of Y/N’s lotion. Mingi stirred first, groggy and warm beneath the blankets. He blinked against the morning light, then smiled faintly when he felt her, her fingertips ghosting up the flat of his stomach, lips brushing gently just under his ribs. “Y/N…” His voice was soft, half sleepy, half sighing in content.

Y/N didn’t answer, just kissed higher, a trail of slow affection, like she was memorizing him in pieces and Mingi felt her smile against his skin, the kind of smile he’d once told her could kill a man if she weaponized it. She was straddling his waist, knees tucked under the blanket, sweater hanging off one shoulder, sleep kissed and messy in the way that made his heart ache. “You’re awake early,” he murmured. They had fallen asleep late last night. High, watching old reruns of Degrassi. They didn’t fall asleep until after 3:00 am.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, voice low. “Didn’t want to waste this.” He frowned just a little, brow pulling together. “Waste what?” Y/N leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, then the center. “You.” Then she gripped his chin and turned him to face the camera that was live and streaming. They hadn’t streamed in so long Mingi almost blurred it away like a buried memory.

Y/N let out a low, surprised laugh as Mingi rolled them over with a quick twist of his body, her back sinking into the mattress, hair fanning out on the pillow. “Hey,” she teased, breathless as he hovered above her. “You were just enjoying the view.”

“I still am,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss her again, slower this time, like he wanted to take his time mapping her mouth, to give those watching a good show after so long. “But if you think I’m letting you be the only one who gets to start something this morning…” He trailed off, letting his lips press to her jaw, then lower. Her sweater, oversized, stretched out, a faded Deftones one he’d worn a hundred times, was pushed up exposing soft skin beneath. Mingi kissed there next, reverent, just under the curve of her breast, dragging his mouth slowly across her stomach like he had nowhere else to be.

Y/N’s hand found his hair, fingers curling gently, tugging once, just enough to make him look up. God, she loved how long his hair was getting. His cheeks were flushed. His expression open, full of affection and something deeper. Worship. Devotion. The kind of look that could level a god. She swallowed hard. “You okay?” he asked softly, low enough that those watching wouldn’t hear.

“Yeah,” she brushed his hair back. “I just need you.” Mingi smiled like she’d just handed him the universe and glanced towards the camera once before he kissed lower, slow and warm. Y/N’s breath hitched as he kissed down her stomach, nose brushing the curve of her navel, hands already slipping beneath the hem of her underwear. They were soft, black cotton, worn, familiar. He glanced up at her and the way his eyes had darkened, he looked like he was about to ruin her.

Y/N lifted her hips without a word, letting him pull them down. He hooked them around her ankles and slid them off gently before he kissed her thigh. Once. Then again. A third time, closer now, and Y/N’s head tilted back into the pillow, eyes fluttering closed as his hands gripped her legs, firm but tender, pushing them open just enough. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmured, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “and all mine.”

“Mingi…” Her voice cracked, too much need in it, too much feeling as he just leaned in and finally, finally tasted her. The first stroke of his tongue made her hips jump, and he grinned against her skin, settling one arm across her stomach to keep her still. His mouth was slow at first. Gentle, coaxing, savoring. She could feel his eagerness building with every shift of his tongue, every muffled groan vibrating through her as her fingers twisted in the sheets and her lips parted in a breathy curse.

Mingi didn’t stop. Not when her thighs started to tremble. Not when her breath hitched into soft, helpless moans. Not even when she whimpered his name like a prayer caught between pleasure and disbelief. He just kept going, mouth locked onto her like he was starving for her, tongue working her with focused desperation until she finally shattered. Her fingers clenched in his hair, pulling and dragging a groan from him, head thrown back as she cried out, back arching beneath his arm still resting over her hips.

He looked up only when her body stilled, lips glossy, face flushed with pride and affection like he’d just won something as he crawled back up her body, grinning like the soft little menace he was. “Good morning to you too.” She let out a breathless laugh, still catching her bearings. But as he hovered over her, she suddenly sat up, straddling his lap, the oversized sweater riding dangerously high until she jerked it completely off. “I’m not done with you.”

Mingi’s hands found her waist as he helped guide her, but she tugged at the waistband of his pajama pants, making him laugh as he shifted to peel them off. “Eager much?”

“Don’t act surprised,” she smirked. And then, just as he leaned in to kiss her again, she turned over. Smooth, slow and teasing, arching her back and settling on her elbows, throwing a look at him over her shoulder as her hips started to move, slow little wiggles that made his mouth fall open. “Oh, you’re evil,” Mingi muttered.

“Mmhmm,” Y/N hummed smugly. “Come show me how much you missed me.”

Mingi didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed over her, hands running down her spine like he couldn’t believe she was real and all his. He kissed every vertebrae, soft and lingering, trailing lower until he reached the small of her back. Then he shifted, settling behind her, hand curling around her hip to steady her as he lined himself up. He looked at the camera once, smirking. “Always watching…… none of them will have you like I do.” He pushed into her slowly, a low groan catching in his throat as he sank in inch by inch, until he was fully buried, hips flush against her.

She was warm, perfect, and the sound she made as he filled her nearly undid him right there. His grip tightened slightly on her hips. “Fuck, baby…” He tried to keep it slow at first. He really tried. He’d started with that steady rhythm, deep, languid thrusts, each one dragging a low sound from her throat. His hands gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into her skin as he rocked into her, lips parted in awe. She felt too good, tight, warm, soaking him like she was made to fit him.

But just as he found his pace, Y/N shifted her weight forward, elbows bending, back arching deeper. And then, oh god, she started to push back. Her hips met his with growing force, a deliberate roll that knocked the breath out of his lungs. Her ass slapped against his thighs with each snap of her body, and Mingi’s jaw clenched. “Y/N…. fuck…” He gasped, already losing the rhythm he’d tried so hard to set but she didn’t wait. She just moaned, voice husky and dark with hunger, and ground back into him again. Harder. Faster. Making a filthy mess of him.

Mingi braced a hand against the headboard, the other still gripping her hip as he tried to match her pace but she wasn’t letting him lead anymore. She was riding the edge, slamming back into him with purpose now, thighs shaking, shadows flickering in the corners of the room like they were reacting to the storm building inside her. “Fuck…” He spanked her once, twice, gripping at her ass. “You trying to kill me?” he groaned, voice cracking.

Y/N laughed, low and sinful. “You said I was evil.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, barely holding on. “I didn’t realize you meant sex demon.” She slammed back again and he nearly folded, choking on a moan as her walls clenched around him. He was close. Too close already. He buried his face between her shoulder blades, trying to hold on, to keep control. But she wasn’t making it easy. She was ruining him.

And god he was letting her.

With a strangled groan, Mingi grabbed her by the waist and flipped her onto her back in one fast, heated motion, their bodies parting only for a second before he was hovering over her again, breathless, eyes wild, flushed from jaw to chest as Y/N hit the mattress with a soft “oof”, laughter curling at the corners of her mouth, legs already parting for him like a reflex. She looked up at him with that wicked grin, the kind that never failed to make his heart skip. “Well hello there,” she panted.

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed her legs, pushed them up and apart, one arm hooking behind her knees as he lined himself back up and sank into her again, deeper, harder and possessive, making her back arch with a cry. “Oh fuck, Mingi!”

His rhythm returned with force now, hips snapping into her with each thrust, the soft slap of skin echoing around the room like a heartbeat gone wild. Her hands gripped his arms, fingers digging into muscle, mouth open in messy gasps that only made him want to ruin her more as their viewers stayed locked in. “Y/N…” he groaned, voice strained as she locked eyes with him, smirking through her moans, and whispered the word that broke him, “Harder.”

Mingi growled, low and ragged in his throat as his grip on her tightened, and he started pounding into her. The bed creaked. Her breath caught. Her entire body jolted with each thrust as Y/N unraveled beneath him, head tipping back, eyes rolling as her orgasm slammed into her so hard she screamed, her legs trembling in his hold, her walls clenching around him in tight, wet waves. She was a fucking mess, sweaty, flushed, twitching under him, and Mingi watched her come apart like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Mingi chased it, thrusts growing erratic, deeper, rougher, until pleasure finally surged through him in one devastating pulse. His mouth dropped open, head falling forward, body curling as he spilled into her with a choked moan, her name barely a whisper on his lips.

They stayed tangled like that for a moment, panting, wrecked, clinging to each other like gravity had doubled as the livestream kept going. Sweat clung to their skin. Her thighs twitched. His breath tickled her collarbone as he collapsed against her, still inside her, arms shaking as she ran her fingers through his hair.

Neither of them said it. But both of them felt it.

If time stopped now, it would’ve been enough.

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[bigbabygremlin]

OMG IV BEEN WAITING FOR THIS IM SO EXCITED TO READ THIS!!! I love everything that I have ever read from this person!!

[minkieater]

SHY — jwy & cs ⊹ ࣪ ˖

one date with someone else is all it took to realize you're in love with your roommates, wooyoung and san. but do they want you as much as they want each other? ⋆.˚

━ woosan x fem!reader, roommates/best friends to lovers, smut minors dni, 18+, consumption, mxm, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, threesome, don't wanna spoil anything so read at ur own risk! ━ wc 28.6k ━ happy almost cb day! this fic is my second & final installment of @everyonewooeverywhere ‘s fic exchange event, and a gift for my bestest friend in the world, love of my life @chimivx ᢉ𐭩 this is the best lie ive ever told, the best secret i've ever kept, i even stole your layout for it! you deserve the world my plum, and i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it ⋆˙⟡ ⋆.˚

“I think that dress is saying, ‘Take me back to your place,’ but the other one leaves more room for mystery, like maybe, ‘I could come home with you, but I might just be here for free dinner.’”

With your hands on your hips, you stared at your roommate, San, unimpressed. Curled up on your bed, he laid on his side, one palm holding up his head, the other on your puppy’s belly, rubbing it while your black lab laid there with his paws up, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

“Which one are you going for?” He asks after receiving nothing but silence in return, one knee bent up, the other extended straight along the length of your mattress, his foot near your pillows. 

A date with a shared friend of your two roommates, one you originally didn’t want to go on, but were now somewhat excited for. You haven’t been on a date in a while, which you didn’t think much of, but it seemed everyone and their mother was more than concerned for your love life than you were. You were content with San and Wooyoung, your two roommates, and your one year old black lab named Sweetie who was almost as big as you.

After fighting both San and Wooyoung’s attempts at convincing you to go out with Yunho for a week, you finally agreed, days into the follicular phase of your cycle, mere moments out of the month when you craved the touch of a man. Now, mid-ovulation, you weren’t completely sure where you wanted to end up tonight. 

You knew Yunho well. Being a friend of both San and Wooyoung, he was over your apartment all the time, with his shaggy brown hair, cozy clothes that made him look like a librarian, legs that stretched on forever. Sometimes you caught yourself staring at his veiny hands for a second longer than what was considered appropriate, but you never thought of Yunho as an actual option. 

When you came home after a long day of teaching, blabbing to San and Wooyoung how the other teachers at the studio teased you for being single yet again, telling you that you should at least go on dates, the pair took it upon themselves to find you a suitor. Silently, without your knowledge, they hooked you up with Yunho, one of the only other single people in their friend group. Your friend group.

“I guess the second one?” You tilted your head to the side in thought, turning to stare at yourself in the mirror again, a black dress that hugged your curves dangerously. “Maybe this is more club than it is dinner and drinks.”

“Try on the other one again,” San tilted his chin toward the brown dress you tossed on the chair in the corner of your room, the one usually tucked under your desk that held your two-monitor PC setup. Used mainly for The Sims 4. No one had to know that part, though, your set-up was sick. 

You whined, head falling backward, effectively giving up. Sweetie’s head picked up, and San’s amused smile grew as you trudged across your bedroom, crawling on your bed, sprawling yourself across your best friend who rolled on his back, opening his arms to welcome you in. 

San chuckled, your head tucked below his chin, vibrations bleeding through your skin. His body was so hard beneath you, so warm and inviting, you could happily stay here, buried into him forever. He turned his head, making room to press a kiss to the top of your head, “You’ll have fun, Yunho’s a great guy. He’ll treat you well.”

“What if I just want to cuddle and watch movies all night? Is it so bad to cancel now?” You mumbled, voice muffled by the cotton white tee he wore, one from the pack you bought him a month ago. His home uniform, a white tee that clung to his body like latex, and gray sweats that hung so low on his hips you wondered how they didn’t fall off sometimes. 

“Come on,” San ushered you upward, his chest pushing on your cheek until you pulled your arms under your body to lift yourself off of him. You pouted, he smiled, dimples joining the party on your bedspread. “If you don’t like him, you leave, no harm, no foul.”

“He’s your friend,” you whined again, bottom lip jutting out in the most exaggerated way. “Why did I agree to a set up with one of your friends?”

Just as San was about to protest that Yunho is one of your friends too, you heard the front door snap open, sneakers hitting the wall as he kicked them off his feet, you always heard him before you saw him. Yours and San’s heads turned to your opened bedroom door as Wooyoung yelled from the living room, “It’s date night!”

You sighed, sitting backward, legs tucked under you. Sweetie got up from where he snuggled against San and joined your pity party by laying across your lap, head nuzzling into your tummy. Like a reflex, you scratched your fingers along his back, on the top of his head, he pushed air through his nose in delight. 

Wooyoung ran into your bedroom, halting dramatically in your doorway, both hands propped up on the frame on either side of his head. His eyes danced between you, San and your dog, but they landed on San. “Why isn’t she ready?” Eyes sliding to you, “Why aren’t you ready?” 

“I don’t wanna go,” your head tipped back again, whining, “Sweetie doesn’t want me to go either, look at him, he’s so cozy. He wants me to stay home and cuddle with him.” 

Wooyoung’s lips flattened in a line, “You can’t cancel on him, Shy. He’ll be here in thirty minutes to pick you up, it’s rude if you cancel now. Get up, girl.”

Your top lip curled in distaste, you hated when he said your name like that, even if it was the nickname they both had for you. Really, it was San’s nickname, which was originally your mother’s, he picked it up when he was three, when your entire family called you their shy girl. The nickname had always stuck with him, even after moving away from your hometown and into the city that your family thankfully wouldn’t step foot in, even after almost a decade. When you met Wooyoung your junior year of college, he thought the nickname was so damn cute he started calling you Shy, too. 

Wooyoung moved to the center of your room, movements fluid, eyes dancing about the space like he was your fairy godmother. Picking up the brown dress thrown over your chair, he cheered, “Aha! I love this one on you.”

Sighing, you tapped on Sweetie’s head, a warning to him before you stood up. He crawled off your lap and back into San’s chest, settling in his side just like he had before you interrupted. You stood up off the bed, pulling your dress down your thighs, and Wooyoung grinned, eyes flaring, “That dress is an option? What, are you planning on fucking him?”

Eyes narrowing, you scowled at him, crossing the room to snatch the brown dress from his hands. In all black, jeans, tee and jacket, he wore his hat backwards on his head, hiding his short, cropped black hair. Rings adorned his fingers, silver necklaces on his neck, he and San so opposite it still made you laugh at how close the three of you are. 

You supposed you were the glue. To Wooyoung’s hotheaded, outspoken, free-bird self, San was more emotional, logical, he actually thought before he spoke, when his feelings didn’t cloud his mind. You were the perfect combination, spontaneous yet level-headed, in tune with your emotions, in tune with theirs, you were the ground they stood on, the final word in their decisions. Why did you need to go on this date when all you needed was in this room with you?

“No,” you bite, throwing the dress on the bed while you pull the one you already wore up and off your body. 

Woo laughed, sitting down on the chair he stole the dress from, “No? Your panties match your bra.”

“I just wanted to be prepared,” you throw the dress at him as soon as it's off your body and he catches it with one hand, eyes obviously drinking in your figure. Too close for comfort, that’s what the three of you were, roommates and best friends and an enigma no one around you can understand. 

When you turn to San, his eyes are on Sweetie before him, his fingers lightly scratching his head. Always polite, always considerate, you grabbed the brown dress you threw on the bed, forcing yourself to not recall the days where he wasn’t so respectful. 

“Did you shave? Be honest,” Wooyoung’s eyebrows raise as you step into the low cut, bodycon brown dress. You snort, walking towards him so he can zip it up your back. 

“I trimmed,” you answer simply, amusement dancing in your tone, pulling your hair to one side to give him access to the zipper. He straightens in the chair, one hand on your hip as the other tugs the chilly zipper up your back, he stands back up to reach the top. You turn to him, hair still grasped in your fist, brows raised as the thought crosses your mind, “Should I have shaved?” 

“Hell no,” San responds from the bed, eyes trained on you and Wooyoung standing feet away from him. “Yunho’s a man, like, a man. He doesn’t give a fuck if you have a bush or whatever.”

“You should have left the bush,” Wooyoung’s smile is swimming in his eyes too, half-joking, half-serious, “it’s like unwrapping a present on Christmas morning.” 

You peel away from him with a laugh as you stand before your full-length mirror, hands gliding down your body as you twist from side to side, head tilted to look at yourself from every angle. You look good, the color compliments your features, accentuates your curves just enough, you didn’t know if the heavy feeling in your gut was anxiety or if you didn’t feel confident or what. It’s been a long while since you’ve been on a date. You sigh, “I just feel like it’s too much.”

Wooyoung comes up behind you, one of his veiny hands on your waist, his cologne in your nose. Woody, notes of creamy sandalwood, spicy, you ease into his touch as he swings a pair of pumps around your front for you to look at through the mirror. You missed when he grabbed them from your closet. “You’ll feel better with these on,” his voice is low in your ear, velvety even if it wasn't intentional, “Your legs will look longer. He’ll wanna eat you from across the table instead of his food.”

You nod, swallowing, ridding your thoughts of all things incriminating about your roommate and best friend. He moves to crouch down on one knee in front of you, your heels on the floor beside him. San, on his stomach now, is beaming while he watches Wooyoung give you princess treatment as if your heart wasn’t reaching tachycardic level, “It’s like you’re Cinderella. Shinderella.”

Your brows scrunch as a punched laugh rushes from your chest, one palm holding the hat on Wooyoung’s head for leverage as you slip your foot into the deep maroon heel he’s holding out for you. “That was an awful joke, Sannie.”

“I liked it,” Wooyoung smiles up at you, sincerity in his eyes, all warmth and love as he grabs the other shoe, “You deserve to be treated like a princess, so if he doesn’t hold the door open for you, pull the chair out for you, if he doesn’t pay the bill, you come home straight to us.”

He stands up on two feet to lean forward, pressing a kiss to your freshly done hair, hands squeezing your shoulders, “Why does this lowkey feel like a big deal?” He turns around to look at San while your face flushes aggressively, “I feel like we’re giving her away.”

San snorts a laugh, tucking a muscled arm under his head to lay his cheek on, “She knows she’s ours at the end of the day.”

You roll your eyes, hands on your hips again as you turn to San, disagreement in your body language but in your heart you know it’s fucking true. Ever since you were little, you’ve looked up to San in a way, always taller than you, stronger than you, older than you. Even if it’s only by a year, you’ve always seen him as someone wiser, someone you could count on no matter what, if you needed him, he’d be there. Because of that you’ve always stuck by his side, never treading farther than arm’s reach, because as much as you were San’s, he was also yours. 

And he knew it in his bones, too. 

“It’s one date,” your voice is full of reassurance as you walk to your closet, pulling out your collection of bags, totes, purses, already having one in mind. Finally finding the tiny black Coach purse as you realize what you’d just said, you whip around to look at his dimpled-cheeks deep in the pocket of his elbow, purse tucked under your arm, “Why was I just about to convince you why I should go? This is getting very backwards.”

“Because you love us so much, you don’t want us to sit here all night, all sad because some six foot sexy man is taking you away from us,” Wooyoung’s voice is full of humor as he sits back on your bed, one leg tucked under him, one hand rubbing San’s exposed ankle. He sits up a little straighter, “You should still go, though. We won’t be that sad.”

With your features blown into offense, you scoff, “I’d expect you two to be crying, nervous wrecks while I’m gone. You’re telling me you’ll be fine and dandy while I’m off getting pounded by that same six foot sexy man?”

“Pounded?” Wooyoung and San answer at the same time, their eyes wide, eyebrows in their hairlines. San even picked his head up from the pocket of his elbow. 

You laugh loudly as you put your everyday purse on Wooyoung’s lap, transferring all your necessities into the tiny handbag. San sits up, crawling behind Wooyoung with his legs straddling the younger man’s back, “You’re really gonna fuck him?!”

“Do we need to have the talk?” Wooyoung blinks at you, face completely shocked, leaning back into San’s arms that wrapped around his front, “When was the last time you even had sex?”

“I’m twenty-eight years old, first of all.” You hold up two hands in front of you, palms flat, facing both men. “Second of all, I don’t know! Who knows? If the date goes super awesome-ly then I might end up in his bed, yeah.” You point a finger at Wooyoung, eyes narrowing, “Third of all, screw you. Two years, shut up.”

Wooyoung raises his arms in defense, lips tucked between his teeth to stop himself from giggling. San still looks surprised, cheeks pink, jaw slack and eyes wide, “I– I don’t know why I’m so shocked that you admitted that so easily.”

“You’re acting like I’ve never had a boyfriend before,” you close the clasp on your purse, “I may have not fucked in two years but I’ve fucked plenty.” Looking at Wooyoung again, you ask, “Can I wear your Chrome Hearts jacket? The leather one?”

Wooyoung nods with his face scrunched like it was no biggie before asking, “So are we expecting you home tonight or what?”

“Why are you being so adamant about this?” Your eyes bounce between them, lingering on San’s cheeks that deepen by the minute, “I don’t know yet, jeez. What time is it?”

San scrambles for his phone, “He’ll be here in ten.”

As if Yunho himself was in your bedroom with the three of you, the doorbell rang. Your eyes widen, “Shit, he’s early.”

“We’ll distract him,” Wooyoung grabs your waist to move you to the side as he stands, rushing out of your room to greet Yunho at the door. Sweetie jumps off the bed next, following him, probably thinking something exciting was happening, and San mimics the two as the third musketeer.

Your finishing touches, extra deodorant, more perfume for good luck, a little lip gloss, a few fluffs to your hair. You caught yourself in the mirror again before leaving, doing another three-sixty, viewing yourself from every angle possible without twisting into a pretzel. Scrunching your lips, you stare at your own face, something still didn’t feel right. You hated when your gut was telling you something, but didn’t say what it was.

The three are in the kitchen, four if you count Sweetie, mid-conversation as your heels announce your presence before you breathe a word. Meeting San’s eye and then Wooyoung’s, both stared at you in awe, affection sparkling in their dark eyes, like they’d never seen you so dressed up before. Sweetie is at Yunho’s feet, the six foot man crouched into a hunched-over ball, hands scratching the dog’s ears until he sees you. 

“Wow,” he stands, black slacks on his long legs, a cream-colored button up on his upper half, brown jacket thrown over his arm. Black hair styled and off his forehead, he looked clean, crisp, handsome. “You look beautiful.” 

Your face heats up, beaming as you say, “Thanks, you look handsome, too.”

Wooyoung giggles like a child, you snap your head to sneer at him, catching San who’s still staring at you fondly. They’re like your parents, chaperoning your first date like you’re a teenager. 

Wooyoung skirts around the kitchen island, “Your jacket, milady.”

Rolling your eyes, you smile apologetically at Yunho who looks amused as Wooyoung drapes the leather jacket over your shoulders. Yunho’s eye drops to the emblems on the sleeves as you slip your arms inside, the obvious Chrome Hearts crosses, the jacket Wooyoung paid an arm and a leg for. His eyes flicker before rising back to your gaze, face unreadable for a moment before he slaps the bright smile back on his cheeks. 

“Ready?” He asks after you pull your hair out from beneath the collar. 

Nodding, you murmur, “Yeah, ‘m ready.”

San and Wooyoung stay tucked into each other, watching like proud mothers as you wave your goodbye, wiggling your eyebrows. You blow a final kiss to Sweetie before you’re out the door, in the open air of an unforgiving February night, Yunho’s car parked directly next to yours. He opens the door for you, closes it behind you, and he’s in the driver’s seat in a flash. 

“How are you?” He asks as he clasps his seatbelt and immediately you’re filled with the ick of inevitable awkwardness. You hated small talk, you hated this feeling, of a new relationship budding, of not automatically being at the oversharing-because-I-can stage. 

But you respond politely, with a smile on your face that he couldn’t see through, all the way to the fucking restaurant. A nice place, moody lighting, an obvious date night spot. Your table is off to the side, against the beige-colored wall, more private than the center of the restaurant, thankfully. The air between you is a little more congenial by the time you’ve had a quarter of your fruity cocktail and there’s food placed at the center of the white tablecloth.

“I love my kids,” you shake your head, swallowing down a bite of the appetizer he ordered, “they’re all great kids, it’s the parents that make me want to rip my hair out.”

Yunho laughs, an easygoing thing, and you smile when it reaches your ears. “They’re all bad?”

“Not all of them,” you respond, words practiced, almost scripted, at the point in date talk where you were discussing what you do for a living. Next comes future talk, if this went anything like the dates you’ve been on in the past did. “Just the ones that nitpick everything I do, like they have any idea what they’re talking about.”

Yunho nods, “It’s like that at my job, too. But not with parents, with clients, the ones who talk about artwork like it means something to them. I know they just think it looks cool and they want it on their wall, but that’s enough, I mean, leave it at that. I understand not everyone is a connoisseur.”

Your grin widens, a giggle falling past your lips as you bring your glass up to catch it. You have to give it to him, he’s funny, but not as funny as Wooyoung. He doesn’t look at you the way San looks at you, either. 

By the time you’re halfway through your entree you know you aren’t going home with him. You could possibly see him again, depending on how the second half of your entree goes, but the need to see him naked on top of you isn’t quite there. A sweet guy, heart of gold, you know he’s a genuine friend, you’ve had plenty of conversations with him before at your apartment during gatherings to know enough about his nature. But romantically, sexually, there isn’t a spark in your veins, a sizzling to your blood, a dampening in your panties that makes you want more. 

He’s a great guy– but he’s not for you. 

“Can I ask you something?” Now a singular piece of chocolate cake between you accompanied by two silver forks, you nod as you dig the prongs into the triangular edge. 

“Your jacket,” he raises his perfectly trimmed brows to the leather that hangs off the back of your chair, “it’s Wooyoung’s?” 

“Definitely,” you nod furiously, without missing a beat, “you know him and Chrome Hearts are in a very serious, very committed relationship.” The smile Yunho gives you in response doesn’t completely reach his eyes. You pop a brow, “Why?” 

His fork dances around the plate, “I don’t know.” Setting it down softly, he leans back in the upholstered chair, “wearing his jacket on a first date, when he’s the one who set us up. I don’t know.” 

Your head tilts, heat flooding you, the nervous kind. Confusion bites at the corners of your eyes as you blink at him, “What do you mean?” 

“Can I be frank?” 

“I’m pretty sure you’re Yunho, but sure.” 

Amusement huffs from his nose, but he doesn’t exactly smile. “Is there anything going on between you?” 

You pause, mid-bite, cake millimeters from touching your tongue. Body going hot, your arm lowers slowly, “Between who?”

“Between you and Wooyoung. You and San. Both of them, I don’t know.” 

Your brows shoot upward, jaw dropping, “What the fuck?” Looking around, noticing the eyes on you, you cover your mouth with your hand. You didn’t realize the volume you cursed at— you mumble an I’m sorry sheepishly to the room around you. 

“I’m serious,” Yunho leans forward again, and his eyes are so genuine it throws you for a loop. You knew your friendship with the pair was closer than the typical, a little strange at times, with the flirting and the touching and the looks. You knew how you felt about your roommates, your best friends, how there’s a certain depth in the way they treat you, love and respect too raw to be faked, how it always makes your stomach pang with gratitude too deep to express. 

“No, Yunho.” You shake your head, fork landing on the small, ceramic plate. The words are short, not necessarily offended, but it’s clear the question didn’t sit well. Your relationship with the two men, both a third of your being, is completely platonic. 

Did it really seem like it wasn’t?

“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, eyes squeezed tight, regret oozing off of him. “I don’t know why I asked you that, I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you try to laugh to ease the tension, but it comes off demeaning. Yunho stiffens, hands coming up to dig the pads of his fingers into his eyes. “I’m serious, it’s fine. I know we’re a little closer than your average roommates, but we don’t fuck.” 

You could feel eyes in the room on you again, this time you ignore them. Yunho’s hands leave his face, eyes cracking open, words escaping from his lips too quickly to have been thought about first, “You never have? Not even with Sannie?” 

“Not even with Sannie, no. I haven’t seen him naked since we were seven, we’ve never once kissed, nothing.” 

Lies. Lies, lies, lies. You don’t know why they spill from your lips like a waterfall, like you had to defend yourself. Maybe you were trying to convince yourself more than Yunho. 

His brow pops like he asked the question just to receive your deception, “That’s not true.” 

Taking you by complete surprise, your heart plummets, sputtering, “O-okay, well—”

How did he know? He shouldn’t know about your times in college, Sannie throwing you around the mattress with a boy from your English class. Or the handful of times with the girl from your contemporary dance class. Or the times you’ve been each other’s New Year's Kiss, or the times you’ve messily made out in the corner of a frat house after he finished a keg-stand. It was all platonic, anyhow, so whittled down to ancient history it wasn’t even worth bringing up. 

“Why lie if you aren’t doing it still?” 

Your eyes widen. You don’t know why you lied. You weren’t expecting him to catch you in it. Your ears are on fire. 

“I’m not lying!” It comes out louder than intended, too defensive, too full of quickly found, nervous anger. If you were honest with yourself, you thought about ancient history often, you thought about what it would have been like with Wooyoung involved too, yours and San’s missing link. A line you haven’t crossed. You and San haven’t touched each other since you were twenty-one. 

But you still think about it. More than you should. 

You empty a much needed breath, one heavy and long. You ignore the stares of the people around you. You try not to let Yunho’s gaze be patronizing. You try not to feel the embarrassment radiating off of him. 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, head dropping down until your chin is tucked. “I don’t know where that came from.” 

“I do,” Yunho says quietly, almost shakily, like he’s scared of saying the words that follow. “You and them… you want it, don’t you?” 

“We’re just friends,” you nearly whisper, an unexplainable tightness in your chest. “Roommates,” you add, and it sounds like an insult. 

He lays an open palm on the table, and you pick your head up to meet his soft smile, eyes full of sadness, pity. You take his hand anyway. 

“You should really tell them how you feel so this doesn’t happen again.” 

How you feel? How you feel? 

You don’t even know how you feel. You have memories that linger, a soft spot for the two men you spend all your time with that was the size of a crater. You have touches, eyes, words you weren’t sure should mean more than they do. You have emotions, you have a fantasy you keep buried, you have a secret that would shatter you if it ever saw the light of day.

That line hung over your head the entire drive home. Yunho paid the bill, much to your dismay, you definitely didn’t give him the best date of his life, but your argument was cut short by the reminder that you had bigger fish to fry. You needed the brain power for the thoughts that’d keep you awake tonight, while your roommates were fast asleep in their rooms, unaware that you were pondering about the possibility of them ever being more. 

Yunho parked beside your car again. Turning towards you, keeping the car running, he said, “I won’t say anything about tonight.”

“Thanks,” you mutter in a breath, “I’m sorry again.” 

“Don’t be,” Yunho shakes his head, laying a hand on your thigh to squeeze it encouragingly, “I hope it works out for you.” 

Giving him a weak smile, you unbuckle your seatbelt and let yourself out of the car, the stupid fucking heels on your feet clacking against the pavement. “Drive safe,” you say before closing the door behind you, and Yunho nods with a warm smile. 

You face your apartment building with a pout. That could not have gone any fucking worse, and those two upstairs are going to do nothing but pester you for every single detail. Forcing a breath through your lips, you walk up the stone steps to your front door, bracing yourself for questions you can’t answer as you push it open. 

The apartment was quiet, lights dim, you slipped your heels off upon entering, dangling them from your fingers. Sweetie didn’t greet you, very unlike him, but maybe he was asleep at this hour— with the frenzy in your mind you didn't realize it wasn’t late at all. You took the corner around your foyer to reach the living room, and the sight before you had a shriek ripping from your chest, eyes blowing wide, heart positively dropping into your ass. 

On your living room couch, brown leather, wrinkled and weathered from years of use, was Wooyoung, shirtless, lip locked with a shirtless San beneath him. Bronzy, sculpted chests pressed together, veiny hands in dark hair, spit-stained lips messily tangled, Wooyoung’s toned hips were rutting against San’s before your shriek bursted their bubble. 

They broke apart like teenagers getting caught, Wooyoung so surprised he launched off of San’s lap and onto the fucking floor. “Shy!” San yelped, as shocked as you are, gaze panic-stricken as it bounced between you and Wooyoung, he stood up instinctively. 

Your insides felt like weeds. Tangled up, knotted together beyond belief, the air in your lungs was gone, there wasn’t enough oxygen in the closing room to fill them. You stared as Wooyoung blew his hair off his face, leaning back on his elbows on the floor, legs bent up and spread, denim unzipped, sporting a tent in the pocket of his undone fly. 

San was no better. Undeniably hard, droplets of wetness on his low hanging gray sweats, skin red and splotchy, glowing with a sheer sheen of sweat. His hair was fucked up, as was Wooyoung’s, sticking out in every direction, curled where fingers had been rooted. 

Wooyoung’s lips curled in a lazy grin, “You’re home early.” 

Your hands are shaking. You think if you take one step, your knees will buckle. This feels like betrayal. Your skin is fire-hot, body buzzing with confusion, shock, rage, hurt— you were out on a date they set up for you, while they were at home fucking?! Did they just want you out of the apartment for the night? How long have they been hooking up?

You can hear your heart pounding in your ears, you can feel every ounce of blood thrashing beneath your skin like your heart was the eye of a hurricane. 

Your vision blurs, words coming out short, “I-I don’t—” shaking your head, you move in the direction of your bedroom. Sweetie’s at your side, you don’t know where he even came from, you don’t have the heart to greet him. Under your breath you mutter, “I’m going to bed.” 

“Shy,” San calls after you, his voice strained. A little louder, a little harsher, he tries again, “Shy!”

You close your bedroom door and flatten your back against it, breath leaving you in tremors, palms shaky against the wood behind you. Sweetie is at your feet, dancing on his paws, whimpering for some form of attention from you, sensing all the emotion in your chest. 

You sink down until your ass meets the floor, eyes focused on nothing, hands mindlessly reaching for Sweetie as your brain replays everything you just saw. Wooyoung’s back arching his chest into San’s, San’s tongue slipping between Wooyoung’s lips, one hand on Wooyoung’s thigh while the other tugged at his hair. Wooyoung’s hips rolling against him, his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, a shakiness to his lean body that could only be perceived as need. This was not the first time they’ve done that. 

Your chin tilts upward as Sweetie licks your cheeks, you didn’t realize silent tears poured down them, dripping from your jaw. You couldn’t deny it now— everything Yunho insinuated, everything he said, how witnessing those two together made you feel. You wanted them. You wanted to be in the middle. You wanted their lips and hands on you just as much as you wanted to watch them touch each other. 

Fuck. 

You can’t pretend like your feelings don’t exist anymore. Half the reason you didn’t want to go tonight was because you wished they were taking you out, instead. You wished they begged you to stay home, with them, watching movies curled up on the couch, just to end up how they did without you. Without you. There wasn’t any room for you, they had a relationship on their own. They left you out of it. They set you up with someone else so they could have each other. 

It hurts like a knife to your gut. 

You can hear them whispering through the walls. You can’t make out a word, but they sound like they’re arguing, or debating. Then it’s quiet. 

Sweetie whimpers again. You pouted at him, his precious face seemed like it was pouting back at you. “It’s okay,” you reassure the puppy, hands cupping his face, scratching behind his ears, “I’m okay, I promise.” 

Wiping your tears, heaving a breath, you push yourself up, leaving your heels thrown beside the door where you dropped them. You tug the leather off your shoulders, hanging it in your closet— you didn’t have the heart to give it back to him right now, but it was too expensive to throw haphazardly on your gaming chair. 

After pulling out pajamas, you reached for your zipper, but you couldn’t reach it to get it down. You tried again, folding your arms behind you, fingers touching, zipper out of reach. You curse under your breath, shoulders strained, it hurt, your breathing picks up again in frustration. 

Sweetie jumps on your bed, watching you. It seemed he felt pity for you, too, sitting on his back legs, head tilted as watches how pathetic you looked— the tears bubbled up again. 

San knocks on your door twice. You know it’s him because the knocks are soft, gentle, Wooyoung would have just barged inside after a slew of obnoxious knocks of his knuckles. You didn’t want to see either of them right now. 

“Let me get your zipper.” 

Your arms unfold from your back, hands planting against the mattress beside Sweetie, head dropping as a defeated sob silently rips from your throat. The black lab’s nose nuzzles in your hair as you force the tears back in, back down, away. 

San opens the door without waiting for your response. You can’t see him eye the pair of heels on your floor, picking them up, placing them in front of your wide closet, you keep your eyes on the white comforter, laser focused on keeping your emotion locked up. On silent feet he comes up behind you, moving your hair out of the way, deft fingers slowly pulling your zipper down your back. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice is as soft as his movements, tender, like if he spoke the wrong word you’d crumble in his hands. You shake your head, sniffing. His sigh is light, apologetic, “We didn’t think you’d be home so early.” 

“It’s okay, I’m fine. The date just didn’t go as planned,” your voice is nasally from how much snot had formed in your sinuses. You wipe your nose with the back of your hand, standing up, turning to look at him. Still shirtless, skin still red and splotchy, the only difference now was that his face was filled with concern instead of shock. “I’m sorry I broke up your date night.” 

He shakes his head fervently, “You didn’t break up anything, Shygirl, what happened on your date? You didn’t like Yunho? Are you okay? Did he do anything—”

A sharp chuckle tumbles past your lips, you look off to the side, shaking your head. “I don’t wanna talk about it, I just wanna go to sleep.” 

You can feel the cool air of your bedroom on your bare back. You feel exposed, despite being naked in front of him so many times in your life, despite standing before him in a bra and underwear just hours earlier. You cross your arms over your chest. “Go back to Wooyoung.” 

His lips tighten, but he nods, eyes searching your face for something he can’t find. It’s clear he doesn’t know what to do. 

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” 

You nod, looking up at him just as another hot tear slips down your cheek. He raises a hand to cup your cheek, to wipe your tear away with his thumb, but you pull away. His eyes widen ever so slightly, you’ve never once pulled away from his touch. He doesn’t press it, instead he turns on his heel, leaving your room, closing the door behind him gently, knowing space was what you needed, even if he wished you needed him. 

You felt better in comfy clothes, curled up in your bed, Sweetie snoring softly beside you, his head basically on your pillow. You tried to focus on that, how his shiny black coat rose and fell with each breath, how he stayed by your side because he knew you needed comfort. Your brain was too muddled to pick apart each and every emotion you were feeling, there were too many, too blended together. 

But you definitely tried, for each hour you were supposed to be asleep. 

The studio is quiet.

Rehearsal finished for the night, all of your kids home by now, probably doing last-minute homework or showering before school tomorrow, you don’t know what you’re still doing here. The floors are mopped, the mirrors wiped down, the speaker is off and plugged in, your laptop and charger tucked away in your tote. Sitting on the floor of your studio, criss-cross-applesauce, you leaned back on your palms, chin tipped up to the ceiling. 

It’s been a week since you found out your two best friends, your roommates, the two people you now know you’re in love with, are in a relationship. You truly have no idea how you got away from their barrage of questions unscathed, the two men want to know every detail of your life on a regular Tuesday, let alone when you come home crying after a date. You put your deceptive shoes on, straightened your back, and blamed every single one of your tears on how sad you were about it not working out with Yunho. 

Truth was, you haven’t spared the date with Yunho a single thought since you came home to see them making out on the couch. Since then, it’s been a constant fight convincing yourself everything was fine. In reality, everything was fine, you’re healthy, you’re stable, you have a puppy at home that still pees a little out of excitement when you walk through the front door. 

You just couldn’t have what you wanted most, and you’re not a child anymore. Wooyoung and San seem so happy together, attached at the hip, pressing soft kisses to each other’s lips randomly, giggling at something the other said, so lovesick and ignorant to how shitty it all made you feel, you couldn’t be mad. You tried your hardest not to be upset. 

As if you’ve been onstage for a week now, it’s felt like seven days of constant performance. Wearing the mask, playing the part of a perfectly-okay-girl, not letting them peer inside to see your heart shredded beneath your ribs. There was still a part of you that was disappointed they couldn’t see through the charade, they knew you better than anyone else, too occupied with one another to make an effort in seeing the truth. 

“What are you still doing here?”

You picked your head up, wide-eyed as you glanced at Wooyoung in the doorway, holding a silver ring of multi-colored keys around his pointer finger. Gray sweats, hoodie on top, a black puffer layered over it, sneakers on his feet half-tied. His hair laid messy over his cheekbones, forced down flat beneath the deep red hood, the color compliments him. You think every color in his closet compliments him. 

“Hello? Shygirl?” He’s smiling now, taking a few steps inside the studio, eyes raking over your frozen form. He pushes the ring of keys inside the pocket of his puffer as he gets closer, bending down at the knees, the backs of his thighs tucked to his calves. 

“Just thinkin’,” you smile weakly, head rolling to the side, cheek landing on your shoulder. He’s so pretty, barefaced, skin clear and soft and beautiful. Shadowed beneath his hood he looks even more breathtaking, the hollows of his cheeks prominent, the freckle under his eye appearing darker. 

With a heavy breath he leans backward, landing on his ass, arms stretched out behind him, mimicking the same way you sat. His legs longer than yours, they straighten out in front of him, feet tangled between where yours sat strategically. Always close, never close enough. 

“About what?” He tilts his head. “Competition?”

Yeah, that sounds good enough. You nod and he begins his encouraging monologue all over again, softness in his tone, a determined edge of confidence, you’ve heard it all before. You didn’t care to listen to the details. 

“Okay, be serious, what’s up?” He reigns in his knees, wrapping his arms around them, leaning forward, brows furrowed. “You’ve been off all week, Shy. I know it’s not dance-related.”

You give him a weak, disappointed smile, shaking your head. The worst, shittiest excuse comes to mind, but you’d rather use any excuse than tell him why shrapnel floated through your blood, pieces of your heart that shattered beyond repair a week ago. “I’m just getting my period, I’m in my head, that’s all.”

He pouts, “You swear?”

You nod, eyes heavy, “I swear.”

It doesn’t even feel bad to lie. Maybe you’re tired of wearing the mask. Tired of feeling.

“Wanna dance with me?”

Your eyes flicker up to him, a question in your lifted brow. “Dance?”

His grin has turned mischievous, lopsided eyes thinning with the giddiness on his cheeks, he plants his palms on the floor to push himself up, throwing his puffer to the side as he walks to the speaker in the corner of the room. Turning it on, static catching as he plugged in his phone, he looked over his shoulder to ask, “What song?”

“Woo,” you shake your head, “I don’t want to–”

“Come on,” he looks back at his phone screen, you can only assume he’s scrolling through his liked songs on Spotify, “your endorphins are in jail right now, they need to be released.”

Your lips tighten, he leaves no room to argue. He never does. 

Ain't another woman that can take your spot, my…

He turns with the same feline grin as bass pounds through the room. He turned the volume up on the speaker, the building empty, no one lingering around to hear it. 

Your brows raise, a smile begging to curve your lips, “Justin Timberlake? Really?”

“Get up!” He yells, chest pumping to each beat, limbs fluid as his feet glide in your direction, “It’s just you and me, Shy-Shy. Come on.”

You push yourself up off the marley flooring reluctantly, and then you hear his voice. 

“If I wrote you a symphony, just to say how much you mean to me,” he grabs your hands as soon as you get your footing, a scowl on your face as he pulls you towards him, “If I told you you were beautiful, would you date me on the regular?”

You can’t fight the smile that creeps over your cheeks this time, letting him guide you to the center of the room, still fighting your instinct that begs your body to move to the beat of the song. Bodies facing the mirror that stretches from one wall to the other, he glides behind you, his right hand still over yours, freeing your left.

“I can see us holdin' hands, walkin' on the beach, our toes in the sand. I can see us on the country side, sittin' on the grass, layin' side by side,” still holding your hand, you sing with him as he guides you, his left hand on your hip. “You can be my baby, let me make you my lady, girl, you amaze me. Ain't gotta do nothin' crazy, see, all I want you to do is be my love.”

You’re giggling at first, moving with him, singing loudly in the studio, until he spins you around, two hands on your hips, holding you close. 

Ain't another woman that could take your spot, my love…

Your smile falters, lips parting as you stare up at him, breath stolen from your chest. His hoodie had fallen, leaving his hair visibly messy over his face, a smile so true, chocolate eyes holding half of your heart, you remember who he is. Jung Wooyoung, roommate, best friend, coworker, he’s so many things to you, but not yours. 

Is this some kind of sick joke?

Like he can read your thoughts, like he’s trying to make you forget, he twists you back around. Two hands on your hips, knees bent and legs spread, you follow suit, watching each other in the mirror. Your outfits look planned, your sweats baggy and low, hoodie tucked up, hair that was once in a bun now halfway spilling down your cheeks, you let your body flow. Allowing your mind to go blank, you let yourself feel the music, your hips sway with his, your movements clean, you dance together like you choreographed it. 

“There you go,” he’s grinning again, nodding, encouraging, “my love, my love, my love.”

Four minutes and thirty-six seconds feels like a lifetime, yet no time at all. You and Wooyoung, your bluetoothed brains, and Justin Timberlake in the studio nearing eleven at night, you ended the song out of breath, staring at each other from feet away, as if you’re twenty-five all over again when San had just opened the studio. Brain cleared, endorphins released, you did feel lighter– not better, but lighter, like Wooyoung reached into your mind and took the edge off himself. 

“Feel better?” He’s smiling, chest heaving, hands on his hips, one knee bent with the other holding his weight. 

You nod, tugging on your ponytail to free your hair, just to pull it up all over again. Walking toward him, you’re still out of breath, “We should have recorded that.”

“We can do it again,” he offers, “although I don’t think we’ll ever reach that level of synchronicity without choreography again.”

You laugh, a lighthearted thing, “No, I think that was the extent of our bluetooth abilities.”

He takes a step forward, throwing his arms out to wrap around you, pulling you into his chest, pressing a kiss into your forehead. “I missed dancing with you.”

He smells like home, woodsy, spicy, sweaty– you can’t help the way you drink him in, letting the smell of him calm something primal, something integral in your soul. 

Wooyoung is convinced you’re the only person in the world that can steal the breath from his lungs just by looking at him. Your arms wrapped around his torso, chin tucked into his chest, looking up at him with those big eyes he could get lost in, his breath catching in his throat is a verbal sound. He can feel the heat in the base of his spine, he settles into your touch as it spreads through him like wildfire, his heart picking up speed, pounding harder against his chest.

Holding you like this, wanting you like this, like he has since the day he first saw you– around a fire, in the backyard of a house party at Seonghwa’s place, sat next to San with a cute, shy little smile on your cheeks. He thought you were San’s girlfriend, he assumed it from the way you looked at each other, spoke to each other. Stars in your eyes, a soft, comforting tenderness in your voice that turned your words into song, Wooyoung thought he’d lost before he even entered the game.

But then he watched San leave your side for the pretty brunette from his dance class, the guy Wooyoung kept his eye on, taller than San, muscular, beautiful. Mere minutes went by before San kissed him, and even if San was shorter, smaller, Wooyoung watched as he dominated the kiss, hands in his hair, making the taller man cower for him. Obey him, even just in a kiss. 

Then you stood, sauntering over in your ripped denim that hugged your ass perfectly, one hand on San’s shoulder had him pulling away fully, dimples out in a smile, face flushed with a hazy, lustful stare. You talked, talked, and talked before San was grabbing you by the hand, the man following behind you both as you left. The three of you, together, you left together.

Wooyoung was left confused– aroused, curious, hopeful, but still so fucking confused. He asked around, Yeosang told him the nature of your relationship, that San’s known you forever, that you do that sometimes. Casually. You weren’t dating– but you fucked. Other people. Together. 

Wooyoung wanted to be next. 

He wanted you. He wanted San. He wanted both of you. Carnally. 

But that day never came. He formed a friendship with you easily, with San easily, the three of you becoming a trio that did everything together, but your hobby, your past-time after a party, never included him. In fact, it stopped altogether when Wooyoung became involved.

It’s not like he didn’t try, he’s flirty by nature, it comes as easily to him as breathing, but eventually he accepted that your relationship, your friendship, had taken root in something platonic. It bloomed into the best thing that’s ever happened to him, two people that love him fully, unconditionally, but by the time he moved into your shared apartment, he had to pluck the petals off the basis of his interest– his arousal, his want, his need, tucked away in his back pocket like it was never there to begin with. 

It became easy, over time, until San kissed him for the first time, restarting all the work he’s done, placing him back at square one. Three in the morning in the kitchen of the apartment, the only light over the sink, dimmed and low, San took Wooyoung by his cheeks and made him feel like San wanted him the whole time, too. 

And he did, Wooyoung learned. And he still wanted you. So did Wooyoung. 

“I missed it, too,” you whisper, your face too close, he has to swallow down his instinct, every fiber of his being that tells him to fucking kiss you. Dancing with you, it’s something the two of you used to do often when San first opened the studio, when you weren’t as busy, as successful as you are now. 

Sometimes San was included, in the corner of the room, correcting your form with a smile on his dimpled cheeks, amusement on his tongue, sometimes he was dancing with you, too. Late into the night, sometimes a few seltzers added into the mix, those nights Wooyoung could have sworn there was an understanding between the three of you, that there was a layer of arousal, of want, those nights Wooyoung prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that you’d repeat history with him. For him. The way you looked at him, the glint in your eye, even now, more often than not you looked at Wooyoung like you wanted him to pin you to the floor beneath you. 

For years that look has given him hope, that eventually something will happen, something will bloom between the three of you. It won’t just be him and San pining over you while they try to fill the gap with each other.

He hasn’t seen that look once since you caught him with San. You said you were fine, okay, that their relationship doesn’t bother you, that you’re happy for them– and there’s truth to it somewhere, Wooyoung assumes the truth is mixed into the lies, that you weren’t completely bullshitting him, the only reason they tried to set you up with Yunho is because they were convinced it’d never happen with you. They gave up. At least Yunho was a nice guy. 

His arms lift from your shoulders to push your hair away from your face, stray pieces that had fallen even if you’d just put it up, barefaced, maybe some mascara on your lashes, he’s stunned the way he always is. So beautiful it makes his stomach hurt, your skin soft in his palms, warm in such an inviting way, he doesn’t want to let go. His voice tumbles out small, “You’re so pretty, Shy.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. His eyes look so soft, a fond smile on his lips while his eyes glance at yours like he was going to kiss you, while he looks at you like he loves you, he does love you–  it’s different. It looks different. Chest turning tight, stomach doing a flip, your arms uncurl from around his waist, you break away from him quickly like he burned you, the loss of warmth hits hard even if you were the one who enforced it. “You shouldn’t do that,” your tone comes out harsher than you wanted it to, voice slightly broken, stressed. Panicked. 

Wooyoung’s brows furrow, “What? I- Shy.”

“It’s disrespectful,” you don’t know why you’re speaking, where this is coming from. Your throat is tight, heart pounding against your breastplate, you bring your hand up to lay where it’s bursting from your chest. “You can’t do things like that anymore, Woo,” you’re avoiding his eye, head shaking rapidly, voice panicked and wary beyond control, “not anymore.”

“I made her hate me because I couldn’t control myself.”

Wooyoung is pacing around San’s room, shirtless, his hair sticking out in every which way atop his head, oily after work, even more so from how many times he’s ran his hands through it. San, on his bed, also shirtless, briefs loose on his hips, wears furrowed brows and a solemn downcurve of his lips after hearing the story Wooyoung frantically woke him up to tell him. 

The younger man ripped his hoodie and his tee off his upper half upon entering the room, crawling onto San’s bed, shaking him awake. Eyes barely closed, he’d just fallen asleep, blinked awake upon the first shake of his shoulders, “Woo? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I think Shy hates me,” his face was red even in San’s dark room, brows furrowed and voice panicked in a way he hadn't heard in a long time. 

San sits up halfway, turning over to face Wooyoung, “What? No she doesn’t, what happened?”

“We were at the studio, we danced, I called her pretty and she freaked out,” Wooyoung sits back, his breaths quick and uneven between his words, he toys with his fingers in his lap, eyes wide, blinking rapidly. “She called me disrespectful, Sannie, she said I can’t do that anymore, I don’t know what happened San, I–”

“Baby,” San reaches to put a hand on his cheek, taking note of how hot he felt, “calm down, breathe. Don’t say anything, breathe with me for a few and then we can talk, okay?”

Wooyoung’s first breath is shaky, panicked, like he couldn’t suck down air fast enough, couldn’t get it deep enough. San sits up fully, pressing a hand onto his diaphragm, keeping the other soft on his cheek, “Breathe, baby.”

A few counted breaths until he sounded even, one singular hot tear rolling down his cheek onto San’s palm, the older man leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips. “No matter what, she doesn’t hate you, okay? Tell me what happened.”

Wooyoung takes another two breaths before speaking, telling him the story from the start. How you looked at him like you were offended, like he’d just done the worst thing in the world, how you didn’t speak to him the entire subway ride home. How when you walked inside the apartment you barely greeted Sweetie, instead you silently gave him a treat from the counter before bringing him to your room, closing the door behind you. You didn’t even look at him, like he wasn’t beside you the whole time. 

Mid-story he’d jumped off the bed, began pacing back and forth on San’s carpeted bedroom floor, speaking a mile a minute, each word edged with panic like he’d done something despicable. 

“She hates me,” he finally stood in the middle of the room, voice cracking, “I made her hate me because I couldn’t control myself.”

“No, Woo,” San shakes his head, voice soft and comforting, “knowing her, she thinks our dynamic changed. To her, we’re off-limits now, we can’t act the way we always have, can’t flirt and touch and do all the things that make us, us.”

He starts pacing again, hands running through his hair, tugging at his roots. San can barely see more than his shadow in his dark room, but he doesn’t need to see to know what look is on Wooyoung’s face, how his brows tie together, how he tucks his lips together, face splotched red. 

“I don’t want that!” Wooyoung keeps his voice a low cry, “I don’t want us to change. This isn’t what I wanted to happen, I want her to want us, I want her.”

“Come here,” San keeps his voice calm, steady. Wooyoung walks over, standing between San’s legs, one of his hands still in his hair. San leans forward, plants his palms on Wooyoung’s hips, “She has no idea how we feel about her, Woo. She’s trying to be fair, to keep her distance so she doesn’t hurt either of us. You know how her head works, baby.”

“What if she doesn’t forgive me?” The way his voice breaks is like a shot through San’s heart. But San knows you better, he knows your mind, knows your soul, he’s known you since you gained consciousness, he’s watched them form, learned you as you grew.

“There’s nothing to forgive you for, baby,” San whispers, tugging the younger man towards him, forcing his knees onto the bed, to bracket around his hips. He brings a hand up, petting his hair, sliding down to cup Wooyoung’s cheek, bringing him closer, “Everything is okay.”

Wooyoung presses his lips into San’s, hands landing on his broad shoulders, his body melting into San’s touch, finding comfort in his hard, broad body, his own sinking into him. Wooyoung’s hands travel to find his neck, his cheeks, deepening the kiss, his tongue poking out to slide into San’s mouth, still light, steady. 

Until San’s length twitches under Wooyoung, making the younger man smile into his mouth, “Yeah? Hard already?”

“Don’t tease me,” San is breathless, their lips still touching, “I’m supposed to be making you feel better.”

“Ah,” Wooyoung’s tone is still teasing, his grin spreading into a smirk, “I know how you can make me feel better.”

San snorts, head tipping back until he falls back onto the bed, letting Wooyoung crawl on top of him, his head tilting as Wooyoung leans his head down, pressing a kiss to one of San’s pecs, soft hands roaming his torso. Body shivering, San keeps his voice light, “Did you freak out just to fuck me? A ploy, huh?”

San can make the outline of Wooyoung’s scowl as he stares up at him, making San chuckle, Wooyoung bites down on his skin and he hisses. “I was stressed,” Wooyoung’s voice is sharp, “I still am stressed, but now I’m kinda horny and it’s your fault.”

San laughs again, hands coming up to tangle in Wooyoung’s hair, pulling him upward, “I’m sorry baby, I'll fix it for you, yeah?”

Thirty minutes rolling around in the sheets, keeping their voices quiet, their movements slow but not any less tantalizing, Wooyoung is filled, sated, skin sticky against San’s as he lays on the older man’s chest, dozing off to the sound of his heartbeat. 

Despite being woken up by Wooyoung, it’s harder for San to find sleep now, mind muddled with thoughts about you. Analyzing Wooyoung’s story, the details, how you looked at him– he wondered if there was a small chance you felt the same way towards them. 

While you were still in college, you and San had moments where lines blurred, he can still remember the nights where you brought someone home just to barely touch them. So wrapped up in each other, lost in pleasure, you almost forgot there was a third person there to play with. It didn’t just happen once, not even twice, it happened enough times to where you had to stop after the third person left angry and unsatisfied, an unsettling feeling floating around the room that neither of you had the balls to address. 

Always light, always casual, you explored pleasure together, different positions, different kinks, different dynamics for so long– he blamed those days on you two being young, horny, rabid animals, looking for a good fuck, a new skill to add to your arsenal. It was around the time you two met Wooyoung, San thinks, when that night happened, the last time you touched each other sexually. Still to this day, unspoken, swept beneath the rug. 

San sometimes wonders if the lines blurred sooner, he’s loved you since you were young, in high school even, it’s petrified him since he was a teenager to tell you how he feels. What if you don’t feel the same way? What if he told you, and your friendship ended? He couldn’t bear a life without you, he doesn’t know a life without you. 

Maybe he figured one day his feelings would dissipate into thin air, that he didn’t need you to love him back, that as long as he never told you, you’d still be friends. But then you fucked. And then you fucked again. And you kept fucking until San realized he’d never be satisfied with anyone else, that he needed you, he needed you to love him back, he needed to treat you how you deserved. 

 When you stared at him with wide eyes, crawled off the bed with shaky legs, retreating back to your room without a word, San almost laughed at himself. At his feelings. Because why would you ever love him back? He's watched you grow up, each phase, your best and your worst, that’s friend zone material, at least in his younger, twenty-something year old mind. 

But you never grew apart. And after the fucking stopped, the makeouts, the lazy hookups, the people you both thought were sexy and sought out together, it seemed to have added yet another layer of strength to your relationship. Vulnerability. A closeness you should never, ever have with a friend as close as you two are, it never ends well. 

Years later, still in the same boat. He still loves you the same. He still wants you the same. Somehow he got comfortable without the intimacy— or without the sexual aspect, he should say, because your relationship was full of intimacy. It never really bothered him, he never really yearned for more, until it was three in the morning and he had his fist wrapped around his cock with only you in his mind. 

Then he had Wooyoung, the sole person he’s entrusted with his feelings, sputtering words between Wooyoung’s tongue pushing between his lips, so obviously confessing feelings that he’s kept trapped inside for over a decade, just to find out Wooyoung feels the same way. That he’s also wanted you since he laid eyes on you. 

It was confusing, the lack of possession, of jealousy in his gut. He already knew he wanted Wooyoung, living with the younger man only made him love him more, their friendship was already blurring lines the day they met. For awhile San thought maybe you felt it too, that maybe you saw how Wooyoung looked at you, maybe you realized San had never started treating you differently. That he loved you, that Wooyoung loved you, and it wasn’t all platonic. 

He wonders if you love them back. If there’s even a small, microscopic part of you that wants them, more than friendship, more than sex, even. Not that he’d decline you if you proposed sleeping together. For a week now, your spark’s been gone, the twinkle in your big, doe eyes you wear like an accessory was replaced with something dull, something sad. You blamed it on the date with Yunho— but was that really the truth? You barely told them any details, you kept it vague, you even blamed that on not wanting to think about it, talk about it. 

As he settles into the mattress beneath Wooyoung, one arm curled up to hold his head close to his chest, he wonders if you’re asleep in the other room, dreaming of more, too. 

“It’s fine,” you smile weakly at Wooyoung whose head is burrowing into your chest like he’d crawl inside and make a home there if you let him. “I’m sorry I gave you the silent treatment, I just freaked out a little.”

His voice is muffled by your hoodie, your chest that his head was buried in, “Don’t apologize, please don’t apologize to me, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“Woo,” you forced out a chuckle, flexing your body on the old, brown leather couch that he was forcing you deeper into, “look at me.”

He picks his head up, his pretty, bronzy, bare face is littered by splotches of cherry. You ruffle his hair, smelling your shampoo, a blend of grapefruit and vanilla, “I’m not mad, it’s fine. Let’s just be done with it, put it past us, okay?”

Wooyoung pouts, but he nods, then lays back on your chest all over again. You groan, shifting your body to get comfortable under his weight, wondering how the fuck they were hooking up on this thing when you have to fight for your life to get comfortable on it.

“Sannie,” you shout into the open, living room air, “come get your boyfriend off of me!” 

Wooyoung gasps, picking his head up to shout towards the hallway, “Don’t! I’m exactly where I want to be.” 

Your head tips back in a laugh, knees bent up on either side of his body that’s dead weight on top of you, arms caging you in against the couch. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” 

“You’re warm, let me stay,” he nuzzles his head into your hoodie further, his voice a sated mumble. 

You smack your teeth, eyeing the pink princess blanket between your bodies, “You’re laying on top of the blanket and you don’t have clothes on.” 

Shirtless, briefs on his legs, he snickers, guilty as charged. “You’re the only heat I need, baby.” 

“Woo.” 

“Too soon?” He picks his head up, brows lifted and eyes apologetic, “I’m sorry.” 

San comes out of the hallway, fresh out of the shower, droplets of water sinking down his temples, onto his bare shoulders, his chest from his still-soaked hair. It makes your breath stutter in your chest the way it always does, he’s so effortlessly perfect it makes you miss touching him, feeling his soft skin beneath your fingers, sinking your nails into his strong, hard muscles. He smiles when he sees you, dimples prominent, he says nothing as he crosses the room with bare feet, nothing on his body but gray sweats on his legs. 

“Don’t you dare,” you warn, seeing the twinkle of mischief in his eye, how his grin turns from soft to playful. 

He ignores you by crawling onto the couch, shoving you into the back of it so he can take up the side, the couch just big enough to squeeze the three of you, only if San’s strength is on the outside to keep you boxed in.

You yelp as your body sinks into the couch, “San! I was comfortable.” 

“You’re only comfortable on the L part,” San quips, body nuzzling into yours, Wooyoung giggling from below you.  

“The chaise?” You snort, eyes flickering up to his that stare right back, “we’ve had two sectionals since we got this apartment, and you don’t know it’s called a chaise?” 

He giggles, “I don’t care what it’s called, I just know that you like it.” 

“And you only sit in the corner,” Wooyoung adds, his head sinking down to lay on your stomach. Your ankles cross over his back as his arms curl under yours, more comfortable now that you’re tangled, his arms taking pressure off your lower back. 

“Let’s stay like this forever,” San doesn’t give you time to answer, squeezing in closer, pushing you and Wooyoung further to the back of the couch. He smells like his bodywash, sweet and soft, you would stay forever if you could. 

Your voice comes out strangled under the pressure of his body, “We’re gonna have to, because soon I’ll be dead. You’re gonna kill me if you keep pushing me into the couch, Sannie.” 

“I just want to keep you here,” he pouts, squishing his face closer until his nose presses against your cheek, “if I let you go, you’ll run away.” 

His wet hair bleeds into the pillow, quickly spreading to where your head lays, it brushes against the side of your head the closer he gets, it’s cold. You squirm, “Your hair is freezing, Sannie, holy shit, there’s too much happening right now.” 

San whines, but he rolls off the couch, landing on one steady foot, standing up. You suck in a breath, but your pillow’s already soiled, you frown. He grins. 

“I’m going to the studio,” he says swiftly, “come with me, I have a few things to do before the day starts.”

You groan, lip lifting in protest, “I don’t have a rehearsal ‘til six.”

“Lucky,” Wooyoung mumbles, “Mine’s at four.”

“I know when yours is,” you mumble back, “I was gonna enjoy my alone time.”

“Freak,” San teases, a smile playing on his lips, amused at what he insinuated.

Wooyoung’s laugh is loud, piercing through the room, “That was a good one.”

Your brows raise, deadpanning, “And what if you’re right, hm? What then?”

They both turn to look at you, faces serious, both silently asking really?

It’s your turn to laugh, head tipping back into the pillow, and they both groan, San walking away, Wooyoung pushing off of you. It makes you laugh harder, talking through it, “Come on, that was a good one, you should have seen your faces.”

“Are you seriously not gonna come?” San, brows raised, asks from the entry to the hallway. “We can stop for food on the way, the three of us can hangout before everyone else shows up.”

You make a show of shaking your head back and forth, “I have shit to do here before work.”

Wooyoung smacks his teeth, “Like what? Laundry?”

You flatten your lips, “Have you seen the mountain of clothes in my room?”

San snorts, disappearing into the hallway, and Wooyoung finally climbs off the couch, “Fine, do your laundry, but I know you’ll miss us.”

“I’ll miss you so bad,” you’re wearing a smile now, watching him with lazy eyes as he follows behind San into the hallway, disappearing into the shadow of the walls. 

Your smile falters, settling, before a frown takes its place. Soon enough, probably sooner than you think, you’re sure you won’t be able to do this anymore– spend so much time with them, cuddle with them, live with them, eventually they’ll grow sick of you, they’ll only want each other. 

There’s already no room for you in their relationship, and with time, you’re sure the space they’ve carved out for you will dwindle to nothing. Looking across the room, you find Sweetie sunbathing beneath the window, his head politely tucked over his paws, the sun casting a shiny glow over his black coat, the sight makes you smile. You call him over and immediately he’s jumping onto the couch, laying on you where Wooyoung had just been, replacing the warmth he’d ripped away. 

“At least I have you,” you whisper, smiling, fingers scratching under his ears. 

“Yunho!” Wooyoung all but whispers, his loud voice carrying down the aisle, perking his tall friends’ ears. The older man whips his head around in confusion, smiling when he sees Wooyoung and San, giving them a small wave before walking down the aisle to greet them properly.

Stopping in a mid-sized corner store, the halfway point between the studio and home, San made good on his promise to pick up food on the way into work; Wooyoung was already giddy before seeing Yunho, this corner store was his favorite, it sold his favorite energy drink. 

“Whatsup?” Yunho’s grin is wide as he clasps the hand of both men, pulling them both into a hug, landing a smack on their backs. “You guys going to Steer on Friday? I heard it’s got a weird industrial, mechanical vibe to it, I don’t know. Joong seems pretty hype about it.”

San and Wooyoung both nod, but it’s San who answers, “Yeah, yeah, we wouldn’t miss it.”

“Sounds weird, though,” Wooyoung adds, “do you know if the drinks are cheap?”

“Three bucks a beer,” Yunho’s tongue pokes out from between his teeth, nodding, and the three men erupt into what can only be described as men-turned-pelicans finding an endless pit of fish to feed on. 

They’re all smiles and laughter until Yunho asks if you’re going, which sparks the two men’s memory, Wooyoung and San’s backs standing a little straighter, entering Shy-defense-mode.

“I…” San begins, then turns to Wooyoung.

Wooyoung, already staring at him, blinks, then turns to Yunho, “Maybe?” He gives it a second, then blurts, “Can I just ask what happened between you two?” 

San’s lips tighten, head falling until his chin tucks into his chest. They shouldn’t have asked, Wooyoung shouldn’t have asked, but he can’t help his curiosity– he wants to know, too. They haven’t gotten anything besides vague answers from you. 

Yunho’s eyes widened, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. It makes San curious, too curious for his own good, he adds, “We won’t say anything, she just won’t tell us anything, and we’re worried about her, y’know?”

Yunho’s chin tilts in defense, brows flattening, “I didn’t– it was just–”

“We’re not accusing you of anything bad,” Wooyoung waves his hands out in front of him, eyes wide, chucking nervously. “Shy said you were really great to her, it just didn’t work out, or something. She cried for like an entire day after and wouldn’t tell us any more details.”

San frowns with remembrance, how you shut yourself away and wouldn’t let them in, figuratively and literally. When Wooyoung’s hand falls to his side, San grabs it, giving him an encouraging squeeze, the two meeting eyes with small, fond smiles painted on their cheeks. Yunho’s eyes lock on the action, on their smiles, confusion morphing his features, everything scrunching together at once.

“What?” San asks, “Was everything okay? You’re both being so ominous about it.”

Yunho’s eyes flicker upward, meeting San’s, spouting, “Are you guys together?”

“Us?” San asks, surprised, eyes wide and brows high. 

San and Wooyoung share a look, then reluctantly, they nod. Wooyoung smiles, “Yeah, we’re together.”

“Like, just the two of you?” Yunho has a finger pointed, dancing between the two of them. 

San’s head turns in question, “Yes?”

Yunho’s jaw drops, nodding slowly, then with a pitched, disbelieving tone, he mumbles, “No shit.”

“I know,” San nods with a knowing smile, thinking he’s got all of Yunho’s thoughts figured out. “Long time coming, though.”

“It’s been like, a little over a week of us being together officially,” Wooyoung adds, his grin proud and wide, “but it’s been good so far. We’re happy.”

“Does she know?” Yunho asks, his face quickly settling back into confusion. 

Wooyoung’s lips purse, “Yeah, she knows. Why?”

Yunho nods slowly again like he’s thinking, then shakes his head quickly when Wooyoung’s question settles. “No reason, just wondering. Anyways, I’ve really gotta run, I’ve got this thing that I’m already late to and… art, and you know, yeah. Bye.”

“Wait, you didn’t–”

“Sorry guys, see you Friday though, yeah?” Yunho gives them a brief smile, then scurries down the aisle like Wooyoung and San were about to put the plague in his palms. 

Wooyoung and San stand there for a second, brows furrowed, heads tilted, before they look at each other utterly dumbfounded. Wooyoung points down the aisle, “Was that homophobic?” 

San, still confused, responds, “Perhaps.”

“Hm,” Wooyoung’s eyes thin, “could’ve sworn him and Mingi fucked before.”

“I thought so too,” San squeezes his hand again, “who cares? We can snitch on him Friday.”

Wooyoung’s grin returns, laughing loud enough for the whole bodega to hear, “Imagine Hongjoong’s face.”

“Hongjoong would beat the shit out of him with one hand, Naoya style.”

The more San thinks about it, the more he thinks Yunho might not actually be homophobic at all. 

“Don’t call me schizophrenic.”

Wooyoung snorts, “Are you about to say something that will make me think you’re schizophrenic?”

“Maybe,” San responds, lips scrunched. Sitting at the receptionist desk at the front of the studio, the final piece of San’s thought process clicked into place when you brushed past them into your studio for rehearsal. “I think Shy might love us back.”

Wooyoung, sitting fully on the desk beside San, wears a white tank on his upper half, exposing the tattoo on his forearm, black sweats on his lower, hiding each inch of bronzy, toned muscle. He’s housing a granola bar, his knees spread, back hunched, brows raised as he watches San think. 

“That interaction with Yunho was kinda weird,” San begins, leaning back into the rolling computer chair, hands lazily thrown at the center of his spread thighs. In all black, his clothes look painted on, tee clinging to his chest, his arms, his torso, sweats exposing the breadth of his thighs. 

“We knew this already,” Wooyoung nods, sticking out his free hand in a rolling motion, “let’s skip to the Shy part.”

“What if she was crying the whole day after her date with Yunho because of us?” His eyes flicker up to look at Wooyoung, who only raises a brow. “What if she didn’t work out with Yunho because she wants us, and she told Yunho all about it?”

“Why would she even go on the date then?”

San deadpans, “Did she want to even go on that date?”

Wooyoung slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes widening, “Oh my god, she definitely did not want to go on that date. What if she didn’t work out with Yunho because she wants us, and she told Yunho all about it?”

San rolls his eyes, and then literally rolls the chair away from Wooyoung who tips his head back in laughter. “I’m sorry, come back,” he says through his laughter, “please? I’ll stop, I’m sorry. It just sounds like we’re grasping for straws here.”

“Why else would Yunho be so weird about us being together?” San continues, rolling the chair until he’s between Wooyoung’s spread legs, he lays both palms on his knees. “And when he asked ‘just the two of you’? Come on, he basically told us the whole damn story.”

Wooyoung holds onto his granola bar with two hands, eyes closing as he terribly sings, “Just the two of us… We can make it if we try, just the two of us…”

“Listen to me, Wooyoung. I’m being serious.”

It seems to lock him back in, Wooyoung meeting San’s eye, his back straightening a little. San’s lips perk upward, his groin opening an eye at the easy display of submission– not the time. 

“Okay, fine. But I do think you’re a little insane and grasping for straws.”

San smacks his teeth, “I’ll prove it to you, then.”

“Yeah?” Wooyoung cracks a smile, “How are you gonna do that? That night in the studio set us back, like, five years.”

“You don’t know her like I know her,” San sits back in the computer chair again, smirk crawling its way onto his cheeks, his arms crossing over his chest. 

Wooyoung scowls, “Are you flexing on me right now?”

“No!” San shakes his head, “I’m just saying, I think I could get her to crack if she does want us back.”

“And why would you do it any better than I could?” Wooyoung’s voice is sharper, “I wanted her to begin with, you know.”

“And I was fucking her before you ever laid eyes on her,” San responds in the same tone, “don’t get cocky with me, not when it comes to this.”

Wooyoung’s brows raise, back arching ever so slightly at the tone of San’s voice. There’s amusement playing in his words as he says, “Wow, never thought I’d see the day you get possessive.”

“With you, there’s no reason to, it’s not a competition,” San shrugs, “besides right now. You struck a nerve.”

Wooyoung smiles, hopping down from the desk to place a fat kiss on San’s lips, “You love me.”

San’s dimples are on display in a smile as he lifts his arms to grab Wooyoung by his cheeks, leaning up off the chair to kiss the younger man again, “That I do.”

“You’re really gonna try?” Wooyoung asks again, leaning against the counter, his legs crossed between San’s as he takes another bite of his granola bar. “Even after my studio debacle with her?”

San nods, “I’m optimistic about it, I know, but I really do think I’m right.”

San learned to enjoy cooking before he learned to enjoy being in the gym. Him and his mother in the kitchen, teaching him recipes she’s carried through her years learned from her own mother, to recipes he’s learned from cookbooks and the internet that fall within the strict guidelines of his diet. 

It turned from sustainability to passion— cooking became a love language before he knew it, and the main reason is because he’s always loved cooking for you most. More so since the two of you moved in together, even more so when Wooyoung moved in, too. Cooking for the three of you, to eat at the kitchen table, on the couch, even if he was dropping off plates to you in your bedrooms… San loved it. Adored it. 

For you to enjoy something he made for you warmed his blood until it sizzled with affection, to know he was making a good, hearty, healthy meal to nourish you, he never thought cooking, of all things, would make him realize how deeply he’s in love. 

It’s a constant reminder every time his bare feet touch the tiled floor of the kitchen that he loves you, that he loves Wooyoung. Tonight it feels stronger, but maybe that’s the two glasses of wine and his pink cheeks talking. The way you’re dancing about the kitchen, twirling in nothing but a big tee, singing along to the song playing from the speaker you keep in the kitchen— the confession is laying right below his skin, on the tip of his tongue, begging to be set free. After his realization, a bubble of hope so big you could pop it with a fingernail, he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep it in. 

You’re laughing at something he said, his tipsy mind doesn’t even know what it was, but your laugh is so loud and so involuntary it squeezes the life out of his lungs. He wants to pick you up and put you on the counter, his hands on your perfect thighs as your ankles hook around his back, he wants to kiss you. He wants to feel you laugh into his mouth. He misses you. 

“I don’t want to talk about me at eighteen,” you shake your head, still giggling. Your hair is in a bun atop your head, messy, pieces hanging out like you tied it without looking in the mirror. Barefaced, no pants, no bra, this is his favorite version of you, the one that doesn’t care, the one that’s perfectly comfortable being in your own skin.

“Why not? I loved you at eighteen, too,” San turns back around before his cock begins stirring in his pants— he stirs the pot on the stove, instead. 

You come up behind him, on your tippy toes to place your chin on his shoulder. Still smiling, teeth stained with a faint, deep red, “Yeah? You loved me, huh?”

San knows it’s the wine talking, you’d never be so bold otherwise. He doesn’t even think you’re being serious. But, being himself, his brows dance above his eyes as he says, “Of course I did, I still love you.” 

You roll your eyes, smile faltering for just a second before it returns with vengeance, “I thought you meant you loved me, you goof.” 

Should he just say it? Should he? His back straightens a little. Uneasy, voice a little shaky, he tries, “I did, I had a– a huge crush on you when we were eighteen.” 

Your eyes blow wide, spinning around next to him to press your back up against the counter, palms folding around the edge. Surprised, but a little disbelieving, your jaw drops, “No way.” 

“I’m serious!” I still have it to this day. “When you dated that one guy— fuck, what was his name?” 

“Mark.” 

“Mark, that’s it. When you dated him senior year, I was so mad, I can remember being at graduation and being so fucking jealous that you were kissing him for pictures.” 

You gasped out a laugh, mortified, shocked, stomach dropping with what you could have had, “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was I supposed to say?” San steps to the side, half of his body taking up all of yours. He pretends like he doesn’t notice how small you are beneath his body. “‘Hey Shy, I know we’ve known each other all our lives, but in the past few years I’ve actually formed a gigantic huge crush on you. Sorry if it ruins the friendship.’”

“Exactly that, yes,” you’re laughing again, nodding, head tilting to the side as you look up at him with those fucking eyes. He loves them, so big and full of knowledge, experience, maturity and grace that is only expressed in the most you way. In a quieter voice, like you’re afraid to say it, you mumble, “I guess that explains college then, huh?”

There’s a pit in his stomach, one full of gasoline, and you just dropped a lit match down his throat without even realizing it. 

“There’s a lot that could explain college,” San smirks, one dimple arriving at the scene, moving so he’s fully standing in front of you, caging you in between himself and the counter. He presses his hands into the ledge, voice teasing, light and airy, “Like how we wanted each other, and were using a third person as an excuse?” 

Your smile falters, eyes widening. You swallow, San watches as your throat bobs, breath turning shallow, chest rising and falling beneath your tee. He can’t help the way his smirk grows, liquid confidence and too much optimism making his arm raise to brush a thumb over your cheek, reveling in how you twitch under his touch, eyelids fluttering. He remembers this body like it was his own, how you react to him, what gets your panties wet, what makes your toes fucking curl. He wants to show you how much he remembers you. 

“Are you guys talking about college again?” 

You gasp loudly, jumping, body slithering out of San’s clutch and into the open floorplan of the kitchen, all in a few quick, panic-driven movements. With a hand clutched over your heart, you’re out of breath, “Fuck, Woo, you scared me.” 

“I could feel the jealousy simmering in my bones, I knew you had to be talking about college,” he’s leaning against the archway, playful smirk on his lips, golden skin gleaming beneath the warm light of the kitchen. Shirtless, body on display, an ankle crossed over the other with a pair of baggy basketball shorts on… fuck Wooyoung for interrupting him, but fuck, San might actually get hard with the both of you half-dressed. 

You roll your eyes, taking two steps before you press your back against the other side of the counter, using your palms to lift you up over the edge. Exactly how San wants you, how he imagined you, his breath catches in his throat. He turns back around instead of dwelling on it. 

“Shut up, Woo,” he hears you mumble, “those days have long ended. Should’ve met us earlier.” 

Wooyoung whines, uncurling his arms from his chest to walk further into the kitchen, stopping in front of you with his palms pressed to your knees, “What, you don’t miss it, Shybaby? Not even a little?” 

San turns the knob on the stove until the flame lowers to a small flicker, stirring the roux in the pot. He turns his head halfway, side-eyeing Wooyoung whose back is slightly arched as he stares up into you, hands now planted against the edge of the counter on either side of your thighs, so confident, not a shred of insecurity in him. San wonders how he’s managed a complete one-eighty from the night he woke him up to freak out. Maybe he’s really making this a competition. 

You stiffen, eyes widening. Tipsy, but not drunk enough to admit something like that.  A nervous laugh stutters from your lips, “I— What? Like I said, that ship has sailed. Those days are over. The baton has been passed to you, Woo.” 

You use one hand on Wooyoung’s bare shoulder and the other pressed to the countertop to haul yourself off of it, landing swiftly on bare feet. Scrambling out of the kitchen towards the living room, you call over your shoulder, “Let me know when dinner’s ready, I’m gonna lay down, the wine went straight to my head, I think.” 

Wooyoung waits a moment before he turns to stare at San, eyebrows flat. San tightens his lips, an insult in his eyes, whispering, “Why did you interrupt?”

Wooyoung crosses the kitchen, his voice a sharp whisper, “I thought you already did it. Do you know how it looked from over there?”

Leaving the roux, he leans up against the counter, arms crossing, “We would have been making out by now if you didn’t interrupt.”

“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung whines, “it’s fine, just try again.”

San covers his face with his hands, “You know what?” His hands lay on his boyfriend’s shoulders, “What I just did will hit its mark, maybe if you try next, we can get the point across without having to actually say it. Then she will come to us.”

“If I try then she won’t have to come to us,” a cocky grin spreads across the younger man’s face, “it’ll be game-point. You’ll come home to find us fucking.”

San’s lips thin, but he doesn’t respond. At this point he doesn’t care how it happens, as long as it happens. 

You thought the wine had left your system hours ago, after the meal Sannie made you, especially after a movie on the couch. The wine is the only explanation for your insides feeling warm and gooey— not the fact that across the hall, you could hear the squeaking of the mattress, the bedframe hitting the wall repeatedly, strangled moans leaving two men’s lips that you could tell they were trying to keep inside. 

Sweetie slept on his bed on your floor, head buried in the gray plush, waking up every few minutes or so from an especially loud moan or a shrill bang of wood against wall. Even your fucking dog was losing sleep. 

You’ve never heard them before, not once. Not once. Why tonight, after having both of their hands on you, their eyes staring into you, after the question Wooyoung asked? Do you miss it? The fear that zapped up on your spine was so intense you needed to lay down and close your fucking eyes. 

Confusing as much as it was scary, Wooyoung speaks of jealousy, but asks you if you miss fucking his boyfriend? Was it a kink to them? Is that why they’re fucking now?

They get off on other people wanting them… Wanting each other… That had to be it. The jealousy aspect, of reclaiming one another, and they used you to do it of all people?! It’s worse than mean, it’s worse than rude, it’s cruel. Cruel to dangle their relationship in front of your face after flirting with you— even if flirting with you is all they’ve ever done. 

You can remember meeting Wooyoung for the first time, sitting with him in a smoke circle, laughing your heart out when only three or four words had left his mouth. You ended up in tears, cheeks aching, lungs empty and dry, by the time everyone up and left and it was only the two of you left, he’d come onto you. Your first time meeting, even if he said he took notice of you far earlier, around that same smoke circle.

You can’t remember why you’d said no, how you rejected him. You had a feeling, maybe, that your relationship with him would grow far deeper than one night spent together in a cloud of hazy lust. Still to this day you remember that ache, laughing so hard you nearly gagged, eyes locked in on him, waiting for the next hilarious thing to leave his lips. It became routine, the next time you saw him out, the time Sannie introduced you to him when you already knew each other, when your name fell from his lips for the first time, Wooyoung has always, always looked at you with a certain look in his eye— like he was waiting for the smile to kiss your cheeks, for the laugh to fall from your lips. 

You don’t remember exactly when your duo with San had turned to three. Wooyoung only moved in two years ago, but you’ve been close for years now, since that night around the smoke circle, passing three joints amongst nine people. 

Maybe you were meant to become friends with him so he could end up with San, so the two of them could knock their headboard against your fucking wall and remind you that you’d never be on the inside. 

It felt sour. 

Yet for some reason, the hurt laying low in your tummy swam with the heat, the desire, curling into a pit of fire-hot pressure you couldn’t ignore. You’d already pushed the sheets off your body, already tugged your shirt up, desperate for air. You tried a pillow over your head, squeezing cotton against your ears. You went on your phone, scrolled Twitter, watched a few TikToks, tried your favorite ASMRtist. 

Laying low in the background was them. Endless. San’s low grunts, Wooyoung’s pitched whines, they poured through the thin wall separating your rooms, surrounding you like wildfire. They were everywhere, in the air, on your skin, in your sheets, but the ache curled low, settling into nothingness because you could hear the pleasure but were feeling none of it. 

You gasped as you heard it— one singular line gritted through San’s teeth, “Yeah? Gonna be good for me?”

You bent your knees up, head tipping back into the sheets, eyes squeezing shut. Your fingertips tapped against the bed, pushing a heavy sigh through pursed lips. That voice, his tone, the actions that accompany it, your memories are your personal hell. You could see them, Sannie bending Wooyoung in half, a foot planted on the bed as he drilled into him. 

Then Wooyoung whimpered, “Yes, please. So good for you— I’ll be good, please, fuck me Sannie—”

Your lips parted, a shaky breath slipping through. Your body was steaming, ears straining to listen to every last fucking detail even if you didn’t want to hear any of it. Even if it hurt, you needed it like water, like air, so badly you wanted to get up out of bed and walk in there. 

“That’s it,” San grunted, you could see the sweat beading between his pecs, “stay down, don’t fucking move.”

You bit your lip as your hands traveled to your thighs. Nails scraping against your skin, your nipples pebbled against the open air of your room, shame and embarrassment twisting with the rest of everything curling in your gut. Arousal, jealousy, rage, nostalgia, shame, hurt— you needed your panties off. It felt unethical, you should put on headphones, you should leave, you should do anything but dip two fingers into your panties. 

You moaned as your fingers made contact with your clit. Immediately you clamped a hand over your mouth, back arching into your own touch, ignoring the flame of shame completely as your eyes fluttered closed. You eased yourself into the pleasure, breath picking up as Wooyoung’s moans grew louder, the smack of San’s hips landing harder. 

Your other hand sank down to toy with a nipple while your fingers circled your clit in tight, rhythmic movements, eyelids twitching as their pleasure became your own. Timing your movements with theirs, lips parting when a moan sank through drywall, you let your mind drift, placing yourself in the fantasy. 

Laying up against Sannie’s chest, Wooyoung between your thighs. On top of Wooyoung, hips circling his as Sannie pushed up against your back, hands on your chest, one sinking down to rub circles on your clit. Sitting on Sannie’s lap just like Wooyoung had the night you caught him, chests pressed together, hands in hair, hips mindlessly rutting together, Wooyoung on your back as if you really were between them that night. 

The movie played in color in your mind, so vivid, like it was happening— with noise melting walls, it felt real. Lost in the pleasure, in the fantasy, you didn’t realize their volume had lowered, that their movements slowed. 

“Sannie, stop, stop,” Wooyoung splayed a hand behind him, head perked up, face still twisted in pleasure, but his lips stayed parted like he couldn’t believe his ears. 

“What?” Concerned, San had two palms on Wooyoung’s hips, pausing immediately, “Are you okay? What's wrong?” 

“Listen,” Wooyoung whispered, like if he spoke too loud, you’d hear him. That you’d stop. 

San’s brows furrowed, lips parting to question, but then he heard it. Small, faint whimpers, and then a moan— a genuine, raw, unbridled fucking moan, yours. He recognized it, he knows it, he’s forced it out of your lips, his hips grind into Wooyoung’s warmth out of instinct.

Wooyoung’s head dropped, arm bending until his elbow hit the mattress, a low moan spilling from his lips as his arm slipped between his thighs, tugging on his length. His voice comes out low, ragged, “I can’t believe this.”

“Fuck,” San cursed low, long, hips picking up again, slow but steady, quiet enough to hear your sounds float through the wall. “She– I–, Woo.” 

“Yes,” Wooyoung whispered, moaned, hips fucking back onto San’s length in a nasty, slow grind, “wish she was in here, sh- it, want her hands on me.” 

San’s fingertips squeezed into the plush of Wooyoung’s ass, face scrunching together in pleasure, a silent moan leaving his slacked jaw. The shock, the debrief would have to come later.

“You— you wanna fuck her while I fuck you? Hm?” 

Wooyoung arched deeper, fisting his length faster, picking up speed all over again, drowning out your noise. San wasn’t faring much better, hips stuttering into Wooyoung, one hand sliding up to claw fingers into his boyfriend’s back. 

“Yes, Sannie,” Wooyoung cried, “just like that, don’t— don’t stop, don’t stop, ‘m close.” 

San’s eyes stayed locked onto where the two met, watching how Wooyoung’s ass rippled with each harsh thrust of his cock, the end approaching too fucking fast. 

A few more thrusts until he was hunched over, drooling onto Wooyoung’s back as he filled him up, Wooyoung’s release spilling all over the comforter beneath them. They didn’t even get as far as undoing the sheets. 

Dinner, a few glasses of wine, a movie with too much touching, Wooyoung was already dirty talking San before they opened up the bedroom door. Cocky smirk on his pretty lips, head tilted, eyes sparkling, teasing him about you— oh, he was begging to get fucked. San’s been overly careful of your presence for awhile now, never too loud, keeping Wooyoung’s mouth on a tight leash when you’re home. 

But Wooyoung pushed each and every button tonight, all concerning you. How he’d fuck you better, how you’d crack when he tried, how he’d treat you better than San, San put one hand around his throat and the rest unfolded in a mess of teeth, tongue and lube. To hear you through the wall, getting off to them, was the cherry on top. They needed to do something, now. 

San ripped the comforter off the bed and crawled beneath the sheet, not caring if Wooyoung spilled into them as he settled over San’s chest, their breath still heavy, hearts still pounding.

“You seriously think she was getting off to us?” San asked Wooyoung, brows raised in innocence, in fear of what he thought to be true, being false. He kept his voice low, a small whisper.

Wooyoung, fully out of breath, chest still heaving and soaked in sweat, laughed. A hearty chuckle, he ran a hand through his hair, smile lingering, “Yes, baby. Bet she’s in there nervous as hell that we heard her.” 

You sat up in your bed, chest heaving, eyes wide, right hand still shaky. Fuck. There’s no way they heard you, right? Too wrapped up in each other, they were loud, there’s no way they heard you over the sound of themselves. You looked over to Sweetie in panic, only easing when you saw his head still tucked into his half-torn bed, eyes closed, breathing even. 

If Sweetie wasn’t bothered, then they definitely didn’t hear you. 

You lay flat against your bed, mind whirling, so fucking confused because that was so hot but it wasn’t right. Masturbating to the sound of your two roommates, two best friends who were in a relationship fucking, it wasn’t morally correct, that you knew before your fingers slipped into your panties. Post-nut clarity seeping in, you’re met with regret, guilt, and the urge to give up. 

Reminding yourself was painful– they don’t want you, they want each other. There’s no room for you in their relationship. 

Maybe you’ll go with them to that fuckass bar tomorrow. Maybe Yunho will be there. Nothing could be worse than living with this. 

San and Wooyoung had enough. 

The morning after the multi-room sex debacle, you pretended like nothing happened. They supposed that to you, nothing did happen, you had no idea they heard you, and they weren’t going to say anything, either. You’d die of embarrassment if they brought it up, and they’ve come to the conclusion that it wouldn't be the best start of a blooming relationship. They at least thought you would question it, question them. But you didn’t. 

Their patience was running thin. 

The bar was loud, pop music floating through the space, a newer bar with an industrial look to it that left everything open. The ceilings showed the pipes, the walls looked to be something like steel, the decor had a very factory-mechanical vibe to it that they couldn’t quite explain– but the drinks were cheap and the music was good. With all of your friends here, they didn’t care much, anyhow, their main focus was that you wanted to be here, you wanted to blow off steam, let loose and let go after a hectic week. 

They wondered how much of that excuse had to do with them. 

You stood at the bar, one foot propped up on the exposed pipe lying at the base, tapping Wooyoung’s credit card against the bar. San leaned into him, their shoulders touching, both of their eyes locked in on you, watching like they always did. God forbid they took their eyes off of you. 

“You guys are gonna go cross-eyed if you keep staring,” Seonghwa muttered from across the circular table, settled in the booth beside his boyfriend, Hongjoong. 

“How could we not stare?” Wooyoung was quick to answer. “Have you seen her?” 

“I thought you guys were together now,” Hongjoong’s brows furrowed, eyes bouncing between Wooyoung and San, fingers tapping against his glass, his draft beer halfway gone by now. 

“We are,” San shrugged, “just trying to get her with us, too.”

Wooyoung snorted, “That’s one way to put it.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jongho interrupted, leaning forward between Mingi and Yeosang, separating the couple. “You’re trying to be in… what, a throuple?”

“Yeah,” San and Wooyoung answered at the same time, like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

“Actually, I’m not even going to question it,” Yeosang shook his head, bringing the straw in his fruity cocktail up to his lips. “San’s always had a thing for her.”

Mingi leans forward, a smile on his pink lips, agreeing with his boyfriend immediately, “Right? I thought you guys would end up together, or really, I kinda thought you were secretly together this whole time.”

San’s cheeks, already pink, must have turned four shades darker. He didn’t have time to answer though, Hongjoong cutting in immediately, “Sounds messy. Does she know you want her?”

Wooyoung’s lips tighten as he shakes his head, “Don’t know, maybe.”

“Didn’t she just go on a date with Yunho?” Jongho asks, one of his brows popped. 

San sighs, “That was before we knew she was interested in us, if she is.”

“She is interested in you?” Mingi looks completely confused.

“See?” Hongjoong shakes his head. “Messy.”

Wooyoung nudges San with his elbow, speak of the fucking devil, grabbing his boyfriend’s attention to watch Yunho approaching you at the bar, a pitstop on his way back from the bathroom. Immediately there’s a fire in his gut, jealousy spreading like wildfire to each nerve ending in his body, it doesn’t help that Yunho looks hot tonight. Baggy cargos on his legs, tight tee on his torso, oversized button down hanging loose off his shoulders, fuck him. Why is he approaching you like the two of you are friendly or something?

Last they heard, you didn’t want him, you wanted them. So why is Yunho talking to you like he’s hitting on you? Why is your hand on his forearm? What could he possibly be saying that makes your head tip back in laughter? Yunho isn’t even that funny. 

There’s discomfort lining San’s eyebrows as he watches you lean into Yunho, seeming almost instinctive. He knows that look in your eye, the exact grin on your cheeks, what you’re insinuating even if he can’t hear a word falling from your glossy lips. He takes a slow breath, calming his heart rate before his mind warps what he sees into something completely different. 

Yunho’s his friend. If his hypothesis is correct, he knows how you feel about them, how they feel about you, wait– did they even tell Yunho how they feel about you? San’s eyes widen in panic as he turns to Wooyoung who already looks like he’s settled in his decision, jealousy in the hinge of his clenched jaw, his fingers mindlessly swirling the straw in his drink. 

San thinks they’re speaking around him, he can’t hear, he chooses not to listen. He watches as you lean forward, whispering something in Yunho’s ear. His chest feels heavy as Yunho looks down at the floor like he’s hiding flushed cheeks, an easy smile on his lips, body leaning closer to you as if San and Wooyoung weren’t sitting ten feet away. 

They’ve had enough. 

You were already smiling as Yunho approached you, having watched him make the few last steps to where you stood. “Hey stranger.”

“Hey,” he leans against the bar, “getting another drink?”

You flashed Wooyoung’s black card, a smirk on your cheeks, “Getting as many as I can stomach tonight.”

Yunho smacks his teeth, “Rough week?”

“You have no idea,” you say through an exhausted breath, “and you? Drinking tonight? I’m sure Woo won’t notice if I add another beer to his tab.”

Yunho’s eyes dance from the table back to you, “Oh, he’ll notice.”

“Trust me,” your lips scrunch together, disappointment on your face, “he won’t. He’s too focused on San.”

“They’re together?” Yunho lifts a brow, “like, together together?”

“Mhm,” you nod, tongue poking your cheek. “New development in the saga, I guess. Not a good one.”

“I’m sorry,” Yunho frowns, “I did not expect that.”

You’re still nodding until a sigh is pulled from your lungs, “It does leave me single, though, like super single…” Your eyes flicker up to him, blinking through heavy lashes.

Yunho snorts, “Yeah? Were you not super single before?”

You laugh, a breathy little thing, leaning closer to him, a hand mindlessly landing on his forearm. “I was, but there was hope before. Now there’s nothing, like super confirmed, nothing.”

“Super,” Yunho nods, laughter still playing on his lips like he was fighting it back. It leaves you both giggling like kids, a hand covering your mouth as your head tips back. 

He looks pretty tonight, you realize. Undone, casual, like he didn’t put in too much effort. Baggy clothes on his body, hair a little disheveled, he looked comfortable. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol in your system or the last bit of sanity you were clinging on to, but he looked… Different. Good, really good. 

“Are you still super single?” The question slips from your lips before you can think about it. 

Yunho’s brows raise, surprised, they quirk immediately after, confused. His eyes fly to the table, landing there for a moment before sliding back to you, “Oh,” he blinks, “oh. Yes, yeah, I’m still single.”

“Good,” you nod, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, feeling the heat you were so desperately missing the night you went out on your date. You needed something, a good fuck, a drunk hookup, something to distract you from how fucking miserable you felt. Hopeless was the better word, after coming to the sound of them fucking you’d never felt more pathetic in your life, you needed change, something, anything. 

“Do… you have plans after this?” Yunho’s face looked innocent, of all things. Like he wasn’t sure if he should be asking the question, the implication behind it, even though he seemed to see straight through you, what you needed.

The smirk that crawled onto your cheeks was anything but innocent. “Nope, completely free.”

“Good,” Yunho nodded, his smile a little more confident now. “Fuck the black card, let me buy you a drink.”

Your brows raised, a laugh falling past your lips as both your hands shoot up in defense, “Be my guest. You deserve a do-over.”

“No I do not,” he says through a laugh, “but you deserve to have some fun.”

You roll your eyes, snorting a laugh, “Please, we both know that date was not good.”

Yunho’s head turns back to the table again before taking your place leaning over the bar, ignoring your comment but definitely not denying it, “I’ll get us a round of shots.”

And he did– vodka, bitter and hot, it burnt your chest the entire way down. But it went down easy with the liquor already pooling in your gut, body warm enough to begin with. 

He bought you something fruity afterward, rum and juice, it tasted like candy— easy to sip on, easy to chug if need be. You stuck around the bar instead of heading back to the table, eyeing the dance floor on the other side of the bar, in easy conversation with Yunho who seemed like he had no intentions of heading back to the table, either. 

“Do you want to dance?” His eyes flicker to you, brows raised like he couldn’t quite gauge whether or not you’d say yes. 

“You know I teach dance for a living, right?” Your lips quirk on one side, “Of course I want to dance.”

“I can’t say I’m a great dancer,” Yunho admits, lips tightened in a line. “I sell art, there’s nothing fluid about walking around a gallery all day.”

You laugh, grabbing him by the wrist, tugging him towards the music that gets louder with each step. “Follow my lead,” you say simply, mind finally feeling fucking free, “I’ll give you a free lesson.”

He trails behind you with a silly smile until you enter the crowd of people, it was busy over here, you realized. The bar wasn’t too crowded, the other side of the building consisted of booths and tables for those who… didn’t want to have a good time, you guessed. Talking, catching up, the first awkward half of a date, maybe. 

You loved bars that had dance floors. Clubs, weddings, anywhere that there was a space dedicated to people letting loose, allowing their bodies to move as they pleased, to feel music in their blood. It was your favorite, even if you danced for a living, this was different– no choreography, no rules, there was nothing in your mind to keep you structured. You could let yourself feel, move the way your body allowed, you didn’t have to worry what anyone else thought. 

With liquor in your system, that freedom is amplified by a thousand. Dancing before Yunho, you quickly realize he lied about having two left feet, his smile is just as careless as yours as his body moves to the beat of the song, matching your rhythm perfectly. Hips swaying in tandem, arms flowing in the space around you, you’re giggling before you know it, a smile branded onto your cheeks. 

Until you turn your head and see that Wooyoung and San have joined you. 

San’s arms over Wooyoung’s shoulders, they danced close, hips touching, swaying together as one. They were smiling at you– or pretending to be, the first thing you noticed was how their grins didn’t reach their ears. An alarm bell sounds in your head, confused, concerned, you want to ask what’s wrong, your body stops moving as the thoughts pile in. 

Wooyoung, unaffected by your lack of movement, wiggles free from San’s grip. “Let’s switch!” He’s smiling, yelling over the music, “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

Your brows furrow as Wooyoung shimmies between you and Yunho, his arms gliding swiftly over Yunho’s shoulders shamelessly, dark hair glowing under the pink, neon light, shaking with each sway of his body. 

You turn your head to San who seems like he’s taking a moment to process, then he pulls you into him by your wrist, other hand landing on your hip, your back to his chest. You start moving out of instinct, hips swaying, but your brows stay furrowed. 

Turning your head halfway, you ask, “What’s going on?”

San presses his lips into your cheek, dimples out to play with the smile he gives you. This one seems more real, it eases the panic in your chest ever so slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I–” Your head turns back to Wooyoung, who has his cheek pressed to Yunho’s, saying something into his ear. “Are you guys okay?”

“Of course,” San’s palms hug your hips, pulling you flush to him, the feeling of him behind you sends heat up your spine. Immediately you’re brought back to the other night, the sounds leaving his lips, the mental picture you came up with, your hand between your legs. With his voice dripped in honey, he asks, “Are you okay, Shygirl?”

You’re nodding, body sinking into him, heat pulsing through your core, up your spine. His body feels so strong behind you, muscular arms on your hips, rocking you so sensually it throws your head for a spin. This movement brings back memories, ones that haunt you, ones you miss so fucking much. 

You nod weakly, your voice a small squeak, “Yup, ‘m fine.”

He chuckles, cheeks pink, burying his head into your neck. You’re so close you could be considered one, it’s too close, it’s disrespectful, but you can’t bring yourself to let go. Yunho is right in front of you, expecting a night with you, he knows how you feel about San, about Wooyoung, and here you are falling into a haze, repeating old mistakes. 

A third hand to one side of your waist, a fourth to the other. When you look up, Yunho is gone. Wooyoung stands before you with a cocky, lopsided smile on his lips, hips pressing into your front, falling into rhythm with you and San easily. He looks so pretty with pink cast onto his face, so bronzy even under neon light, his dark clothes sinking into the shadows.

“Where’s Yunho?” You ask, hands finding Wooyoung’s shoulders like it was instinct. 

He takes the opportunity to come closer, the three of you molding together, the smell of both of them in your nose, the strength of them boxing you in. It feels so fucking good, it feels wrong, you don’t want them to let go, you want to stay here, dancing with them all night. 

“Bathroom,” Wooyoung shrugs, thumbs caressing your sides. “Who cares?”

“Woo,” you whine, making a show of pouting, but it isn’t real. You don’t care. 

“What?” His grin spreads wider, voice light and playful like he was proving his innocence, “The only thing that matters is you and us, right here. Nothing else.”

You couldn’t argue with him, not that you ever do. There’s nothing left inside you to make a rebuttal, anyway, there’s so you curl your fingers into the nape of his neck, spread your legs to allow one of theirs to slot through, and sway your hips like you were born to do it. Head falling back onto San’s shoulder, a lazy grin makes its way to your cheeks as you move with them, staring at Wooyoung over your nose, he looks at you like he’d do anything to drink you in. 

He’s always looked at you this way, but there was something different about the longing glint in his eye, how his tongue slowly swipes over his lips like he’s hungry. Maybe it was knowing your own feelings playing a part, if it was anyone else you’d think they wanted to fuck you, but it’s Wooyoung. You can feel San at your back, the dirty grind of his hips against your ass, it’s been so long since you’ve been with them like this– dancing, liquor involved, too close for comfort, questioning if your relationship was as platonic as you thought it was. 

Years. You haven’t touched San in years. You think back to Wooyoung asking if you missed it– you know you do, you miss it so fucking much, but was there a chance that Wooyoung wanted you to miss it? That he wanted to repeat history, this time with him involved, like all the times you’ve dreamt about? You almost groan, head tipping forward, heat spreading through your body at the thought of them wanting you like you want them. 

“What are you thinking about, baby?” Wooyoung asks, his voice low, loud enough for you to hear. His face is so close you could feel his breath on your face; minty, like he was drinking a mojito, or took a shot of Rumplemintz. His smile is feline, eyes knowing as if your skull was transparent, like he just wanted to hear the words from your lips. 

“I,” you take a breath, the admission sits on your tongue. “I’m not thinking.”

You can’t do it. To make yourself so vulnerable, so susceptible to rejection, you couldn’t do it. 

Wooyoung leans in, soft, warm cheek pressed to yours, lips ghosting your ear, “You’re lying.”

San is on your other side, keeping himself close, his nose dancing along the shell of your ear, making you shiver. He keeps his voice just as low, sounding like an aphrodisiac, “Tell us, baby, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hm?”

Your heartbeat quickens, pressure below your skin, they’re too close, boxing you in, there’s a pit in your core like an itch you can’t fucking scratch and they’re dangling relief in front of your eyes, out of reach. Your jaw clenches, words fighting to push through, your fingers tangle into Wooyoung’s hair at the nape of his neck, nails grazing against skin– he hisses into your ear, fingers tightening around your waist like it’s all he could do to stop himself from pressing into you. 

“Fuck, Woo,” you mutter under your breath, marvelling at the sound, how it makes your stomach do a flip. The floor feels charged, tension spreading from your ankles to your spine, your words spill out before you can think twice about them, “did you like that?” 

You can feel electricity prickling your scalp at your own question, but he answers it with a quick-spreading smirk brushing over your ear, “Is it okay if I did?” Your eyes widen as he pulls away from you, keeping your faces so close your noses are almost touching. His eyes stay locked on yours and you can see the desperation changing the shape of his face. He asks again, “What if I asked you to do it again?” 

It’s so wrong. They’re together, they’re a couple, there’s no fucking room for you. But what if there’s a chance that there is?

Yet your fingers tighten in his hair, gripping at his roots harder than before and his head falls back, strong jaw on display, the curvature of his nose, jugular beckoning your lips forward. The music disappears as a tight sound leaves his lips, the rest of the bar fades away as his hips buck into yours, you’re left in awe, dumbfounded, the heat in your core unbearable. 

“He likes it a little rough,” San whispers into your ear, voice rough, edged with dominance. His teeth dragging over your earlobe, tongue following, “You’re gonna make him hard, baby.”

“S-shit,” you manage to get out, body twitching, sinking into San behind you whose hands slide under the hem of your top at your hips, palms hot and callused against your skin. Involuntarily your hips push forward, into Wooyoung, your mind so fuzzy and confused but you’re so fucking horny all you can ask is, “What are you doing?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Wooyoung asks, voice playful again, his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb sliding over your skin, searing the trail he leaves behind. “You’re smart, use that big brain.”

“Kiss him,” San whispers in your ear, then plants a kiss right below it, using his tongue to seal the spot. You shiver, a whimper leaving your lips, brows tying together. You’re confused, you don’t have time to be, you don’t want to question it anymore.

You want to kiss him, you’ve never kissed Wooyoung once in your life. You’ve longed to know what he tastes like, how he uses his pretty lips, if his tongue can do all the things you’ve imagined it to. Your eyes drop down as he wets his lips again, so glossy and inviting, you bite your lip as his curve into another smile. 

“You want to,” San’s lips drop to your neck, talking against your skin, “I know you want to, don’t deprive yourself, baby.”

You do want to, it’s a dream, your biggest fantasy coming to life. Your hands slide from the nape of Wooyoung’s cheek to cradle his jaw, Wooyoung’s flared eyes give you the green light, you blink once, twice, ignoring everything in your mind that tells you no as you lean in and press your lips to his. His hands cup your cheeks immediately, lips moving with yours, exploratory and relieving all at once, his tongue slips into your mouth like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it, no time to waste. San keeps his hands on your waist, groaning into your skin as he watches you, attaching his lips to your neck, kissing, sucking, licking over the marks he leaves behind. 

There’s a leg between yours, you think it’s Wooyoung’s, maybe San’s, but your hips grind against it with each lick of his tongue into your mouth. It feels like heaven, or worse, mind so dazed and confused and horny but so at peace with this being everything you’ve ever imagined and more, you can’t get enough. You kiss him faster, rougher, arms wrapping around his neck, tongue searching his mouth like you need to embed the taste of him into your bones, he tastes sweet. Minty like this breath, a bitter note of alcohol on his tongue, your hands fall from his cheeks to his chest, sliding down to the hem of his shirt to tuck your hands beneath it. 

Oh, he’s warm, his body feels like it looks, harsh and unforgiving, delicious. Like he could throw you around if he wanted to, you hope he wants to, unless it’s San who does the throwing– San. 

San. 

You break away from Wooyoung with low lidded eyes and he’s staring at you like you hung the stars in the fucking sky. Eyes glossy, lips swollen, you pull away and immediately he’s following, searching for more. 

You turn your head and San’s already waiting for it, palm splaying over your cheek to pull you into him hastily, lips molding against yours like nostalgia was a sentiment created by the two of you. Like coming home, his tongue slots between your lips, teeth clamping over your bottom lip, tugging on it, you whine into his mouth, back arching into his chest. You needed more. 

“Do you want us?” He asks into your mouth, breathless. You nod, and he clicks his tongue, “Words, Shy. Tell me you want it.”

“I want it, I’ve wanted it for so long,” you’re quick to admit, breathless yourself, voice raw, honest. “So, so fucking long, Sannie.”

Wooyoung grabs your face by your cheeks, stealing your attention, forcing you to face him so he can explore your mouth again, San breaking away from your back. You barely notice the loss of heat, melting into Wooyoung, chest pressed into his, hands in his hair, meeting his intentions with your own. He breaks away to peck you once,  out of breath, pupils dilated, “We’ve wanted you for even longer.”

Your breath stutters, weak in the knees, you can’t process his words, you’d put it on a checklist for later. Voice cracking, wrecked before you’d even begun, you muttered, “Let’s go home.”

You felt bad for the driver with the way you sat on San’s lap the whole drive home, switching between him and Wooyoung like you were trying to figure out who was the better kisser. Truth was, you just couldn’t get enough of them, San’s kiss was a part of your being, his touch was instilled in you, familiar to the point of not wanting to ever let go. Wooyoung was new, fresh, but an itch to a scratch, a relief you’ve ached for far too long, he was addicting, like you couldn’t stop if you tried. 

Sweetie is jumping at you when you walk through the threshold and the three of you bend down to pet him like you’ve never seen a dog before, like they weren’t just ready to strip you in the backseat of a minivan. Liquor still coursing through you, you’re all talking in high pitched voices, making his tail wag, he couldn’t choose which of you to give his attention to. After treats you’re in your room, tying your hair up, and naturally, the two men follow you. 

San makes himself at home on your bed, still in his jeans, jacket still thrown over his shoulders, he leans back on his elbows, eyeing you over the tip of his nose as you meander about your bedroom, maybe stalling, maybe thinking. Maybe you just made all of that up. Maybe you didn't even kiss in the club and you should be diagnosed with schizophrenia. 

“Shy.”

Wooyoung stands in the doorway, arms crossed, smirking. 

You look between them, jacket halfway off, heart picking up speed all over again, “What?” “Oh my god, I love you,” Wooyoung’s smiling as he unfolds his arms, crossing the room, meeting you at your back. He pulls the jacket from your shoulders carefully, pressing his lips to your temple, “We want you, baby.”

Your eyes find San’s on your bed, he sits in a cloud of arousal, still sporting the tent in his jeans. Wooyoung presses his lips to your neck, hands landing on your hips, sliding up your waist, over your chest, your breath catches in your throat, head tilting to let him explore, back leaning into his hold to let him do as he pleases.

“I know it’s been two years,” San stands from the bed, walking towards you in three long steps, slipping his fingers through the belt loops on your jeans. He tugs your hips into him, arching you off of Wooyoung, making your breath catch. The grin that spreads across his cheeks is all arrogance, “But did you really think you weren’t getting fucked the moment we walked through the door?”

Your body ignites in a way you haven’t felt in years. You whisper, “I did, I– I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He presses his forehead against yours, voice soft like velvet, invading your space again with his fingers uncurling from your belt loops to play with the hem of your jeans, two fingers pinching the button of your fly. 

Wooyoung moves to your ear, biting the shell of it, not soft enough to hurt, but enough to make you suck in a harsh breath. He plays with your top, sliding it upward, knuckles cold against your skin, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

You whine, sinking into Wooyoung, reaching for San’s shirt. You want them to fuck you, god, you want them both, you’ll take anything they give you. You can barely get out a small, broken, “Yes.”

Accomplishment is bright on San’s face as he unbuttons your jeans with ease, Wooyoung pulls away to flip your shirt over your head, the two moving in such quick motions you begin thinking they’ve been waiting for this, too. San helps you step out of your jeans before attaching your lips and it’s more than hungry, he’s starving with the way he tries to devour you, swallow you whole as he turns you both around, unclasping your bra as he walks you to your bed. 

You fall flat against your mattress with a squeak, feeling bare before them like this, standing above you like vultures. You’ve been here before with San, it feels like seeing an old friend again; but with Wooyoung, there’s a spark of unfamiliarity, it’s been years since you’ve opened up to someone new.

“Holy shit,” Wooyoung groans, dark hair messy around his face, deepening the shadows of his structured face. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Shy.”

You burn, heat spreading through you, knees closing, “You’ve seen me before, Woo.”

He catches your knees, spreading them as San kneels onto the bed beside you, watching Wooyoung as his eyes sink between your legs. “Not like this, do you even know how fucking wet you are?”

Your hips twitch with the way he holds you open, already searching for more. Wooyoung continues, eyes glossed over, stuck at your center like it was treasure, “Fuck, baby, you’re soakin’ through your panties.”

“For you,” you breathe out, “taste it.”

His eyes snap up to yours, smile tugging at the corner of his lips, amused. “Yeah? That what you want?” 

You nod, “Yes, Woo, wanna feel your mouth, wanted it for so long.”

His eyes slide to San’s with a smirk and the older man meets his stare with a short, cocky, “Told you.”

Wooyoung’s hands curl under your knees, pulling your ass to the edge of the bed before he pulls your panties down your legs, throwing them somewhere on the floor, “Didn’t tell me she was impatient.”

“I am,” you’re quick to admit, shameless and desperate, “I’ve been.”

He smiles again, lifting one leg and pressing his lips to your ankle, keeping his eyes on yours as he sinks down to his knees. Slow kisses up your calf, your inner thigh, his tongue leaves a trail, your breath hitches in your throat as he breaks away just to tug his shirt over his head by the collar. 

“Nostalgic, hm?” San mumbles, close to your ear, laying down with one elbow propped up to watch, “We’ve been in this position before.”

You gasp as Wooyoung’s teeth graze your other thigh, at the sensitive part on the inside, eyes flickering up to yours to see your reaction. Through gritted teeth, one arm reaching out for San, you whisper, “Mm, missed it.”

“He’s good with his mouth, y’know,” San leans in closer, pressing his lips to your cheek then your jaw as Wooyoung finally leans forward, his nose meeting your folds before his lips make contact. A strangled moan escapes you, hips immediately bucking into him, other hand flying between your legs to take root in his hair. 

As his tongue swipes through your folds your back arches, your moan exposing every feeling of relief, of how much you wanted this, needed this. His name drips off your tongue and he groans at the sound, “You sound so pretty, Shybaby.”

“Prettier when she’s louder,” you can feel San smirk into your skin, “you have no idea how shameless she can get. Suck on her clit, Woo.”

As his lips wrap around your clit your moan heightens in pitch, louder than before, fingers tugging harshly at his scalp as your hips buck into his mouth, “Holy shit, Wooyoung.”

He groans into you, fingers curling into your thighs, soothing over your clit with his tongue, “Taste so good, pussy so pretty, can’t believe I haven’t done this sooner.”

Your face grows hot as his tongue flattens over your folds, flicking at your clit with precision, no haste to his actions, he’s exploring you. Seeing what you like, what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes your stomach clench in pleasure. 

His nose glides over your clit and you buck into him again, his tongue circling your entrance, drinking up every ounce of your arousal. San’s fingers find your hair, “Mm, she liked that, Woo.”

“You like my nose?” His eyes flicker up to you and you nod shamelessly, humming your agreement. He repeats the movement and your back arches as he moves into a rhythm, tongue fucking into you while his nose glides over your clit, his movements timed perfectly with each jerk of your hips.  

“Wanna see you ride it,” San whispers into your ear and you gasp out, one hand curling into the sheets beneath you. “Next time.”

“Yes, fuck,” you mumble through gritted teeth, “want it, need it.” 

“Wanna watch you cum,” San’s fingers find your chest, the pads of them running over your hardened nipples, pinching at your sensitive skin. Louder now, your moans slurring together, your stomach curls in pleasure, pressure building in your hips. 

“Don’t stop, Woo,” you whisper, a broken sound, using your fingers in his hair to rock your hips against his face, “so good, just like that.”

He grunts in response, letting you use him, adding more pressure and you’re locking up around him, whimpering as San’s fingers pinch harder at your chest, it’s enough to pull you right to the edge.

“There you go,” San encourages, lips buried in your hair, “use him, let me see you cum against his face, make yourself cum for me, c’mon.” 

“Gonna–” there’s panic in your voice like you couldn’t believe you were reaching your peak so easily, but as his fingers tighten into your thighs harder, tongue lolled out for you to ride, the slight sting in your skin combined with the stimulation to your clit throws you over with a loud cry, pleasure washing over you in waves, body trembling beneath their touch, your skin on fire. 

“Yes, so good for us,” San whispers, voice coated in praise, “such a good girl, Shy. Missed watching you cum, wanna feel you do it around my cock.”

You whimper, eyes cresting open to see him above you, dimples showing as he speaks. Dark hair messily sprawled across his forehead, cheeks pink, eyes soft and warm, gaze filled with so much love it makes you dizzy. Your hand lifts from Wooyoung’s hair to cradle San’s cheek, pulling him down into a messy kiss, tongue slotting into his mouth softly as Wooyoung presses soft kisses to the tip of your mound, between your hipbones, up your stomach. 

Your back arches as his lips wrap around one of your nipples, tongue swiping over them, soothing where San had pinched, it makes you whimper, one hand falling from San’s cheek to dig into Wooyoung’s hair again, softer this time. Nails grazing his scalp, ankles crossing over his back, everything felt slow, filled with purpose, like each one of their movements were solely for your pleasure. 

You needed more. You needed them to treat you like they’d treated each other a few nights ago, you needed the bed to hit the wall, to hear Wooyoung whimpering, San’s domineering voice. Your other hand finds San’s hair, gripping at the spiral of his crown, making him grunt into your mouth, “Shit.”

“Need more,” you’re panting into his mouth, “need you to fuck me, I need it.”

Wooyoung’s arms scoop under your back to pull you up as San leans back to groan, you meet his lips hastily, already seated on his thighs, your legs bracket his hips, your bare chest pressed to his. Denim below you, you curse at the feeling of texture, sturdy, rough fabric, “Get these off.”

“Impatient,” he smirks into your lips, “you needy? Desperate to fuck us?”

Skin alight with wildfire, your fingers find the hair at the back of his neck, tugging as you sit upward, following his face as you pull it backward by his hair, “Gonna make me say it again?”

A smile breaks out across his face, one full of excitement, “Holy shit, Shy–”

“Who are you talking to like that, huh?” San’s at your back, chest pressed to your shoulderblades, feeling so big it’s menacing, “You should be thanking him for letting you cum on his face.”

Staring down at Wooyoung, his grin had gone cocky again, one brow raising with your hands still rooted in his hair. Your fingers tighten again and his brows furrow in pleasure, a small moan croaking from his lips, it’s satisfactory enough. You mumble, “Thank you.”

San hums in contentment behind you, “Good girl.”

Wooyou watches in awe as San lifts you off his lap, turning you to face him with ease, standing on his knees he wraps a hand around your jaw, kissing you with more force than he had all night. Tongue pushing past your lips, teeth clashing, you melt beneath him, hands finding his bare pecs to hold onto as he devours your lips, your taste, your pleasure.

“You want me to treat you like a doll?” He asks into your mouth, voice harsh, edged like a blade. 

“Want you to treat me how you treat Woo,” you whimper, the admission falling from your lips without a second thought, until you feel him smirk. Hazy from a minute of his mouth on yours, the heat of shame couldn’t find you. 

“Knew you were listening,” Wooyoung is at your shoulders, hands on your waist, traveling to your front to grab two handfuls of your chest. “Fuckin’ pervert, listening to us fuck.”

Your back arches, fingertips digging into San’s skin, voice coming out tight, “Hard not to hear when the bed frame is hitting the wall.”

San stares at you like he’s debating fucking the cockiness out of you, “Almost forgot how much of a brat you can be.” Your grin is shameless, daring almost, and he doesn’t like it one bit. “Gonna look at me like that when I’m fucking you within an inch of your life?”

Your brows knit together, lips parting at his words, core clenching around nothing. “Please,” you whimper, hands sliding to his shoulders to pull him forward, “please.”

He doesn’t move, a stone wall before you. Instead he asks, “Did you touch yourself?” Left in the briefs glued to his lower half, your eyes sink to the outline of his length obvious in the polyester clinging to every inch of his skin. His face is lined by confidence, “Made that pretty pussy cum thinking about me fucking you, too?” 

Softly, you moan, “Yes.”

“Should have come in the room,” Wooyoung’s lips find your neck, pulling you back into him as his palms knead into your chest. ”Woulda made you cum so hard.”

You whine, sinking into his hot skin, chiseled abdomen searing your back. With your knees spread, your eyes are glossy as you stare up at San who grips his length over his briefs, mouth watering with his sculpted body on display, he’s changed so much over the years. This body is bigger, bulkier, stronger, he’s a completely different San than the one you knew back then. The things he could do to you now cross your mind, sinking straight down to the pit in your belly, your core clenching around nothing. 

“Wanna touch?” He asks, still sporting his cocky grin. You nod against Wooyoung’s chest, writhing beneath his palms, his touches only edging you further. He dips his chin down to his length, “C’mere, baby.”

You crawl forward on your palms until you’re standing on your knees before him, pressing your palms up to his shoulders, feeling the curves of his muscles before sliding down to his toned chest, palms laying flat, feeling his heartbeat beneath his skin. They slide down to his abdomen, so sculpted like he’s made of stone, your head tips forward, tongue lolling out of your mouth to glide across the dips and peaks, moaning at the taste of his skin, sweaty, salty, San. He pushes out a heavy breath as your head dips lower, fingers sinking into his waistband, tugging his briefs down. 

“Wanna taste,” you mutter mindlessly, mind whirling, craving his cock, missing it. It springs out of his briefs, slapping up between his hipbones, thick and red and leaking, your mouth waters. You blow cool air from your lips and he hisses, cock twitching, making you smile. Your eyes flicker upward, “Want my mouth?” 

His heavy brows are furrowed, hips tilted forward, his hands come forward to cup your cheeks. “Wanna fuck you, Shy.”

Your stomach fucking churns at the sound of his voice, whiny and desperate, you clench around nothing at the thought. You missed him so badly you ached for it, the feeling of him inside you, his cock so thick leaving you full enough it’s almost overwhelming to have him seated inside.

Before you have the chance to move you feel two heavy palms land on your hips, your head turns, back arching on command. Wooyoung knelt behind you, cock standing tall between his hipbones, the pretty pink tip leaking against his lower abdomen, so bronzy and veiny and strong. His eyes follow the trail of the base of your spine up to your eyes, “Let me have a turn first.” 

You whimper, arching lower, knees spreading to allow him entrance, whining out a breathy, “Yes.”

San holds your cheeks steady, “Can you take it?”

You’re on fire, hips pushing back against Wooyoung with impatience, mouth filling with saliva. “Yes, yes, I can take it, use me– Please?”

A guttural moan spills from the two of them, San rips his briefs off his ankles as he sits back on his calves, one arm behind him holding up his weight. You feel Wooyoung slide two fingers up your spine, rippling over each vertebrae and then back down again, the other hand hooked on your hip squeezing as he grinds his cock against your folds, slippery and wet, he lets out a tangled whine at the feeling. 

“You sure, Shy?” He asks, “Pussy’s begging to be fucked.”

“Need this,” you mumble, “need you, don’t hold back.”

“I won’t,” Wooyoung huffs, “don’t think I can, anyway.”

You turn to find San staring at you, his eyes so warm and inviting, lined with impatience he doesn’t dare verbalize. His jaw clenches as you lean down, tongue poking out to meet the leaking tip of his cock as Wooyoung lines himself up, letting his cock catch on your entrance with each slide up your folds. San’s other hand finds your hair as you lick up the underside of him, his head tipping backward as a moan tumbles out from his chest, abdomen already clenching at the pleasure. 

“Fuck, that mouth,” San hisses as you let a mouthful of saliva drip onto his cock, using one hand to spread it along his length before you take the tip in your mouth fully, his grip tightens in your roots. “Missed those pretty lips, baby.” 

You can’t answer, a strangled noise forcing itself out of you as the tip of Wooyoung’s cock prods your entrance. His hands find your hips, squeezing, “Breathe for me, baby.” His tone is absent, like he needed the reminder more than you did, laser-focused on how your entrance is already sucking him in.

You breathe through your nose, eyes screwing shut as he pushes in, filling you with his length inch by inch, slowly but steadily. A high whimper punches through your lips, mouth unwrapping from San’s cock to dip your head down, hips involuntarily pushing back onto Wooyoung, wanting to be full, fast. 

“Patience,” Wooyoung squeezes your hips harder, more confidence in his voice, “this tight lil’ thing needs to be stretched out, take it easy, baby. We’ll give you everything, I promise.”

You haven’t felt this full in years. Even sopping wet you could feel him carving into you, making space for himself where you haven’t been properly filled in so long– the pleasure was tantalizing, slight sting of the stretch mixing into a cocktail of euphoria, your eyes fluttered back into your head, hand tightening around the base of San’s cock.

“Breathe, Shygirl,” San encourages, “let him in.”

Your eyes open, flickering up to San who watches Wooyoung over your head, your body the bridge connecting the two men. The sight of him, flushed, chest patched with a rosy hue, your tongue slides out of your mouth to lick up the underside of him again, taking the tip of him into your mouth. 

His hips buck upward, surprised at your warmth wrapped around him, he pushes his cock deeper into your throat and you gag involuntarily, other hand tightening into the sheets below you. You breathe through it, your nose pushing out air as you take him deeper, head bobbing along his length as Wooyoung fully sheathes himself inside you. 

He waits there a moment, fingers gripping the plush of your ass, his voice utterly gone as he says, “She’s so fuckin’ tight, Sannie.”

San’s eyes flicker up to him, “Make her cum on your cock, wanna see.”

He pulls out all the way just to slam back inside and your throat constricts around San’s length, making you gag again, eyes watering, blurring your vision. Wooyoung whines, “Fuck, baby, holy shit, Sannie.”

Hearing him moan out San’s name while he fucks you etches stars into your vision. Your hips start pushing back, your hand leaving San’s length to take purchase in the sheets as your hips buck against Wooyoung’s length in the same rhythm that you bob your head along San’s cock. Both men moan, a pitiful sound, lewd and desperate, it makes you clench around Wooyoung, nose diving down to press into the tuft of hair at the base of San’s cock. 

“There you go,” San huffs, voice strangled, you look up to see him sink his teeth into his bottom lip. “Fuck, so pretty, taking my cock so fucking well. Missed seeing you like this.”

You moan around him, core clenching and you can hear the whine caught in the back of Wooyoung’s throat, his fingers curling into the plush of your ass, squeezing so fucking hard it rips a tight noise from your chest, dying on San’s cock. 

“Don’t know how long I’ll last, fuck,” Wooyoung chokes out, hands sliding up to your hipbones.

San does his best to make his smile appear cocky, “When’s the last time you fucked, huh?” He gasps the moment the words leave his lips, as you swallow around his length, he curses under his breath, tightening a hand in your roots.

Wooyoung speaks through gritted teeth, “Too fucking long, shit, she’s suckin’ me in–”

“Can’t wait to feel,” San grunts, hips twitching into your mouth, forcing you to take him deeper, “mouth just as dangerous, you’re a demon, Shy.”

You try to smile, he’s too wide in your mouth, in your throat, you settle for shooting him one with your eyes. You’re in rhythm now, head bobbing at the same pace as Wooyoung fucking into you, being so full, so manhandled by the two of them even if you were the one who put yourself here feels so good. Wooyoung’s cock is thinner than San’s, longer, you can feel how it curves along the front side of your walls, hitting every single spot you need it to. 

It makes your knees wobble, your fingers twisting in the sheets, it feels too fucking good. It’s been a long while since you’ve breached an orgasm around someone’s cock, it’s muscle memory the way your arch comes back to you, the rhythm in which you fuck against him to get yourself off, the pressure building so different from when you do it yourself. 

Wooyoung notices, landing a sharp smack to your ass, “Usin’ me? I can feel you fucking back.”

You pop off of San’s length to turn your head halfway, “Y’feel so good, Woo, can’t help it.”

His brows tie together, jaw falling slack, “Fuck, don’t stop, baby, don’t stop–”

“Inside, kay?” Between a moan and a whimper, “Don’t pull out.”

His palms push into the plush of your ass again as you take San’s cock into your mouth, stretching your lips wide to take him, using the slick you’d left behind to glide your tongue all the way down, choking yourself on him, bobbing your head in rhythm again. 

“Shy,” there’s nerves in San’s voice, “baby– fuck, Shy– gonna cum–”

Wooyoung’s hips stutter, he curses under his breath, one of his hands slides around to your front, between your legs, “Can’t– need you to cum first, baby, please.”

Two fingers to the bundle of nerves between your legs, your hips jerk, back arching impossibly deeper, a gargled moan vibrates San’s cock and he curses low, hands in your hair pulling, it’s overstimulating, how much is happening all at once. 

Wooyoung’s fingers take all but three tight circles at your clit to send you freefalling over the edge, pressure blowing, pleasure spreading through your body like fireworks reaching each limb, every nerve ending. San tugs you off his cock by your hair, one hand fisting the base of him to stop his orgasm from hitting, and Wooyoung cries out as he barrels into you, hips finally stilling when he’s fully sheathed, filling you with warmth. 

You’re gaping, staring at San wide-eyed, “Why?”

It takes a moment for you to process the warmth. Like sitting before a fire, it’s comforting, head dropping to let it sink in– nostalgic, you missed this. 

“Wanna cum inside you,” he answers simply, “c’mere.”

Manhandling you all over again, he pulls you onto his lap, you can’t help but reach for Wooyoung behind you. San wastes no time, ignoring your heaving chest, the exhaustion in your eyes you’re hiding with adrenaline, with one hand on your hips he lines you up over his cock, easing you down onto his length, you hiss at the stretch, at the width of him. 

“Big stretch,” his grin is taunting, “you can do it, baby, easy.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, arms stretching behind you, “Woo.” Searching for the man who just came inside you, he’s at your back, broad and steady, arms wrapping around you. 

“I’m here,” he whispers into the curve of your neck, moving your hair away from your sticky neck to press his lips into you, and it’s the comfort you needed to start grinding your hips into San’s cock, moans spilling from your lips, small gasps and whines as he fills you up perfectly, walls molding to the shape of him like he’d never left.

“Fuck, Sannie,” you murmur, “‘s too much, missed your cock, but it’s too much.”

“You can do it,” he leans into you, groaning at the feeling of you around him, he searches for your lips. You pick your head up to meet him, pressing your lips to his, tongue sliding into his mouth, tasting every inch you can find. He grins into your lips, “Look at you, taking it like you did all those years ago. Still my fuckin’ slut, aren’t you?”

You gasp, hips twitching against him, clenching hard, and he curses under his breath like he wasn’t just taunting you. Lips still ghosting yours, he whispers, “Still like my mouth? All that nasty shit?” 

You nod, nipples brushing against his chest with every bounce of your hips, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders. All you can manage is, “More.”

“I know, baby,” his hips jerk up and you cry out, arching into Wooyoung behind you who reaches around your front, fingers pinching at your nipples, teeth at your ear. San, voice wrecked, grunts as he says, “Still need a little pain with the pleasure to get you off, huh?”

You can’t answer, eyelids fluttering, hazy at the feeling of Wooyoung’s release spilling out of you onto San’s thighs, the squelching sound of it coating his cock, making it easy for you to bounce yourself against him like a bitch in heat. 

Wooyoung chuckles into your ear, low and velvety, it sends a shiver up your spine. “Never woulda guessed that from you, baby.”

It makes a lazy grin break out across your cheeks, head turning to kiss him, all teeth and tongue, messy and delicious. “Really?” 

“My Shygirl,” his voice is filled with affection, lips pressed to the side of your head, parted and spilling spit onto your temple, your cheeks, it feels dirty– so fucking sexy you can’t control the way you hump San’s cock, slurring mindless babbles and strained noises you can barely comprehend. 

“Our Shygirl,” San corrects him, eyeing Wooyoung over your shoulder, a severity to his tone that makes your eyes flick upward in question. 

His brows tied with pleasure, sweat dripping down his brow, dark hair messy and tangled on his head, he looks like a fucking dream. He is a dream, this is a dream, harmonious with the two as if you’ve done this a thousand times, like it was always supposed to be this way, he can read the question on your tongue. He cups your cheek with a hand, sliding it to the back of your head to take root in your hair, tugging you towards him close enough for your lips to touch, “It’s different this time.”

You try to kiss him with your slacked jaw but it’s a trading of spit more than it is a kiss, “Different.”

“Mine,” he growls, a hand wrapping around your back, fingers digging into your skin, his words too coherent to be born of the heat of the moment. “Wanted this for too long, both of you, you’re both mine.”

“Yours,” you repeat, confirm with an airy head, echoed by Wooyoung as your hips stutter against San’s cock, head tipped against the younger man’s shoulder, “f-fuck me.”

“Sit,” it’s an order from San to Wooyoung that’s answered on command, he sits on his calves before uncurling his legs from below him, cock half-hard laying stiff between his hips. 

San maneuvers you with two hands on your waist, you gasp as he tugs you off his cock effortlessly, laying you back on Wooyoung’s chest like it took no fucking strength at all. Strong arms wrap around you as your skin meets his, tilting your head to the side to see him, to kiss him, he smiles as he sees you, teeth on display. 

“So fucking pretty,” Wooyoung looks at you the same way he always does, stars in his eyes, like he couldn’t smile without his whole face if he tried, like the look was solely for you. “You’re mine too, y’know.”

You reach up with one arm to pull his head down to yours, the kiss softer than those you’ve shared tonight, more controlled like you needed a moment to let his words sink in, your mind too fuzzy to process the weight of what that meant. 

San’s fingers hook under your knees, pushing them backward until they leave you spread, lining himself up all over again, pushing inside in one quick motion. 

A different feeling of full, Wooyoung holds your face against his as you whisper a cry into his mouth, your lips still touching as he grins, “Been waiting for this too, haven’t you? You wanna be ours?” 

Body going limp in his hold, hand falling from his cheek mindlessly, your body feels like fucking jelly. You nod, breath quickening, short and tight at the feeling of San fucking into you, “Need to be, waited so long.” 

San’s grip tightens under your knees, picking up speed, your head turns to see him and god you want to take a picture, want to frame it and hang it on the wall; brows furrowed, lips parted, eyes focused on your meeting below, his abdomen flexing as he rolls his hips into you, it makes your toes curl where they hang in the air. 

Face scrunching up, you reach for him, pulling him down to you, “Need t’kiss you.”

Messy, sloppy, wet, you can feel him in your stomach as your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close. With the last peck to your lips he presses his forehead against yours, “I missed you, I love you— taking me s’fucking perfectly, like you always do—”

A strangled noise fights to leave your chest, heavy where it sits trapped, the words forcing the warmth in the pit of your belly to bloom, explode, shattering every wall you’d built up in the past few weeks. 

“I love you,” it’s a broken whisper, an admission you can’t keep inside any longer. A little louder, a little firmer, “I love you.” 

He smiles into the kiss he plants on your lips, “Yeah?” 

“Hey,” Wooyoung interjects, hands cupping your cheeks to tilt you backward, “I love you, too.” 

You’d smile if San didn’t pick up speed all over again, instead you’re babbling a mess of I love you, I love you too into Wooyoung’s mouth, lips barely touching enough to call it a kiss, so mindless and breathless and overwhelmed all you can do is feel. 

Wooyoung’s hand leaves your cheek to sink between yours and San’s bodies, two fingers pressed to your clit, swirling tight circles on the bundles of nerves. Your body fights to jerk between them, trapped between sweat and muscle, head lolling backward on Wooyoung’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. 

San switches his angle, strong arms tilting your hips upward to fuck into you harder, to angle his cock to hit the sweet spot inside you, building the pit of pressure of your stomach with purpose. 

Your eyes blow wide, breath quickening, “San— Sannie—”

“C’mon,” he encourages, sitting backward to fuck into you faster, “Lemme feel it, want it.” 

Incoherent babbles and the clenching of your cunt has your hands reaching for his forearms, fingernails pressing into his skin, all while Wooyoung keeps his pace on your clit, rhythm perfect, pressure nothing short of unbearable. 

“Woo— Sannie—” you don’t know who to cry for, hips fighting to meet San’s thrusts, grinding into Wooyoung’s fingers, “I’m gonna cum.” 

“Let go, baby,” Wooyoung’s voice is light and encouraging but he’s babbling as if San was fucking him, “let him feel it, he wants it so bad, he loves it, loves you.” 

Breath caught in your chest, your jaw drops as your pleasure hits its peak, meeting San’s gaze as your orgasm washes over you like a fucking hurricane, utterly speechless as your legs shake in the open air, inescapable euphoria reaching every inch of skin. 

“Fuck, Shy,” San groans, “you’re so fucking sexy, oh my god, oh my god—”

You don’t have time to respond before Wooyoung is kissing you again, tilting your head backward with one hand as San extends your orgasm with every thrust of his cock, Wooyoung’s fingers slowing on your clit, letting you ride it out until you’re a whining, twitching mess. 

“Fuck,” you mutter harshly, letting Wooyoung guide the sloppy kiss as San’s hips stutter, rhythm quickening to something ruthless, chasing his own high, a selfish pace. 

“Gonna fill this pussy up,” San’s babbling, “all mine, mine to fill,” his voice is somewhere far, deep in the moment, “I love it, love you, my Shygirl, shit—”

Erratic thrusts come to a hilt, stalling fully seated, you moan softly into Wooyoung’s mouth as heavy warmth fills you steadily, making you shiver. 

You break away from Wooyoung to look at San, eyelids low but you couldn’t miss the way his skin glows, as if you poured water over a sculpture made of gold, you stare in awe at his heaving chest, how his abdomen still clenches, flexing each muscle. 

“Pretty,” the word is mindless, said through a breath. 

He leans down, pressing his palms to the bed on either side of you, attaching your lips in a slow, steady kiss. “That’s you,” he whispers, “my pretty girl.” 

He picks his head up to Wooyoung behind you, pressing a kiss to his lips, too. “My pretty boy.” 

Wooyoung holds him close, you feel him melt under San’s touch, his words. “I love you,” Wooyoung mumbles, half-heard to you because he says it into San’s mouth, “so much.” 

“I love you too, baby,” San presses one more kiss to his lips before he plants one on your forehead, “and I love you, too.” 

“Do you really?” The question is pure instinct, “Like, actually?” 

“Baby,” he says it like it’s obvious, like it’s silly for you to even question it. “I’ve spent my whole life loving you.” 

There's a heaviness to your chest, the same tightness you felt when he said it earlier, it travels to your throat, the heat under your eyes pushing water into your lash line. 

“No,” he says softly, “don’t cry.”

You can’t help your smile, sniffling, giggling as two tears spill down your cheeks, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Hold on,” his voice is still delicate, like glass, he sits back on his knees to carefully slip out of you, “come up here.” 

You move with Wooyoung, the younger man half carrying you to the top of the bed, your heads falling into your pillows, their bodies on either side of you in your queen-sized bed like it was big enough to fit all three of you. 

Your back is halfway pressed up against San, eyes hazy and low with Wooyoung in view, you ask him, “And you?” 

His smile is soft but his face reads relief like he’s been sitting on this information for ages. “I’ve loved you probably since I moved in, but I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.”

“That I knew,” you sniff, giggling again, turning your head up to see San who’s staring at you like you’re his entire world, “why didn’t you guys tell me?” 

“It’s not an easy thing to say,” there’s a small, apologetic smile on his lips. 

Wooyoung adds, “When we started living together I just assumed we were friend-zoned forever. When San and I got together, like, half of our relationship was based on the fact that we both still loved you while loving each other.” 

San’s arm wraps around your front, tucking you further into him, “When you’re best friends and roommates and a little too close for comfort, it’s hard to not fall in love.” 

“Especially when all of those things are you,” Wooyoung adds, shuffling towards you like he couldn’t get close enough, “why didn’t you tell us how you felt?”

“Because you started fucking dating each other,” you answer like you’ve been waiting for the question, amusement overshadowing the truth to your words, “I didn’t think I was invited to the party.” 

Wooyoung leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, he looks at you when he pulls away, so much love and honesty swirling in chocolate it makes you shiver, but because he’s Wooyoung, he starts singing, “I only threw this party for you, only threw this party for you, for you for you…”

You snort, giggling into San’s chest, and the older man continues, loud and proud, “You could watch me pull up on your body like it’s summer take my clothes off in the water—”

You join him, just as loud and maybe even prouder, “—splash around and get you blessed like holy water, I don’t know what you’ve been waitin’ for, you know that I’ve been waitin’ for you.” 

Wooyoung laughs, turning on his back, you watch how his chest expands and falls with each loud, obnoxious cackle. He turns his head to face you, “If you think about it, that song is kinda us.” 

“I think that song is Jay Gatsby,” you correct him, “I’m kinda Jay Gatsby and you guys are kinda Daisy Buchanan.” 

“No, we’re Jay Gatsby and you’re Daisy Buchanan,” San says a little more confidently than you did, “we threw the party and you didn't come.” 

“Oh we are not arguing about this,” you turn your head to furrow your brows at him, reiterating, “but let the records show that I was not invited to said party.” 

Wooyoung is quick with his answer, “We only threw the damn party for you.” 

It’s like nothing has changed. 

Curled up on the chaise of the couch, you in the corner, Wooyoung’s head on your lap with his leg stretched one way, San’s head is between your legs with both of your bodies laid out the other way. 

Dirty Dancing is playing on the flatscreen across the room, Sweetie cozy right beneath you, on the hardwood floor with his body pressed up against the deck of the couch, everything, everyone you love is in one room. 

A month of being together, the only thing that’s changed in your relationship is where you sleep, and that you kiss— and fuck, entirely too much for a typical honeymoon phase, but as San says, you’re making up for lost time.

Waking up together, going to work together, sleeping together, you wonder after years of being attached at the hip how you don’t feel tired of them. You suppose you never could, the two men being fibers of your being, embedded into you like the essence of your own being, it’s more that you can’t live without them. 

And the more you think about it, the more you wonder how you didn’t notice it sooner. So hyper focused on what you want, you couldn’t realize what you already had, there was a reason your relationship has always been too close for comfort. 

But now you have them, and you love them, and they fucking love you— they are not afraid to show it, they’d scream it to the rooftops if you let them. Sometimes you almost do let them, just to let the feeling sink in a little further, to let their love overflow the gap in your chest that’s been full for a month now. 

One hand in San’s hair, the other drawing shapes into Wooyoung’s chest, a thought dawns on you. You ask, “Hey, remember that night at Steer?” Their heads tilt toward, eyeing you over their eyebrows, nodding. “Whatever happened to Yunho?” 

Wooyoung snorts, San shakes his head, it makes you giggle. Wooyoung answers, “I told him his work was done and that we could take it from there.” 

“His work was done?” You question, “What work?”

“You told him you love us the night you went on the date with him, right?” San suddenly asks, looking over his forehead at you once more. You nod like this was common information and he laughs so loud it makes Sweetie sit up on his hind legs. 

“I told you, you called me schizophrenic!” San shouts over the couch at Wooyoung, sitting up on an elbow, “I knew it, my Shy senses were tingling.” 

“Shy senses?” You ask, a question ignored. 

Wooyoung sits up too, eyes wide, “Wha—? Maybe you should be a detective, Sannie, I’m serious.” 

“What are you talking about?” You ask a little louder, “Inform me right this second, please.” 

“I know you so well it’s scary,” San lays back down, one hand lazily thrown over the side of the couch to scratch Sweetie’s head, calming him. “Like the back of my hand, baby.” 

His words make you smile, settling back into the couch again. Wooyoung turns on his elbow to see you, “San knew that Yunho knew,” he shakes his head, “with literally no proof, just vibes. Scary.” 

You run your hands through his hair, your smile completely teasing, “You’ll get there, baby. One more decade.” 

Wooyoung’s top lip curls, “Not you, too. I know you just as well, if not better than San—”

San’s head picks up with a gasp, “You do not—!”

Your giggles cut through their bickering, “You’re both stupid, I love you.” 

“We love you too,” they mumble, settling back into their positions on the couch, where your hands fell to their hair, scratching their scalps into silence. Your smile stays as your head lifts back to the movie across the room, not actually watching, too consumed with contentment and that lovesick feeling in your stomach. 

Yours. Finally. 

my masterlist | fic exchange masterlist

my love letter to plum, you are worth the world and more. deserving of everything you've ever wanted, i hope u loved this. ur my whole heart. i love u ᢉ𐭩

[bigbabygremlin]

…this got me blushing omg

[hadrosauruss]

cherry on top +.

sum; your boyfriend yunho shows the flirty ice cream shop employee in a creative way that he’s taken by you, later decides to eat the dessert off of your body to further proof the point to you

heads-ups; (soft!dom yuyu x fem!reader), finger fucking, finger sucking, mentions of jealousy, dry humping, oral sex (frec), multiple orgasms, driving and fingering, vanilla ice cream as lube (#don't), yuyu’s an eater, cutesy aftercare

word#: 1.9k

࣪ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ࣪

thinking about how messy yunho’s face would get when eating ice cream off of your pussy…

you two were on your way back home from a small get together with his closest group of friends. he was the one behind the wheel, that fact was way more than evident not simply because you weren’t physically steering the wheel but because your legs were spread wide as can be above the dashboard, the man didn’t turn to look at you not once as he killed you with his fingers. the stick of your thighs on that passenger seat had you reaching out for him in a hurry, scared he’d pull away. his right hand destroyed the in of your pussy, meanly penetrating the deepest part of your cervix with no care whatsoever, like the option of not doing so has failed to exist. yunho didn’t even acknowledge the top half of your body, his full attention being on the road and on the ramming of your cunt, and honestly you’d prefer it that way.

you prefer having him fingering you with the length of his fingers over the fucking of his eyes at least just for this second. you were close, so fucking close, he knew it, he felt it. felt the squeeze of your walls hug his veiny digits tight, secure. he finally fucking grinned, grinning with the slowing down of the car,

a big neon sign caught your attention from the squint of your eyes, it was an ice cream logo.

yunho was pulling into the drive thru of an ice cream shop. mid finger fuck.

he pulled out of you fast, slowed down the car just a tid more to give you time to pull down your dress, your panties already tossed somewhere far in the backseat. the leather you sat on made out with your dripping cunt messily, thankfully both windows were down you could swear you can sense your own essence..

you looked over at yunho guilt and nerves filling you in exchange of his fingers, the back of his head was turned to you as he had the front of his head poked out reading over the ice cream menu like he didn’t have planned such an easy order for something so sinister. he’d already spoken your memorized designated choice of order. the hair on the back of his head moved freely with the slow nod of his head as if he’d were to be having a conversation with him himself before announcing

“a vanilla cone..”

you heard as the girl on the other side of the speaker directed you both to the second window to pick up your dessert. yunho finally looked at you, messily kissing the swell of your lips before arriving right at the window, the hand he used to finger you sitting entirely too close to his mouth as he pulled closer to the window.

the bright of the in store lights filled the already bright of the interior of yunho’s car, you were mini flash-banged from what could’ve been from the amount of times yunho’s has made you come around his fingers. as soon as your eyes fell back open you caught view of yunho eating your taste off of his digits infront of the girl.

you felt pure confusion and a rising boiling feeling.

the girl at the window gave him heart eyes as he passed her his card to pay away, her fingers purposely grazing his as the mess that sat on his other hand was still being sucked nonchalantly as if he just finished a bag of cheesy chips.

you automatically read the room and realized that it’d probably hasn’t been the first time she’d flirted with yunho, and for her to do it right infront of you had you beginning to go nuts, you wanted to wipe that quirky smile right off her face.

the same fingers yunho chewed on were now being raced up to your mouth, yunho silently asking for permission completely ignoring the girl who struggled with her card reader. you eagerly and boldly opened your mouth swirling your tongue around the digits, just for him to return the same fingers to his mouth just to collect your spit in his. you thought she must’ve really crossed the line for yunho to go this far this sudden.

part of you resented that she was lucky enough to watch the scene of him sucking on his own fingers the way you like to watch him do, but the major part of you dripped to the idea of him claiming you in such a dirty fucking way, much dirtier than she’d ever fucking imagine. you weren’t just both messily swapping spit with each other at the drive thru infront her; but tasting your pussy all in one all without her even knowing.

both of your eyes pressed onto the single girl at the window, that smile fading instantly like you just insta-manifested.

that thirty second interaction felt more like thirty hours but you fucking loved the adrenaline it came along with it.

both of your ice creams were being held by you now, yunho made it his mission to drive to a nearby park, stationing his car in a secluded area, pretty surrounded by trees, small body of river infront for you both to view. you devoured yours whilst you helped the melting of yunho’s cone, both of you growing comfortable in your secluded seats. yunho was always the best at planning dates, you were never left disappointed, his spontaneity matched perfectly with the way he worshipped your cunt.

you always knew whenever he was needy for more, although there’d be times where he’d be satisfied with simply just making out with you, fingering you or having you hand his cock; he’d have times where tearing your clothes off is the first thing in his mind whenever he gets at least five minutes alone with you. because he can do it if that’s what’s up to plan. he can last as little or as long as you choose, because you have the power to do that, the power to make him cum instantly. and he fucking loves it.

“backseat now.”

you jumped quicker than the thought processed, you positioned automatically ready to take whatever he was willing to give you, patiently. due to his height you watched as yunho adjusted his seat toward to give himself more room in the back along you. yunho held his cone in hand the all natural vanilla coating the soft of his lips, he licked them clean with a single swirl of his tongue before pulling you by your folded thighs closer down to him, your pussy entirely on display for him. you held his cone as he ate you, watching as he furrowed his brows groaning to himself to the view alone.

yunho dived in, how couldn’t he, you were glistening and breathing for him, for his mouth, his fingers.

yunho pressed his tongue flat against most of your cunt, flicking his tongue along the sensitivity of your bud, deep groans arising from his throat to tasting you against his tongue again, this vibrating dangerously against your need. he pulled away and this time, using the spread of his fingers to examine your cunt, he fucking moaned. you saw it in his face that he didn’t mean to, the bottom of his lip clenched tightly between his teeth. if he wasn’t orgasming to the view of your pussy before he for sure is now

your cunt was was coated in a milky white substance, dripping from your lips down to your smaller hole. it looked like he’d just filled you up, it was driving him insane. he sank back into your pussy this time switching from the melting cone to your mound.

the mess had become larger, there was foamy vanilla coating your entire pussy and lower tummy, with just a tiny bit left of the cone yunho stuffed the rest of the dessert in your mouth to muffle your mouth to the way he used the foamy liquid as lube and mercilessly finger fucked you once more, the milky drops now falling from his lips, fingers, chin. he was a fucking mess but so were you and all because of him.

he was somehow rougher than he was earlier, like the view of the dessert on you is tricking his brain to think that it was his cum in real time, and honestly you weren’t complaining not when you were this close.

“Mph.. close yunho. please don’t stop, please.” your voice rasped hard at the final plead, begging for your life.

“–fuck baby. i don’t know if i’ll ever be able to. serious.”

he somehow managed to lick you clean like it was no problem, using the long of his tongue to collect as much as the sweetness that lathered your lower body as possible. he couldn’t bring himself to stop though, he was obsessed with this new upbringing, obsessed with the look of it, the taste of it. everything that it comes with. you were climaxing all over him, he wrapped his mouth with you to collect you with ease. yunho cleaned you up, grabbing you by your thighs and fully consuming himself with your cunt, he was a fucking mess, kissing, sniffing, licking, he wanted to be one with your mound.

your lips fell messy with the remainder of the dessert dripping down onto the cleavage on your dress, yunho watched all of this happen, it was all it took to get him over the edge, he only getting closer himself with the silent humping he had started a while ago from eating you out at the edge of the backseat.

his mouth closed so tightly around you that the sudden deep growls and whimpering against your cunt sent visible-felt vibrations through you as he was now releasing all over himself, huge dark patch on his pants forming with little to none of his care.

he collapsed onto you. managing to pull yourself together, you reached your hands up to cup at his face, rubbing the top of his back you held his larger frame like he was small. easing his release, he sighed loudly, he was painting, so out of breath like he’d just fucked you for hours and for some reason it had the same intensity if not more.

his eyes turned soft, needy, doe. he looked up at you from the low of your chest from the position you both laid in from the backseat. his lips were painted red, plumper than they are normally and his face was flush, so fucking flush and messy. his eyes kept hitting the back of his head as he almost rocked himself to sleep from all of this. he was dizzy, pussy drunk, so postnut sleepy. he looked so pretty like this, you wanted to stare at him forever, rock him to sleep.

“i love you.” he woke and broke suddenly, the lift of his head off of your chest leaving you feeling cold, did this just to look you in the eye as he said it, thinks it’s more genuine that way.

you placed your hand along the soft of his locks, lovingly pushing his head back down onto your chest to ooze him back to sleep, “I love you too, yunnie.”

“it it okay if we do this again, please?”

“I love ice cream.”

-this was meant to be a tiny oneshot wtf happened..

[ddeonggrami]

Soft n’ sweet (or not!)

pairing: park seonghwa x fem!reader

genre: smut w/ minimal plot

warnings: minors dni !! absolutely no proofreading, meandom!seonghwa, sub!reader, healthy dose of degradeation and condescending seonghwa (YAY !!), overstimulation, unprotected sex (please wrap it before you tap it, fr people !!), light orgasm control, aftercare, petnames (sweet thing, pretty girl, baby, etc…), everything is consensual !!

w.c. 1.3k~

a/n: my first fic is finally done !! Thank you to the lovely @minkisdoll for helping me figure this all out. I hope you all enjoy it and feedback is more than welcome !!

Seonghwa loved lots of things that many would consider childish for his age. Legos, animal crossing, those silly little animal pens from souvenir shops, and so on. Bottom line was that if he found it cute, he had to have it. That’s how he found you. When you first met him, you were fresh out of college and had just moved to the city, and possibly the sweetest thing he’d ever seen. You were introduced to him via San, who happened to be a family friend of yours, and your mothers helped you reconnect once you moved out. You came over to their apartment for dinner one night, and left with a stomach full of takeout and Seonghwa’s number in your phone. He immediately took you under his wing, helping you around the house, showing you his favorite coffee shops, doing just about anything to help you settle into your new life…and into his.

It took him about a year to get you wrapped around his finger, but it wasn’t hard, he just wanted to take his time. He finally asked you out on a proper date, as his girlfriend, and within 3 weeks you were completely smitten. Finally his, another pretty thing to add to his world.

Then came the gifts. He’d buy just about any pretty little thing he saw and reminded him of you. Jewelry, trinkets, anything he deemed sweet enough for you. But by far, his favorite things to get you were plushies. Special edition jelly cats from cities he visited on schedules, his aniteez and mighteez characters, and he loved them so much because they were soft, like you. In fact, once you moved in with him, the plush toys nearly overtook the entire bed, to the point you had to buy a shelf just for them.

—☆ —☆ —☆ —☆ —☆ —☆ —☆ —☆—

Tonight, he bought your favorite takeout and big, stuffed rabbit. You’d had one of those horrible days, where it felt like nothing was going your way. The tears didn’t stop, and of course he was the first person on your mind. You had called him on your way home, and he was more than happy to take care of you, get you a little something to cheer you up.

“(name), what’s wrong my darling?” His voice was the first thing you heard as he watched you walk through the front door. You were already sniffling and mumbling out explanations, but he hushed you quickly, saying “it’s alright, just come lay with me.” You did exactly that. You quickly took your outside clothes off, changed into something more comfortable, and laid you head on his chest.

Seonghwa loved the feeling of caring for you, he just wanted to protect his baby from every bad thing in this world. But deep down, Seonghwa wanted to ruin you. He felt bad, tricking such a sweet little thing into thinking he was always gentle. Yet at the same time it felt way too good, knowing he was the one who’s arms you’d always fall into; the same arms that were now holding you down to your shared bed as he started kissing down your neck.

—☆ —☆ —☆ —☆ —☆ —☆ —☆ —☆—

“aww, you look so fucking pathetic right now, sweet thing…” he laughed at the sight of you sniffling into the stuffed bunny’s fur as he curled his fingers in and out of your pussy. “You do realize I haven’t even fucked you yet, right? And you’re already so messy for me…”

“hwa— s’ too much! Fuck, cumming!” You’d already lost track of how many times he’s made you cum on his fingers, 3? 4? 5? It was always like this, he was so unfair, coaxing you into overstimulation under the guise of “prepping” you. It wasn’t uncalled for, your boyfriend was well endowed to say the least, but did he really have to be so mean about it?

He finally pulled his hand away from your poor cunt, licking his fingers clean. “Gonna fuck you now, okay pretty girl?” You could already feel his head bumping against your entrance, and all you could do was nod dumbly into the plush toy.

“Nuh uh, what did I say…use your voice.” He took the plushy away from you, uncovering your tear streaked face. “Seonghwa, please, I need— fuck!” He smiled cruelly, pushing the rabbit back into your chest as he bottomed out in one, brutal thrust. He didn’t start moving just yet, letting the sting of the stretch subside. But once it did, he set a slow, deep pace that made your head feel all fuzzy.

“Seonghwa, seonghwa, seonghwa— please let me cum!” Your voice had been reduced to a syrupy sweet whimper, as sticky as the mess between your thighs. He was so pretty on top of you, moaning in your ear and mocking your silly little whines, licking your tears as they fell down your cheeks. Whatever it was that ruined your day felt so far away now…

“you look so precious right now, baby, letting me slut you out…moaning like a fucking pornstar” His soft features were now sharp, his dark eyes piercing into you heart. Through the hazy state of your brain, you couldn’t help but wonder: where had your soft, sweet boyfriend gone? But you didn’t have the time, or frankly the mental space, to worry about that. All you could do was beg and scream his name until your throat was raw. “Poor thing, you really wanna cum, huh? You’ll do it when I fucking say so.”

Your whimpers only got louder, and your pussy was clamping down on him like a vice. “You like it when I’m mean, don’t you? Answer me, baby…” he held on to your jaw, not tight enough to hurt you, but enough that your cheeks were squished by his fingers. He wasn’t letting up, grinding into you harder and faster, a hand reaching down to rub circles on your puffy clit, making it difficult for you to form coherent sentences.

“Mhm— Seonghwa, I can’t— Fuck, I’m gonna cum! Fuck!” Your orgasm hit you hard, so hard you feel like you’re going to pass out. Stars danced across your vision as your hands squeezed his shoulders, trying to get a grip back on reality. He was still fucking into you, brows knitted as he focused on reaching his own high.

“Such a filthy mouth for such a sweet girl, huh? Couldn’t even wait for me to say you could.” He cooed, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “But don’t worry…won’t be to hard on you tonight…”His voice was breathless, it was clear his orgasm was rapidly approaching.

“Gonna— Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up, darling” you just nodded, damn near sobbing into the stuffed rabbit from the overstimulation. With a final thrust, he came, pumping your cunt full. He touched his forehead to yours, and caught his breath before speaking again.

“you okay, baby? Was I too rough?” That soft, starry look returned to his eyes as he searched your own for any sign of discontent. You were much too far gone to answer properly, so you just nodded in response. He took the rabbit plushy away from you, and before you could complain, he lifted you in his arms and carried you off to the bathroom. It felt nice to be away from the now ruined sheets, but suddenly you could feel the sweat in every corner of your body, the uncomfortable stickiness in your cunt, eliciting a whine from your lips.

“you’re okay, pretty…I’m gonna get you cleaned up.” He pulled you closer to his chest, a clammy hand smoothing over your hair. He helped you shower, gave you one of his t-shirts to sleep in, and changed out the bedding. You finally ate the takeout he’d bought, and as you settled into the crisp, cool sheets, you reached for the stuffed rabbit. It still smelled like sex but it was so soft beneath your fingertips, soft like your skin beneath Seonghwa’s hands, soft like you, all pretty in his bed.

ddeonggrami 2026, do not publish or share to other platforms without permission.

taglist: empty !! (Send an ask to be added)

[minkisdoll]

Distraction Mingi x f!reader

req. i really loved your mommy kink fics , do you think you can do one similar to a study session vibe or something with super subby mingi , listens very well :)) warnings: nsfw 18+, sub!mingi, dom!reader, a LOT of mommy kink action, oral (fem rec.), reader touches mg w her foot but it isn't like a fetish but? still tagging, squirting, nicknames ( mommy, good boy, pretty boy etc.) mg is very clingy and desperate wc. 1.3k an. im back! somewhat.. sorry this took so long anonie!! this is lowk so bad but hey, anything to get me back on my writing feet. also! happiest birthday to my girl ez! ily! not proofread! taglist: @sablewardapocalypse @joongnoodle @matznana @fixonjade @kisssan

Four hours. a short time in your studying session, the longest time in the world in mingis mind. had you worked so hard the past week, you barely had time to be together, yet alone give it your all you usually do. so easily said, mingi was like a ticking time bomb of desperate energy.

sat on the floor next to your tall working desk covered in papers and folders, he spun with a whine. you knew that tone very well, usually waited eagerly to hear it- but right now it was a pure distraction.

"min, i only have these two folders left, i'm sure you can wait an hour"

another whine, hands swinging around like a pissed off bird. granting yourself a quick glance, you can't help but smile a little. glasses hanging on his tall nose for dear life, brown hair puffy and all over, eyes closed and those ever-so-plump lips pouted.

his neediness was certainly your cryptonite, spiking that need in you to boss him around- treat him like the good boy he is- or like in this case, a bad boy.

"I can't possibly wait any longer, i need you!" his hand reaches out for your leg that sits on your work chair, those big fingers digging into your flesh like a plea.

"nope, i still have work to do min we talked about this" mingis voice sounds beyond pathetic, a high whine as he spins around to kneel at your side, those dark boba eyes begging for attention.

"you're so mean to me" he mumbles, pressing his face up to rest against your thighs- certainly making work seem less important. his face brushes along your skin, warm lips pressing a kiss here and there as he doesn't move away, sulks in your space.

"weren't you supposed to study too pretty boy?" you asked with a raised brow, letting your finger tip trace his jawbone. mingi shivers agains the touch, eyes raising to meet yours, lip twitching.

"can't focus, want you" you chuckle lightly, shaking your head. theres no winning against a sulky mingi, ever. one way or an another he will make you give in, so you come up with a plan on the go. leaning down towards him, your eyes tighten.

"show me then, show me how much you want it, maybe, i'll reconsider"

everything after that moves with immense speed. first, the glasses come off flying across the floor. the voice that spills out of mingi is like a desperate mewl, his teeth lightly sinking into your thigh before moving off. barely managing to fit his massive form under there, his head pops from between your legs. the crown of his head hits into the table awkwardly, but he's too much in a frenzy to care.

the fabric of your sweats hung against your burning skin were quickly pulled down, mingis sizeable palms tugging you open from your knees. the warmth of his breath ghosted your drenched underwear, the wet patch deepening against the fabric as his gaze deepens.

focusing on your work papers is definitely becoming harder by the minute as the skin of mingis plump lips touch your inner thighs, that thick tongue tracing a pattern towards where you need it most.

"thought you were gonna show me hm, min?" your tone made him pause in his tracks for a second, before his speed fastens.

now back to where he started, leaning forward, the sharp tip of his nose bumps against your perked clit, tongue following to lap on your wetness. without thinking much, your hand moves on its own, tangling up in the swirl of his brown hair, tugging lightly. a whine tears out of mingis throat.

his sounds muffle against the damp fabric clinging onto his face, now swiftly moved to the side. your fingertips scrape along his scalp, your other hand pushing around papers on the table to attempt at focusing.

just then, mingis eager tongue prods into your hole, a trickle of your liquids splashing onto it. a low moan catches in your throat, grip tight on his skull.

"that's it, gooddd boy min" mingis - usually low - voice comes out as a high pitched squeak, vibrating against your warmth.

his hands that lay on your thighs move up and down, smoothing into the heated flesh as he moves. theres a bit of experimenting done with the way he adjusts from back and forth to up and down, following your sounds. finally, he settles on a more up and down motion, his nose bumping against your bud, tongue lapping at your hole.

you can feel heat radiate off mingi under the table, his body shaking in both pleasure and anticipation. so, you decide to toy with him a little.

raising one of your feet off the floor, out of mingis grip, you push the heel of your foot lightly against the hardness building in his pants. the sigh that leaks out of mingis lips is full of pure pleasure, maybe a bit of surprise too.

"m-mommy-" his voice mumbled by your skin as he looks up at you, and you swear you can feel yourself tighten at the sight.

one hand on your right thigh, one wrapped around the other leg. his dark eyes are blown so wide, eyebrows furrowed to a needy pout, your slick covering the entire bottom half of his face; his nose too.

something snaps, and your papers send off flying as you let your other hand fall down to his head as well, tugging harshly on the roots.

"be a good boy and finish what you started, won't you min?" you feel him squirm in your grip, but obeying immediately like he always does.

mingis wet mouth wraps around your throbbing clit, the tip of his tongue moving in a quick pace against it. your heel presses harder, twisting around his cock, begging to be freed. though, mingi doesn't falter, he's got a job to finish.

his other hand frees itself from your thigh, instead pressing quickly against your sopping opening before pressing in with that familiar ease. a sound passes your lips from deep within your gut, the pleasure culminating faster then expected.

"fuckkk min- so good for mommy, make me cum"

your words work like magic in mingi, his mouth more eager, fingers more powerful- yet his body shakes against you. once your nails rake down his hair to his neck, you feel him sigh deeply against you, his pants twitching under your heel.

"mmgmh-mommy-mgh!" mingis voice is down to a mumbled mess as his tongue laps your clit in sync with his fingers thrusts.

the wet patch in his slacks make your grin wider, his cheeks burn brighter. moving your heel slightly you see him wiggle in overstimulation, the slick of his release seeping through the fabric onto your foot.

"someones sensitive" you giggle lightly- your amusement cut short as mingi slips in a third finger, your guilty pleasure. the sudden fullness makes your walls tighten, the sudden gush of your squirt painting mingis lower face within seconds.

you can feel him smile against you as he laps up every last drop of your finish, fingers still working you open to catch every drop of hat you have to give. your mouth hangs open, shoulders heavy as your hand lays on the back of mingis neck.

you just stay there for a moment, chest heaving as you look down at a messy mingi, covered in your release and sweat, grinning like a fool who just hit jackpot. your fingers ruffle his brown hair, sighing in pleasure.

"you better help me clean up those folders, by the way." mingi does that one specific look where his eyes look like they're about to pop out of his skull, sulking for dear life, before he just grins.

"anything to help my mommy."

[queenofsa1gon]

𐙚⋆ ࣪. 𝙈 𝘼 𝙎 𝙏 𝙀 𝙍 𝙇 𝙄 𝙎 𝙏

₊˚⊹ private lessons - k.hongjoong. struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons. college au, slow burn, romance, angst, fluff, smut. in progress, 21 chapters.

[rosanry]

"stuck with you."

pairing: accountant!san x housewife!reader

genre: established relationship, unhappy marriage, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut, hurt/comfort.

trigger warning: minors do not interact. sensitive content ahead, read at your own risk.

word count: 22,5k

୨୧

y/n:

hey, it's san, you already know that. okay, you know i'm bad at this, so i'm sorry in advance. there might be a right way to write this and i don't think i know it, but for you i'll try. please don't judge the handwriting too much. or the wording, or how short or long it is. i rewrote the first part four times and it still feels bad. anyway, i'm sorry, here's the letter. i guess i should start from the beginning, no? is that stupid? i don't know. [scribbled] the first time i saw you was in that class we both didn’t want to be in. i don’t even remember what the professor was saying, but i remember you. you were leaning over the desk, hand on your cheek, resting your head. i remember thinking you looked easy to be around. i don’t know why, but it did. this is embarrassing but i think i knew i wanted to marry you way earlier than i probably should have. i didn’t say it, obviously, that would've been creepy. i just knew you looked so so pretty and now that i know you, you became so beautiful. not that you weren't beautiful before being with me, you always were, i'm just saying from my perspective just how mesmerized you had me from the start, you know? you are just so smart, so creative, so diligent. [scribbled] it's like when you balance numbers and they finally add up the way they’re supposed to, that's what it kind of felt like, but in the romantic way. i'm sorry i'm not good at expressing my feelings and all that, you know that better than anyone else. but i want you to know that choosing you has never felt like a decision i had to force myself into. i want this more than anything, with you. we have this apartment now. it’s small and the walls are kind of thin and the kitchen light flickers sometimes, but it’s ours. i keep thinking about how this is the place where everything will start. mornings, dinners, normal days, hard days, all of it. and i like knowing you’ll be here at the end of the day. i like knowing i get to come home to you. i promise i’ll take care of you. i promise i’ll work hard. [scribbled] i know i don’t always say what i’m thinking, but i feel things even when i don’t show them right. does that make sense? well, [scribbled] i’m really proud to be your husband. that still feels strange to write, but in a good way. i hope we grow old together. i hope we don’t stop choosing each other, even when life gets busy or complicated. i hope you always know that you’re my favorite person in the world, even if i forget to say it out loud sometimes. i’ll always try to try, even if i’m bad.

i love you.

san

tucked beneath the neatly folded cashmere sweaters, exactly where you left it. lace covered box, meant for letters he had promised to fill with, yet a year and a half later, only the first one stood alone. you weren't angry, not even sad. it actually made you chuckle a little. just a quiet grief for what had been started to root deep inside, for the vibrant colors that had softened into pastels, for the soft reverence in his eyes that had slowly faded into habit. you often found yourself staring at the box, a wry smile touching your lips.

the paper, once crisp, now yielded to countless revisits. you knew every word by heart, the rhythm of his awkward sincerity etched into your memory. you traced the faded ink. his handwriting, usually neat in ledgers, was a little clumsy here. each letter formed with an almost painful deliberation. it was short, a simple promise. a quiet declaration of his intent to build a life with you, to be your home. no extreme pronouncements of undying passion, but a solid foundation of devotion. san had never been one for grand gestures, at least not in words. his love manifested in the certainty of his presence, the steady rhythm of his life intertwined with yours. in fact, you had asked for the letter in the first place, at that diner right before receiving the keys to the apartment.

"a letter?" he'd shifted on his seat, a blush creeping up his neck. "i'm not... good with words, y/n."

you shook your head with an endeared smile. "you don't have to be shakespeare sannie, just you."

he seemed in thought for a moment, trying to resist looking at your puppy eyes asking pretty please before straightening his back, accepting the challenge. and he did. pen clutched tight, brows furrowed in concentration. you’d watched him, your heart swelling with a love so potent it felt like a physical ache. then when he finished, he slid it across the booth table, eyes avoiding yours with his shy offering.

now, the paper, soft as old linen, whispered between your fingertips. you didn't rush. each sentence, each carefully chosen word, you read them slowly, precious memory reexperiencie. tasting the hope, the fresh promise of that day when he later bought you the box, saying he'd get better at it and you'd have it spilling out with his loving written words. you ran your fingers over the intricate patterns of the lace, delicate threads contrasting the hollow space.

you folded the letter along it's original creases, the paper folding easily, and placed it back before checking your thight bun in the mirror, perfect posture, every single hair placed where it was meant to be. he still looked at you, of course, but the spark, the raw wonder, had dimmed. it wasn't his fault. life had a way of sanding down the sharp edges of infatuation, leaving behind the smooth, enduring stone of work life.

silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant city chorus. you tell yourself he just forgot. got busy, or thought one was enough. you're good at explaining things away. but when did trying turn into remembering? when did the promise of a future become the past?

the aroma of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the air, a comforting scent that tonight told a solitary performance. table was set, candles unlit, everything waiting for a moment that kept getting delayed. the antique clock sat on the mantelpiece. seven thirty, again. you waited for the familiar click of keys in the lock, the sound that usually signaled the end of day and the beginning of us.

when he comes in your head lifts before you even realize. smoothing your dress automatically, fingers brushing over fabric that was never wrinkled in the first place. a small smile already forming, reserved for him. san already halfway out of his shoes, shoulders slumped, a dark suit jacket draped over his arm. he didn’t glance at the table set for two, but knows everything looks exactly as it always does.

"hey," his voice tired, worn down. like business of the city still clung to him.

"hi," you answer, softer.

he leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple. familiar, practiced.

"sorry i’m late," he adds, already loosening his tie as you walked towards the dining table. "we had to redo part of the quarterly report because... how do i put this- there was a discrepancy in one of the ledgers, and it threw off the whole reconciliation process. so we had to go back and..."

pulling out his chair. the heavy oak scraped across the polished floor. he loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "had to redo a section. whole damn thing.” he ran a hand through his hair, already tousled from the day. “hours. just… hours.”

you watched him, spooning roasted vegetables onto his plate. you pushed his plate closer, then sat across from him. "must be frustrating," you offered, a soft murmur.

he picked up his fork, turning the chicken over. "frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. the whole team, scrambling. for a single misplaced figure." he took a bite, chewed slowly. "it’s done now. mostly."

he keeps talking about work, deadlines, numbers, something about a client. you listen, always do. you don't understand every word, but you understand him in the way he talks when he’s tired. the slight edge in his voice, the way he explains things like he’s still in the middle of solving them. it’s easier for him to talk about numbers than about how his day actually felt.

nods at the right moments. hums of acknowledgement. small "and then?" once in a while, just to keep him going.

"…where did those come from?" he signals behind you at the counter. a faint lift of an eyebrow. a hint of a smile, almost.

you glance back, even though you know exactly what he’s looking at. the vase sits neatly by the sink, filled with fresh flowers. soft colors, carefully arranged.

"oh," you say, turning back to him, a warmth creeping up your neck. "mrs. jones gave them to me. i brought her some brownies earlier."

he paused, fork halfway to his mouth and exhales a small breath through his nose in genuine bewilderment.

"y/n," he says, setting his fork down for a second, "you need to stop baking so much."

you blink at him. "why?"

"i don't know, it's just..." he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. "it's every day. there's always something new. brownies, cookies, that cake from yesterday. the whole building must be swimming in your desserts." he didn’t sound angry, just... resigned.

"i like baking," your voice still gentle, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth

"i know, i know," he says quickly. "i'm just saying… it's a lot, isn't it?"

a small pause settles and you shrug, barely lifting your shoulders. "it keeps me busy."

he reached across the table, covering your hand with his. his palm was warm, calloused. "tell you what. how about i book you a day at that salon you like? the one on fifth street. hair. nails. the works. i can tell my sister to join you."

"what? am i starting to look like a hag?" you managed a weak laugh.

his grip tightened slightly. his eyes, usually so guarded, held yours with an intensity that surprised you. "you know that’s not what i meant." his voice was firm, no trace of humor.

the small joke withered and you nodded, slowly. "okay." you swallowed. "okay, that sounds... nice."

the candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face. he picked up his fork again, the brief moment of connection already fading.

later, the apartment settled into it's nightly quiet. you lay in bed, the soft glow of your reading lamp illuminating the pages of a novel you couldn't quite focus on. normal people by sally rooney, but the words blurred. beside you, san lay on his back, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands. the blue light painted his face in stark contrasts. his thumb scrolled, scrolled, scrolled. numbers, probably. reports. another discrepancy.

you watched the subtle movements of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow. he was so focused, so far away. still, you reached out, tentative touch to his forearm. his skin was warm beneath your fingers.

he didn’t stir, didn’t look up. his thumb kept scrolling.

you moved your hand, gently, up his arm, over his shoulder, until your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, then threaded into his hair. soft, dark strands. you leaned closer, your breath stirring the air near his ear.

a soft sound escaped him and it almost seemed like he was leaning into it. a yawn. deep, stretching. he lowered the phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. his eyes, heavy lidded, met yours. fleeting moment, again.

"long day," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he gave you a quick short peck on your cheek then turned onto his side, facing away from you, the duvet pulled higher. "good night."

lamp clicked off. darkness enveloped the room, thick and immediate. you lay there, listening to the soft, even rhythm of his breathing, soon turning into soft snores. beside him but alone in the quiet. the book lay open, unread. words still blurred.

୨୧

acetone and something floral, both sharp and comforting. hum of dryers and low chatter fills the space, blending into a steady background noise that makes everything feel easy. normal.

you sat in the middle chair, hands resting neatly on the small cushion in front of you, fingers relaxed but still. a sigh escaping your lips before you could stop it. the manicurist, a young woman with a bright, knowing smile, took your hand, her touch cool and precise. she filed your nails into neat, elegant ovals. you picked a soft, clean color without much thought. something simple, safe, that goes with everything.

across from you, two of your friends leaned into each other, their overlapping voices a stream of gossip. too loud and uncaring. the others chime in, voices overlapping. one of them threw her head back, a peal of laughter echoing, the other one nodded, eyes wide with feigned shock. they talked about a mutual acquaintance’s recent engagement, the scandalous details of a breakup, the endless parade of societal expectations.

"he actually said that?"

"no, stop-"

"i'm serious, i swear-"

to your left, rhythmic snip of scissors. noeul, san's older sister listened quietly, sat under a cloud of foil, her head tilted back as a stylist worked through her dark hair. but her attention drifts back to you more often than not. she owned a warm, reassuring glint. offering a small, conspiratorial smile whenever you caught her gaze in the mirror, silent acknowledgment of the shared escape.

a few chairs down, a woman with kind eyes spoke in hushed tones to her stylist. "she just graduated middle school with the highest scores," her voice, thick with a mother’s proudness, drifted over.

the stylist hums a singing note. "you must be so proud."

"oh, more than that" the woman exhales. "she's even already thinking about what she wants to study after high school."

she spoke of her daughter, a girl she’d poured her heart into.

your fingers still for a second on the cushion. the stylist murmurs something gentle back, and the conversation folds into the background. but it lingers.

your gaze drifted from the woman’s satisfied face to the neat row of polish bottles, then to your own hands, at the careful brush of polish gliding over your nails. you imagined those hands, smaller, softer, reaching for yours. a child. a son, perhaps, with san’s dimples and your own tendency to blush when surprised. or a daughter, with san’s quiet strength and your expressive eyes. the thought bloomed in your mind like a fragile hothouse flower.

you try to picture it. years stacked quietly on top of each other. a child in your apartment. toys where there are now empty surfaces. noise where there is now silence. san, coming home from work. would he pick them up? would he be too tired? would he talk to them the way he talks to you now, half there, half somewhere else? or would it be different? the thought catches you off guard. unfamiliar.

because you've never talked about it. not seriously. not beyond passing comments, vague things people say because they’re supposed to. someday. eventually. no timelines, no plans, no want or don’t want laid out clearly between you.

you don't even know if he wants kids. and for a second, that realization feels heavier than it should. there’s a whole future on a limbo sitting out of reach. not because it’s impossible, but because it’s never been named.

"y/n? you’re miles away!" the brightness of your friend's voice cut through your reverie.

the other leans forward slightly, "how’s married life treating you?"

you don't look up right away, only tilting your hand slightly when the nail tech asks you to. a practiced tug at the corner of your lips masked the tremor beneath.

"it's good, really good." you offered, voice light and airy.

"ugh," someone groans playfully. "of course it is. you guys were always like... perfect for each other."

you let out a soft laugh. "thank you, emma."

"it is," the friend grins. "seriously though, what have you guys been up to lately? anything fun?"

there’s a pause. you glance up for just a second, like you're checking your memory for something recent, something worth telling. "not really," tone still light. "just... normal stuff."

"that's adorable," another friend says, laced with genuine admiration. "no drama or chaos. must be so peaceful to marry an office guy."

"yeah," you nod, smile a little wider. "exactly."

the conversation shifts easily after that, flowing like a meandering river to other topics, someone starts talking about a coworker, someone else about a trip they want to take, and you listen, add comments here and there, smile when you're supposed to. their voices rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. you watched them, their easy camaraderie, the way they finished each other’s sentences, and a familiar pang of loneliness pierced through the carefully erected wall around your heart.

noeul’s voice, soft but firm, cut through the din. she leaned closer, her perceptive eyes, meeting yours.

"how’s he been?” she asks.

you turn slightly. "san?"

a small nod. "yeah."

your smile didn’t falter. it felt glued on now, a permanent fixture. "he’s good," you say. "just busy with work, you know how he is." the words came out a little too quickly, a little too smooth. you avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the manicurist applying the top coat, making sure each nail was perfectly glossy.

noeul scoffs and tilts her head. "i do." a faint, wry smile touched her lips. "you know, i’ve known my brother a long time. longer than you, even." she paused, letting her words hang in the air. "i know how he gets. when things pile up and he forgets the rest of the world exists."

for a second, the façade threatened to crack. the truth, the bitter, stinging sensation, rose in your throat. you wanted to confess, to unburden yourself, to say, he’s not here, noeul. even when he’s here, he’s not here. i’m so lonely. i feel like i’m drowning in this calm. but the words remained trapped. fearful of conflict, ingrained habit of presenting things softly. you forced a small, reassuring nod. "yeah, it's nothing." the lie tasted like ash.

she watches you for a second longer, like she’s weighing something, then hums lightly and looks away, letting the moment dissolve back into the room. as the conversation drifts away again, your gaze lowers, unfocused.

the manicurist finished, buffing your nails to a high shine. she applied a cuticle oil, the scent of almond and rose a delicate perfume. your hands, now impeccably groomed, felt foreign.

"all done, dear." she announced, her smile bright.

you lift your hands slightly, turning them under the light. they’re perfect. smooth, even, untouched.

"thank you," you say, smiling.

for a moment, you imagine asking him. should be simple. do you ever think about kids? it doesn’t feel like a big question. it's not.

and yet, you can’t picture the moment clearly. when you'd ask, how he’d answer, whether it would feel natural or out of place, like introducing a topic that doesn’t belong in the quiet shape of their life. so you let the thought go.

you reach for your phone absentmindedly. no new messages. thumb hovers over the screen for a second, like you might type something, then you lock it instead and set it back down.

"do you guys want to grab something after this?" a girls asks. "coffee?"

"perfect! i’m craving that new lavender latte."

"oh, i can't," you say quickly, forcing another regretful smile. "i really should head home. dinner, you know." you gestured vaguely, as if the very concept of an empty fridge was an urgent, looming threat.

"alright, wifey," someone teases.

you simply smile again in a thin line as you stand, smoothing down your dress out of instinct and reach for your bag. giving everyone a small goodbye hug. as you pass behind noeul, there’s a brief brush of hands, intentional to pause you.

"hey, if it’s ever not nothing," she says quietly, a hint of concern still lacing her words. "you can tell me."

you hold her gaze for a second. then you smile. soft, reassuring, effortless. "i know." and you mean it, you just don't use it.

blur of city sounds and hurried footste. you stepped out, the cool afternoon air a sharp contrast to the salon’s warmth. rose scented oil on your nails, faint blush of pink, it felt like a disguise. you walked, footsteps echoing on the pavement, toward the quiet of the apartment, toward the silent kitchen, toward the dinner you had to make. the thought of it, a weight in your stomach, settled in with the dull ache of loneliness. the calm awaited.

୨୧

the last of the suds swirled down the drain, taking with them the faint scent of tonight’s braised short ribs. you wiped down the counter, movements precise, methodical. the clinking of ceramic plates against the drying rack was the only sound in the kitchen. you dried your hands on a towel, folding it neatly over the edge of the sink when you're finished. dishes done, kitchen clean again.

san's in the living room, laptop open, the soft glow of the screen lighting his face. he's not typing much. just staring, scrolling, thinking. you paused at the archway, shoulder pressing lightly against the cool plaster. the conversation from the salon, a snippet of motherhood, rang in your mind. it had all been a gentle nudge, a question mark in the back of your thoughts all afternoon. you hadn't realized how much space the idea of a child, of your child, could occupy until that moment.

the future, once a vibrant tapestry you and san wove together with eager hands, now a blank canvas. you’d painted the college days in bright, bold strokes, the wedding vows in shimmering gold. but the years beyond, the ones stretching into a quiet domesticity, remained unsketched. you found yourself wondering if san even saw that canvas anymore, if he still held a brush.

you watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he began typing, the subtle ripple beneath his shirt. his dark hair, a little longer than you usually liked, fell across his forehead. he didn’t look up, his focus absolute, a tunnel vision you’d come to recognize.

"still have a lot to do?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, a whisper against the keyboard’s clatter.

his fingers stilled for a beat, then resumed their pace. "almost," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen. "just finishing up these projections for the morning."

a breath, deep and slow, air cool in your lungs. you watch him for a second. the way his brows pull together slightly, the way his attention narrows into whatever’s on the screen. focused. distant. the question, the real question, the one that had been brewing since you left the salon, fell heavy on your tongue. it wasn't just about kids. it was about us. about the unspoken, the unasked, the growing chasm of silence. you wanted to ask if he ever thought about them, about a future that wasn’t neatly tied to quarterly reports and spreadsheets. you wanted to ask if he still saw you, really saw you, beyond the perfectly made bed and the carefully planned dinners. maybe, just maybe, this question could be the key, a small crack. it could lead to an actual conversation, a real one, not just about work or groceries or the weather. your heart beat a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"hey," you start.

he hummed, signaling acknowledgement without breaking concentration. his head tilted slightly, silent invitation to continue.

do you ever think about kids?

words once so clear in your mind, so simple in your head, at least, suddenly tangled. they became a knot in your throat, a lump of unspoken fears and resentments. the image of him, so engrossed, so far away, solidified the doubt. what if he says no? what if he doesn’t want them? what if he thinks it’s a silly question? the fear of that disappointment in his eyes, was a known, suffocating weight. you’d spent years perfecting the art of soft landings, of avoiding any ripple in the calm surface of your shared life. to shatter that now, to introduce a potential disagreement, felt like a betrayal of your own carefully constructed peace. the question of children, of your future, of his love, dissolved into a vague, unformed anxiety.

"do you…" you began, then faltered, sentence dying on your lips. "do you want some tea?"

he looked up then, slanted brown eyes meeting yours, a faint smile touching his lips. the blue light softened the edges of his face, highlighting the dimples that appeared only when he was genuinely pleased. "yeah," he nodded. "sounds nice."

and just like that, the moment passed. the opportunity vanished. you offered a small, tight smile in return, then turned and walked back into the quiet kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. behind you, the quiet settles back into place. the question dissolves somewhere between the sink and the stove, blending into the rhythm of water filling, mugs being set out, something warm being made and offered instead of something uncertain being asked. by the time the kettle starts to hum, you can’t even tell if it would’ve been the right moment or if there would ever be one.

୨୧

the supermarket was colder than you'd expected when the automatic doors whispered open, spitting out artificial chill. paused just past the entrance, adjusting your grip on the heavy cart as the air settled unwelcome against your skin. for a moment, you just stood there, letting the quiet hum of refrigerators and distant chatter fill the space around you. a shiver traced it's way down your spine, cold reminder that you had to move, and so you pushed the metal basket forward as it's wheels squeaked faintly.

there was no reason to rush. you followed the aisles in a pattern you didn’t have to think about anymore. chicken first, hand reaching for the familiar white tray. then the vegetable section. flour, again. sugar, constant drain on the pantry, always seemed to run out faster than it should. everything found it's place in the cart without hesitation, each item chosen with the same steady certainty. each line on your shopping list crossed off with a decisive stroke of the pen. at some point, you realized you had already walked down the same aisle twice.

nothing missing, nothing forgotten. the necessities secured, a small indulgence felt earned. you slowed, then stopped altogether at the snack aisle. eyes drifted over the shelves, lingering on things you didn’t need. brightly colored packaging, a mental tally forming: which ones you wouldn't you buy, which ones would san wrinkle his nose at? the familiar ritual offered a brief, quiet comfort. you imagined his polite imperceptible nod of approval when you presented his favourite chocolate covered crispy biscuits, or the slight, teasing lift of his brow if you dared bring home something too exotic.

"y/n?" the voice came from behind, uncertain but enough to make you turn, the cart creaking in protest. you couldn’t place him until the crooked smile appeared and recognition settled in.

seonghwa.

he stood a few feet away, a half basket hooked over his arm. the boy you remembered, all sharp angles and adolescent angst, had softened around the edges, but the core was undeniably him. the piercings that once studded his ears and lip were gone, leaving only ghost like indentations. but new ink snaked up his forearms, dark tendrils against his skin, a testament to a life lived beyond high school hallways. his wolf cut, a shaggy, artfully dishevelled frame around his face, was longer, wilder than you remembered. his round eyes, still piercing, held a glint of surprise, then something else, something assessing.

"oh...hi," you said, a small, surprised smile breaking through. "wait, hi."

"wow, it's really you." he smiled back, a little wider, like he’d been more sure of it than you were. "i almost didn't recognize you. you... look good, exactly the same," he added, almost as an afterthought.

you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "that’s not true."

"it is," he said lightly. "just... older. in a good way."

you smiled again, more out of politeness this time, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as if to give your hands something to do.

"what are you doing around here?" he asked. "do you live nearby?"

"yeah," you nodded. "not too far. i just came to... groceries."

"right," he said, glancing at his own cart. "same."

there was a brief pause, the kind that should have felt awkward, but didn’t quite. not yet.

"so... are you still in touch with... what was her name? sarah? no- samantha?”

you smiled faintly. "no."

"right, yeah," he said quickly, waving it off with a small laugh. "i always mix those up."

you didn’t correct him. his gaze shifted then, catching on your left hand, lingering for a fraction on the thin band around your ring ringer. you followed his eyes, as if you hadn’t noticed it until that moment.

you offered a practiced smile, a smooth, well rehearsed performance. "oh, yeah. met him in college." the words came out light, airy, almost dismissive of the years of shared history, of the dreams whispered in dorm rooms, the silent promises.

"college, huh? that's nice," he said, and it sounded genuine.

"it is," you replied, too quickly. "his name is san, he's an accountant." the description felt flat, inadequate, a pale shadow of the man you loved.

"an accountant. fancy." he chuckled. "so, what have you been up to? still arguing about about freud versus jung for fun?"

"no, not really." you corrected gently. "i mean, i got a psychology degree but i'm… i'm a stay at home wife now." the phrase almost felt embarrassing on your tongue.

his eyebrow shot up. "huh... i always pictured you, like, running a therapy practice, saving the world from going insane."

you shrugged. "well, it’s nice, though. i get to... manage the house. bake. plan meals. save him from going insane, you know?" the words hollow, even to your own ears.

"i bet san’s a lucky man. always coming home to fresh cookies." he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

small, tight knot formed in your stomach. you baked when you were anxious, yes. but san rarely came home early enough for the cookies to still be warm. and most of them, you gave away to the neighbours, offerings of surplus comfort. "something like that," you murmured, deflecting. "what about you? still making music?"

his face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated passion sparking in his eyes. the words lingered between you for a second before dissolving into something lighter. you talked after that. nothing important, nothing that would be remembered in detail later. work, vaguely. life, in broad strokes. the kind of conversation that filled space easily without asking too much of either of them. he asked questions and waited for the answers. reacted in the right places. kept things moving without letting them settle too long in any one place. you found yourself talking more than you expected to.

"a few of us get together sometimes," he said, almost casually. "nothing big. just... hanging out. you should come, we’re going to a friend's house next week. old times' sake."

you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because you did. your mind immediately conjured a mental checklist: the laundry basket overflowing in the utility room, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun on the living room floor, the intricate dinner you had planned for san, a quiet attempt to reignite a spark that felt increasingly dim. the thought of all those small, domestic duties, waiting patiently for your attention, made a familiar pang of guilt twist in your gut.

"i don’t know," you said lightly, automatic refusal on your lips. "i might be busy."

"with what?" he asked curiously.

you searched for something immediate, something obvious.

"just… stuff," you said instead, smoothing it over with a small smile.

he nodded, accepting it without question.

"well," he added, "if you’re not, you’re welcome. it’d be nice to catch up properly. it’s good to break free sometimes and let loose, you know?"

a small yearning stirred within you. the idea of an afternoon free from chores, from the quiet hum of your own thoughts, from the subtle ache of loneliness, held an unexpected appeal. "okay," you said, the word simple.

"yeah?" his eyes amused.

"yeah."

you exchanged numbers. nothing ceremonious about it, a small addition, barely noticeable in the moment. "well, it was good running into you, y/n. don’t be a stranger." he offered a quick, easy smile, then turned, his basket still hooked over his arm, and disappeared down the aisle towards the dairy section.

that night, you work through the knots in your hair in front of the vanity mirror. each stroke of the brush pulls a small discomfort. the rush of water from the tap in the en suite bathroom ceases. the door creaks open and san emerged, a towel draped low around his waist. water still clings to the dark hairs on his chest, glistening under the low light. he moves with a quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders filling the doorway for a moment before he crosses to his side of the bed, carrying the clean scent of his soap. he doesn’t look at you, not directly, as he peels the towel away, letting it drop to the floor. your gaze, however, finds the smooth expanse of his back, the hard lines of his muscles shifting as he reaches for the pajama drawer. you note the way his bicep flexes, the familiar curve of his neck, the slight slump of his shoulders that wasn’t there when you first met him.

you continue brushing, rhythmic scrape of bristles against scalp filling the silence. your heart a persistent bird, flutters.

"i ran into someone today," you say, your voice almost lost in the rustle of san pulling on a shirt.

a low hum sound from inside the fabric, he pulls the shirt down, smoothing it over his chest. he turns then, his eyes, dark and heavy lidded, finally finding yours in the mirror. a flicker of something unreadable passes through them before settling into a tired affection.

"at the market?" he asks as he pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed.

you nod, watching his reflection as he settles onto the mattress, propping himself up against the headboard. "an old friend. from high school." you pause, the brush still in your hand, it's bristles splayed. "apparently some of them still hang out, and i was invited."

the bed dips as he adjusts the pillows. "that’s good. you should go." his voice is calm, even. he picks up his phone from the nightstand, it's screen glowing blue for a moment before he sets it back down.

you turn fully then, the brush forgotten on the vanity. your bare feet touch the cool wood floor. "really? you don’t mind?" you walk to your side of the bed.

he looks up, his brows furrowed slightly. "why would i mind? it’s good for you to see people. you’re always here." his gaze sweeps around the room, then back to you. "you should get out more."

the words, meant to be reassuring, land with a surprising weight. always here. a small, sharp ache begins in your chest. you climb into bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. the sheets, cool against your skin, feel vast tonight.

"i mean," you start, choosing your words carefully, "i haven’t seen them in years. since graduation, probably." you watch his face, searching for something, a hint of curiosity, a flicker of concern.

he just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "people change. that’s okay. it’ll be nice to reconnect." he reaches over, his hand finding yours under the duvet. his fingers, warm and strong, intertwine with yours, a familiar comfort. "you’ve been cooped up. it’s good to have plans."

his thumb strokes the back of your hand, it’s a connection, yes, but one that feels practiced, automatic. you want to tell him more, to say, it was seonghwa, the boy with the emo hair, the one who used to draw skulls in his notebook during history class, but the words catch in your throat. the moment feels too delicate, too easily broken.

"i guess so," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. you squeeze his hand, a silent plea for more, for him to ask, who was it? what did you talk about?

soft exhalation that sounds like relief escapes him. he leans over, his head dipping. his lips, warm and soft, brush your forehead, then your temple, then your mouth. it’s a brief, chaste kiss, a familiar closing to the day. his lips taste faintly of mint. he pulls back, settling deeper into his pillow.

"good night, y/n," he says, his voice already thick with sleep.

eyes closing and breathing deepening almost immediately. the rhythm of his breath fills the room, steady and even. his hand, still holding yours, loosens it's grip. fingers, heavy with sleep, slide away.

darkness pressed in as you layed there, the silence amplifying the quiet hum of the city outside. your eyes trace the familiar contours of his face in the dim light. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rest against his cheekbones. faint smile, ghost of a dream, plays on his lips. he looks peaceful, untroubled.

he hadn’t asked. he hadn’t asked anything beyond the most superficial. he hadn't asked who. he hadn't asked if you wanted to go. he just assumed.

you turn onto your side, facing away from him, pulling the duvet tighter around you. the warmth of the blankets does little to chase away the chill that has settled deep within you. still, you tried to push the thought away. it’s not fair. san is tired. he works hard. he provides. this is what you agreed to. this is the life you built. you chose this, to be here. for him. but the loneliness curls around your heart. the perfection of the bed you made this morning, the carefully planned dinner, the unspoken anxieties baked into the pastries you gave away, all of it feels like a silent scream swallowed by the vast, quiet expanse of your days.

tears won’t come even if the knot in you throat screams for a cry. instead, your mind drifts to the closet, to the neat rows of clothes, the perfectly folded sweaters. tomorrow, you think, you’ll reorganize the winter section. it needs it. you need it. a small, manageable task to fill the endless hours.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n from the store. i think i'm free that day if the invite still stands

seonghwa park: hey!

seonghwa park: yeah of course 😉

seonghwa park: glad ur coming, heres the address

seonghwa park: [location]

୨୧

the building wasn't what you expected. grimy canvas of faded brick and peeling paint that slightly unnerved you. you pulled your phone from your pocket a third time, checked the address, then glanced up at the entrance like it might correct itself if you stayed waiting long enough.

no, this was it.

bass vibrated through the pavement, pulse beneath your feet. for a second, you consider leaving, then you adjust your grip on the small container in your hands and step inside. the hallway swallowed you whole, narrow canyon that smell suspiciously of gasoline. when you reach the graffiti painted door, it was already slightly open. you knocked anyway.

there's a small shuffle inside before seonghwa emerges, his grin a flash of white teeth.

"y/n! thought you weren't gonna make it." he stepped aside, his arm sweeping an invitation.

you offered a small, polite smile, stepping into the room. the air hit you first, thick with a cloying sweetness you couldn't recognize and the acrid bite of stale cigarettes. the apartment was a controlled chaos. art adorned every available surface, canvases leaning against walls, sketches tacked to corkboards, a half finished sculpture draped in cloth in a corner. the room swam with bodies. girls, their midriffs bare, navel piercings glinting under the strung fairy lights. men, their arms drawn with ink, sprawled on beanbags or perched on the worn, leather couches. they moved with an easy, unhurried rhythm, as if the space molded itself around their presence. your modest linen shirt, a soft ecru, felt suddenly like a costume, an ill fitting disguise.

"hey everyone, this is y/n, from high school." seonghwa’s voice cut through the haze, a casual announcement.

a few heads turned, a couple of languid nods, but most remained immersed in their conversations, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. your gaze swept across the room, searching for a familiar face, a flicker of recognition. nothing.

"it’s... nice to meet you all," you murmured, voice a little too soft, a little too formal for the raucous atmosphere. you clutched the clear container in your hands, the weight of it suddenly grounding.

a girl with a constellation of tiny tattoos climbing her neck, her hair a violent shade of fuchsia, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at your hands. "what’s that?"

you felt a blush creep up your neck. "oh. cookies. i made them." you held the container out, a silent offering.

a woman with striking, dark eyes and a generous smile detached herself from a group near the window. she wore spiked hair and her eyebrows seemed to be gone, but her presence offered a quiet anchor. "cookies! how cute. anna, by the way." she extended a hand, her grip firm and warm.

"y/n." you returned her shake, a surge of relief washing over you.

"i didn't know this was a bake sale," a gravelly voice grumbled from a corner, followed by a snort.

anna turned, her dark eyes narrowing playfully at the fat guy with a mohawk. "shut up, mark. you never bring anything." she gave his arm a quick, sharp shove. despite his joke, he came up as well.

a fresh wave of embarrassment hit you, cheeks burning as you began to stammer, "i just thought, you know, as a... a thank you for inviting me..."

anna waved your apology away. "no, it’s great! we love snacks. what kind?" she peered into the container, her eyes sparkling.

"chocolate chip. with sea salt." you offered, a small smile tentatively forming.

the lid popped open with a soft click. the aroma of warm chocolate and vanilla wafted through the air, momentarily cutting through the other scents. it was like a siren song. suddenly, a small crowd materialized around you, drawn by the scent. hands reached in, fingers deftly plucking cookies from their neat rows.

"someone brought cookies?"

"wait, i want cookies."

"no way, cookies?"

"save me one. i said save me one!"

the conversation dwindled, replaced by the soft sounds of chewing and contented murmurs. a lanky guy took the last cookie, giving you a between apologetic and grateful look and you laugh it off. within minutes, the container lay empty, a few crumbs clinging to it's clear sides. you felt a genuine smile spread across your face. the tension in your shoulders eased. "i’m glad you liked them."

for a moment everything was filled with overlapping conversations and easy movement, people drifting in and out without much structure. you sat at the couch with anna and mark. being spoken to, responded to, included without having to work for it. she asks you what else you like to bake. he asks where you live. the questions aren’t deep, but they come one after another and you answer, laugh and nod. the silence you've been carrying around doesn’t follow you in, it stays somewhere outside the door you walked through.

after a while, when the rhythm starts to feel harder to follow and topics shift quickly, you find your way back to seonghwa in the kitchen. he’s near the counter, talking to someone, but he glances over when you approach, like he’s been keeping track of where you are.

"hey," he says, turning slightly towards yo.

"hi," you answer before a small pause, then casually, "are any other people from our school coming?"

he doesn't hesitate. "nah," he says, shaking his head. "couldn't come."

"oh," you felt a pang of disappointment, small knot tightening in your stomach. you’d envisioned friendly faces, shared anecdotes, a comfortable bridge to this unfamiliar landscape. "okay."

"why?" he adds. "were you expecting someone?"

"no,no. i just thought maybe-" before trailing off, you shake your head lightly. "it's fine."

he watches you for a second, then nods once, like that’s enough.

"you’re good," he says. "don’t overthink it. come on, let’s get you a drink." seonghwa grinned, his hand briefly brushing your lower back as he steered you towards a cooler overflowing with ice and bottles.

you chose a sparkling water, the chill of the can a welcome sensation against your palm. you gravitated towards anna, who was now engaged in a lively discussion with mark about a band you’d never heard of. you hovered at the edge of their circle, listening, slowly piecing together fragments of their world. they spoke of gigs, of art installations, of obscure films, their words painting a vibrant, chaotic picture of lives lived on the fringes of convention.

as the evening continued it's slow, winding course, the hours passed by without warning, suddenly, it was later than you thought. through the subtle buzz in your veins and lightness you hadn't realized you were missing, the image of san already in bed, alone, stirred something in you. your small bag and empty container already in your hands.

"you can come in anytime, even if seonghwa isn't here." anna said before hugging you goodbye.

as you made your way towards the door, seonghwa intercepted you. "leaving already? come on, just one more drink." his voice was persuasive.

"i really should go. it’s getting late." you offered a polite, but firm smile.

he stepped closer, his hand briefly touching your arm. "you know, you’re really something, y/n. a real breath of fresh air." his eyes held yours, flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

"thank you, seonghwa. for inviting me." you pulled your arm away subtly.

"anytime. seriously. we should hang out again, just us two." his voice dropped, a low murmur intended only for your ears.

you felt a shiver, a faint unease prickling at your skin. "maybe," you said, voice noncommittal, then slipped out the door, back into the cool night air.

the street was quieter now, the bass from the building still a faint thrum in the distance. you walked and thought of the laughter, the music, the easy camaraderie, and a strange sense of longing settled in your chest. it was a world so different from your own, a world where boundaries seemed to blur, where emotions were worn on sleeves, where life felt raw and immediate.

stale cigarette smoke clung to your clothes, a new perfume you hadn't anticipated, but somehow, it felt less offensive than the lingering scent of dish soap from your day to day. your sensible sedan, parked a block away, seemed almost out of place among the battered vans and motorcycles. once you got in safely, you pulled out your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a single text from san from an hour ago: 'home. have a good time, night.' short, efficient, just like him. you stared at it and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to him, to tell him about the fuchsia hair, the tattooed arms, their reactions to your cookies, the melancholic music, anna’s kind eyes. but you tucked your phone back into your purse, the small, bright screen now dark.

you unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the silent space. the air inside was still, heavy with the scent of your carefully chosen strawberry cake diffuser. a half eaten bowl sat on the kitchen counter, remnants of the chicken stir fry you had prepared earlier, the pan still on the stove, a few grains of rice clinging to it's surface. a small sigh of relief escaped your lips. he had eaten. the simple act, a confirmation of your effort, brought a satisfaction to you. you moved through the kitchen, the soft clink of ceramic and metal as you rinsed the bowl, scrubbed the pan. it was a mindless task, your hands working on autopilot, while your mind drifted back to the vibrant chaos of anna's house.

the bedroom was a hushed darkness. san lay sprawled on his side of the bed, a rumbling snore escaping his lips, his face buried in the pillow. the sheet, pulled up to his waist, outlined the broad expanse of his back, the familiar curve of his spine. a sight you knew intimately, a tableau repeated almost every night. he worked hard, you reminded yourself, always.

you untangled your hair from the neat french twist, the pins scattering like tiny metallic insects onto the polished wood of your dresser. soft fingers massaged your scalp, releasing the tension that had gathered there throughout the day. you stripped off your clothes replacing them with silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. teeth brushed and bathroom light off, the bed dipped slightly as you eased yourself in, careful not to disturb san. he remained a dark, unmoving mass beside you, his breathing deep and even.

sleep, usually a welcome embrace, felt elusive tonight. your mind buzzed, a kaleidoscope of new faces, loud music, and unfiltered laughter. the freedom of it all, the raw, unpolished authenticity, contrasted sharply with the quiet, ordered life you had carefully constructed.

shifting restless, silk rustling against the sheets. the image of the girl's fuchsia hair, defiant and vibrant, flashed in your mind. her confident stride, her easy smile. what did she worry about? did she ever feel this profound, aching quietness? you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of san's back. the moonlight, filtering through the gap in the curtains, painted a silver line along his broad shoulder, the muscle defined even in repose. he was strong, reliable, your rock. yet lately, the rock was a mountain you couldn't climb.

a pang of something sharp, something akin to longing, twisted in your gut. you wanted to feel. you wanted to be seen. not just as the wife who kept the house, who cooked the meals, but as you, again. the you who had laughed tonight, unburdened. the one you knew san had fallen in love with.

your hand, almost without conscious thought, slipped beneath the silk of your pajama shorts. the fabric parted, your fingers, tentative at first, found the soft mound of your grown pubic hair, then the slick, warm folds beneath. a small gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by the quiet room. your core, already sensitive, pulsed beneath your touch. you stroked, slowly, deliberately, soft pressure building.

subtly, your hips began to tilt, involuntary movement, pressing into your palm. your fingers worked with a quiet urgency, tracing the delicate ridges, circling the peak of your clitoris. a moistness spread, warm, slick rush that dampened the silk shorts beneath your hand. the sensation intensified, a delicious ache blooming deep inside you, spreading through your belly. your breathing hitched, growing shallow, ragged.

wake up, i'm here.

you closed your eyes, a torrent of images flashing behind your eyelids. san, the warmth of his touch, a vague, undefined hunger. you pressed harder, your thumb finding a rhythm, a steady, insistent pressure. a low moan, barely audible, escaped your throat, a sound of pure pleasure. your whole body tensed, arching slightly into your hand. the climax a sudden, exquisite release, wave of heat that cascaded through your limbs, leaving you trembling, breathless.

୨୧

the shrill ring of the alarm ripped you from a dreamless sleep. your eyes fluttered open, the room still shrouded in pre dawn gloom. a glance at the clock sent a jolt of panic through you. 6:45 am. san left at 7:30. you had overslept.

you scrambled out of bed, the silk shorts clinging briefly before you shed them. the floor was cool beneath your bare feet.

"san, wake up," you whispered, nudging his shoulder. he grunted and slowly, reluctantly, stirred.

you moved with practiced efficiency, a whirlwind of motion in the quiet kitchen. the scent of brewing coffee began to fill the air, mingling with the sizzle of eggs in the pan. toast popped, butter melted, and the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping fruit filled the space. san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed, his black hair still damp, clinging to his forehead. he looked tired, his eyes still holding the remnants of sleep, but his movements were precise, methodical.

"morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam curling around his face.

"morning," you replied, already assembling his lunch. a neat stack of sandwiches, a small container of cut fruit, a handful of almonds. you wrapped it all meticulously, fitting it into his lunch bag.

"did you sleep okay?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. he leaned against the counter, watching you.

"yeah, eventually," you said, trying to keep your voice light. you packed a small thermos of tea. "i went to that thing last night, you know, the hangout thing?"

he nodded before picking up a slice of toast, spreading jam onto it. "how was it?"

"it was...different," you began, a small smile playing on your lips. you wanted to tell him everything, about the fuchsia hair, the tattoos, the unexpected warmth. "it was in this old building, kind of grungy, but everyone was so nice. there was this girl, sally, she had the most incredible hair, like, bright pink and her face was like a strainer, filled with piercings, it was so cool. and then i met anna, she had these dark intimidating eyes but she was actually really sweet. she’s a photographer for bands."

he turned to you with a slight frown. "y/n?"

"yeah?" you cleaned your hands with a kitchen towel.

"you're not... getting into anything dangerous, are you?"

you tilted your head, looking at him confused. "what? no, no. they were really nice people, they had this energy, like they just didn't care what anyone thought. it was kind of... inspiring."

"hmm..." he took a bite with a raised brow. "be careful y/n, you know how those types can be."

the warmth you’d felt, a flicker of shared experience, began to cool. "i am. but listen, there was also music, not like the music we usually listen to, more like a band sound," you continued, a little more emphatically, trying to inject some of the excitement you had felt into your words. "there was this guy, he had these huge arms filled with tattoos and he had a mohawk, i'd never seen one of those in real life."

he looked away again, finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "just don’t get into anything foolish." he reached for his briefcase and lunchbox, already moving towards the door.

your shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, there was so much you still wanted to tell him. but there was also no time, you knew. there never was. he was already halfway out the door, his hand on the knob.

"i'll make your favorite soup for dinner tonight," you offered, a last ditch effort to connect, to anchor him for just a moment longer.

he paused, turning his head slightly. a small, tired smile touched his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "thanks, that sounds great, i'll try not to be too late. love you."

"love you," you mumbled as the door shut and he was gone, the click of the lock echoing in the now silent apartment. you stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of coffee and eggs.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n, i had a really good time yesterday.

seonghwa park: hey, me too

seonghwa park: everyone loved u btw, they were all talking about how sweet you were when you left

y/n choi: really? that's so nice to hear

seonghwa park: ur coming next week, right?

y/n choi: again?

seonghwa park: yeah

seonghwa park: we hang out every weekend

seonghwa park: always at annas

seonghwa park: come ooon, ull have t come

seonghwa park: ur a part of the group now

the words, simple and direct, landed like a soft blanket on your exposed nerves. a part of the group now. the phrase resonated, a balm to the quiet ache san’s rushed departure had left behind. it wasn’t profound, not a declaration of affection, but it was an invitation, a recognition. it felt like a small hand reaching out in the growing expanse of your solitude.

y/n choi: i’d like that, thanks seonghwa.

the next week crawled by, each day a slow, methodical march of chores and quiet anticipation. the perfect bed, the planned dinners, the reorganizing of the linen closet. each task a meticulous attempt to fill the hours, to ward off the encroaching loneliness. but seonghwa’s words, hummed beneath the surface.

a part of the group now.

as saturday evening approached, nervous flutter stirred in your stomach. you pulled out a simple, soft cotton t-shirt, one you usually wore for lounging. then, a pair of well worn dark jeans. your fingers went to your hair, letting it fall, then found a simple black velvet hairband, pushing back the front strands.

the grungy building loomed, a concrete behemoth adorned with a tapestry of peeling posters and vibrant graffiti. the door stood ajar again, inviting light spilling onto the cracked pavement. but politeness, ingrained deep within you, compelled your knuckles to tap softly against it.

the door swung open further, revealing anna. her spiked hair, dark halo around her face, seemed to defy gravity. thicker eyeliner from the last time, you noticed. a cigarette dangled from her lips, thin wisp of smoke curling lazily into the air.

"well, look who it is," anna’s voice, raspy like gravel, held a surprising warmth. a slow smile spread across her face, revealing a glint of metal in her upper teeth. "you bring cookies this time, wifey?"

you laughed, unforced sound that surprised even yourself. "i didn’t, i’m afraid." faint blush touched your cheeks.

anna leaned against the doorframe, taking a drag from her cigarette. "shame. your hair looks good though, so i'll let you in." she winked, a playful glint in her dark eyes.

you stepped inside murmuring a small "thanks." she led you into the living room as seonghwa, who was meticulously cleaning something that looked like a round bottom flask, rose from the couch.

"hey, you. where's my hug?" he grinned, a flash of genuine pleasure in his expression. he offered a thight hug, quick squeeze that felt surprisingly comforting. "glad you came back."

"come on, i’ll show you my current obsession." anna, having stubbed out her cigarette in a makeshift ashtray, clapped you on the shoulder and led you to a corner of the living room, where a makeshift studio was set up. a flash unit sat on a tripod, and a black backdrop hung from a makeshift frame.

she showed you her new lighting techniques, her raspy voice softening as she spoke about her craft, explaining each of the series of prints tacked to the wall. the subjects, all punk, stared out with an intensity that pulled you in. low groan emanated from the other side of the room. mark, with his pants that perpetually threatened to slide off his ample frame, was getting another tattoo. the machine buzzing like an angry bee.

you watched, a strange mix of fascination and unease stirring within you. the raw intimacy of the moment, the deliberate pain, the permanent mark being etched into skin. it was so far removed from your carefully ordered world. visceral, unapologetic. you thought of san, of his disciplined body, his aversion to anything that might disrupt his carefully constructed order. a tattoo, to him, would be an act of reckless abandon, an unnecessary defacement.

anna exchanged a few words with the tattoo artist and you followed seonghwa and sally into the kitchen.

"tacos?" you asked, a sudden urge to ground yourself in something familiar, something productive.

"attempting to," seonghwa repeated, a wry smile playing on his lips. sally, armed with a knife, was making a valiant but clumsy effort to chop an onion. tears streamed down her heavily made up face.

"this is harder than it looks," she sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing eyeliner.

"i don’t even know if this is cooked enough. it still looks… pink."

you stepped forward with quiet confidence. this, you knew. this was your domain. "let me help," you offered, already reaching for the cutting board. you gently took the knife, demonstrating a quick, efficient chop that produced even dice.

you moved with an easy grace, hands finding their rhythm. chicken seasoned, a blend of spices from the overflowing spice rack that seemed to surprise even seonghwa. you showed sally how to properly dice tomatoes and shred lettuce, your voice soft but instructive. the kitchen, which had been a scene of mild culinary disaster, slowly began to transform into an efficient workspace.

"wow," sally beamed, her fuchsia hair bouncing. "seriously, my mom just nukes everything."

it was a simple thing, a small act of connection, of contribution. but you felt useful, appreciated. the feeling was a pleasant counterpoint to the quiet solitude of your own kitchen at home, where your culinary efforts often met with san’s polite, but often silent, approval.

the group gathered at the living room again, something being passed from hand to hand. you saw it before you recognized it, it wasn't tobacco.

the joint made it's rounds, anna took a long drag, her eyes closing in apparent contentment. seonghwa inhaled deeply, then exhaled a plume of smoke that dissolved into the dim light. sally giggled, her eyes a little brighter, her movements a little looser.

then, mark’s hand, big with his new tattoo, extended towards you, holding the burning joint. the tip glowed orange, small pulsating ember. a hush fell over the group, subtle, expectant. no one said anything, but their gazes, soft and encouraging, rested on you.

your breath hitched. your mind, usually so clear, swam with conflicting thoughts. weed. the word echoed in your head, sharp and disapproving. san’s voice, clear as day, cut through the hazy atmosphere.

disgusting. it’s not a gateway. it destroys lives.

his lectures, delivered with a quiet intensity, about the dangers of drugs, of anything that clouded judgment, that compromised control. he hated it. he hated all of it. smoking, drinking to excess, any form of escape that wasn’t productive, wasn’t measured.

your gaze flickered to mark’s hand, then to seonghwa, who offered a small, reassuring nod. a strange defiance, a tiny spark of rebellion, ignited within you. san, with his rigid rules and his unspoken expectations, felt miles away, a distant, fading echo. here, in this room, with these people, there was an unspoken permission, an acceptance of difference.

you thought of the quiet mornings, the unasked questions, the emotional chasm that had grown between you and san. you thought of the lingering loneliness, the slow, insidious fading of sparks. you thought of his hurried goodbye, his preoccupation, his casual dismissal of your small joys.

a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped your lips. it wasn’t about wanting to get high. it was a quiet protest. a moment of reclaiming a sliver of yourself that felt lost, submerged under layers of wifely duty and unspoken disappointment. it was a fleeting, irrational thought, but it felt powerful in it's simplicity.

trembling fingers, usually so steady, reached for the joint. your eyes met seonghwa’s, then anna’s. they offered soft, almost imperceptible smiles.

the joint touched your lips. the paper felt rough against your skin. the smell, pungent and earthy, filled your nostrils. you hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent battle raging within. then, you inhaled.

the smoke, harsh and acrid, scraped your throat. you coughed between involuntary gasps. tears sprang to your eyes. the group chuckled softly. your lungs burned, heat spread through your chest, then a dizzying lightness in your head. it wasn’t pleasant, not yet. but as the initial shock subsided, a curious sensation began to bloom. a loosening. a letting go.

the world around you, already vibrant, seemed to soften at the edges. the music, a low thrumming before, now seemed to pulse with a deeper rhythm. the faces around you, previously distinct, now blurred into a warm, accepting tableau.

you exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath. the smoke drifted upwards in a cloud, carrying with it a rebellious whisper.

the taco shell crumbled in your fingers, a warm, messy embrace of seasoned chicken and melted cheese. a laugh, sharp and high, tore from your throat. it wasn’t your laugh, not really, but it escaped anyway.

"y/n, these are..." sally kissed the tips of her fingertips at once. a piece of tomato, vibrant red, clung to her chin. you watched it, mesmerized, as it wobbled precariously. like a tiny significant event.

"no, for real. this is the best shit i've ever eaten," someone grunted as they took another bite, cheeks bulging. the sound of their chewing a symphonic rhythm, wet crunch that filled the room.

you smiled, you think, a wide, unbidden thing that stretched your face. your cheeks felt warm and tingly. the praise, usually a balm, now felt like a spotlight, too bright, too focused. you didn't need to respond. the air itself seemed to hum with approval.

seonghwa leaned in, his hair brushing your shoulder. the scent of his cologne filled your nostrils. it was a new smell, suddenly potent, a story in itself.

"you have to come over more often," he murmured. his words were slow, stretched out, like taffy. "we’d starve without you."

you nodded, or thought you did. the room swirled, a gentle eddy of color and sound. the soft glow of the fairy lights strung across anna’s living room became individual, shimmering points, each one a tiny sun.

anna, perched on the armrest of a worn armchair, watched you, her eyes unblinking. she held a half eaten taco, but she wasn’t eating. she was just watching. a flicker of concern crossed her face, or maybe it was just the way the light caught her smudged makeup.

you turned your head, the motion slow, deliberate, like moving through thick syrup. seonghwa’s face was inches from yours. his eyes liquid and half lidded. a tiny mole, small and innocent on his ear. you had never noticed it before.

"you know," he began, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for you, "i actually lied to you."

the words themselves were like individual pearls, strung together on an invisible thread that made your breath hitch.

"about what?" you managed a reedy whisper. it sounded like someone else speaking.

he chuckled like it was obvious. "about keeping in touch with people from high school. i don't. not really. i just... wanted you to have a reason to come."

the confession ignited a fresh burst of laughter. bubbled up from deep inside, unrestrained, joyful. it felt like a new sensation, a freedom you hadn't known existed. the idea of him lying, out of all things, struck you as profoundly hilarious.

he smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips as his hand, warm and calloused, covered yours on the couch cushion. his thumb traced a slow, hypnotic circle on your skin. it wasn't unpleasant. it was just... there. a sensation.

"y/n, i know you’re unhappy."

unhappiness? that was a concept. right now, there was only the incredibly soft fabric of the couch, the taste of spices on your tongue, the intricate pattern on anna’s rug.

"you deserve so much more," he continued, voice thick and low, "than whatever you’re settling for."

you blinked. his face, so close, seemed to waver, like a reflection in water.

"i want you so bad," a whisper you didn't caught on the movements of his lips, his grip tightening on your hand. "i want to make you happy."

you don't know why he kept making sounds with his mouth. the words drifted past, like smoke. meaningless vibrations in the air. your mind, untethered, floated above them, observing.

then, the world tilted. a wave of warmth, heavy and comforting, washed over you. the trip slowed, the colors blending into a soft, indistinct haze. the universe faded into a gentle lullaby.

୨୧

rough wool blanket against your cheek, smelling faintly of incense and something vaguely sweet, covering you. your eyes fluttered open. the room was bathed in a dim, pre dawn light, a pale grey filtering through the blinds. you blinked, trying to orient yourself. the couch. anna’s couch.

a low snore rumbled from the floor. you peered over the armrest. mark, a lumpy silhouette, was sprawled on a pile of blankets, his mohawk flattened. sally was curled up near him, a splash of fuchsia against the muted tones. anna was nowhere in sight. seonghwa? you scanned the room. no.

dull throb resonated behind your eyes. your mouth felt like sandpaper. you pushed yourself up, the blanket slipping to your lap. the memories of the night were a jumbled mess, like a deck of san's numbers scattered on the floor. flashes of laughter, the taste of tacos, the feeling of warmth. but specific words, specific moments, they were gone, swallowed by the haze.

you fumbled for your purse, slung precariously over the back of the couch. chocolate. a small, dark bar, your emergency comfort. you tore off a piece, the rich, bitter sweetness a welcome shock to your tongue.

you pulled out your phone. three forty seven a.m.

your heart gave a sharp, painful lurch. san. you could almost hear the silence of your apartment, the empty space beside him in bed. a wave of guilt, cold and sharp, washed over you, chasing away the last vestiges of the warm fog.

as careful as you could be, you rose quietly to not disturb the sleeping figures. your movements quiet, deliberate.

the drive home was a blur of streetlights and silent roads. each turn of the wheel felt like a small act of atonement. the city was asleep, a vast, dark canvas. then you finally pulled into your parking spot, the apartment building quiet and imposing.

apartment dark, save for the faint glow from the digital clock on the microwave. you slipped off your shoes, the sink. a plate, crusted with dried sauce, sat precariously on the edge, a half empty mug beside it. san. he had eaten, gone to bed. done.

straight to the bathroom, you stepped under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over your skin. it wasn’t just the smell, but the night itself. the laughter, the forgotten words, the unsettling intimacy. you scrubbed, hard, as if you could scour away the memory, leaving your skin, and your mind, clean and blank once more. you wanted to emerge, refreshed, as if the night had never happened. as if you hadn’t tasted that strange, momentary freedom.

୨୧

the sound pulled at your teeth. tremor in the soles of your new sneakers, premonition of the chaos within. this weekend, anna's apartment building pulsed with an unholy rhythm. this wasn't the hazy, languid hum of last week. this was a beast unleashed.

seonghwa’s band, the ruptured veins or something like that, thrashed in the living room. how they’d squeezed a drum kit, a full amp stack, and three guitarists into the already cramped space remained a mystery. mark, sweat plastering his mohawk to his skull, pounded the drums with a primal ferocity that threatened to crack the plaster. sally contorted over her bass, each pluck a sharp jab to your eardrums. seonghwa, all flailing limbs and guttural shouts was at the center. the sound wasn’t music. it was a wall of noise, an excuse of distorted guitars and ear splitting percussion that clawed at your sanity.

bodies, too many bodies, swayed and thrashed in the dim light, a sea of black leather and ripped denim. you felt like an alien even if you tried dressing in your darkest clothes. a hand, sticky and warm, brushed your arm, offering a glass. you instinctively recoiled, the smell of cheap beer and something cloyingly sweet, making your stomach churn.

seonghwa’s eyes flashed you a grin across the room, a feral baring of teeth, and gave a thumbs up. you forced a weak smile back, the corners of your mouth feeling stiff and unnatural. the volume intensified, a new wave of sound washing over you, drowning out thought, drowning out everything.

a bong, you learned, it's glass bulb milky with smoke, appeared before your face. a girl with tangled dreadlocks and eyes that swam in their sockets pushed it closer.

"hit it, y/n!" she slurred a shout, her voice a gravelly whisper against the roar.

you shook your head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "no, thanks!"

she shrugged, apathetic, and passed it to the next person. another, a lean guy with a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck, who had earlier complained about the brownies you brought not being the "fun ones."

the words felt like pebbles in your throat. you had enough, you needed quiet, needed to escape the relentless assault on your ears. you navigated the throng, each step a battle against jostling elbows and oblivious revelers. you reached the bathroom and pushed open the door for the now muffled sound to lower, then you saw her.

sprawled on the cracked linoleum, half hidden by a discarded shower curtain, lay a woman. her head rested at an awkward angle against the toilet bowl, a thin stream of saliva tracing a path down her chin. she looked older than the others, perhaps in her early thirties, though the lines etched on her face spoke of a life lived hard, not necessarily long. two distinct scars stood out against her skin. her face, even in repose, held a weary resignation, map of battles fought and lost. she wasn't breathing right. shallow, ragged gasps punctuated the silence, each one a struggle.

panic seized you. you knelt beside her, your fingers fumbling for her pulse, finding a weak, thready beat at her neck.

"hey," you whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. "hey, are you okay?"

no response. her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted. this wasn't a drunken nap. this was something else, something far more sinister.

your hand instinctively went for your phone, pulling it from your pocket. 911. ambulance. you needed to call an ambulance. your fingers, trembling, navigated the screen.

"i wouldn't do that if i were you."

a hand, heavy and surprisingly strong, clamped around your wrist. your breath hitched. you looked up, startled. a man stood over you. he was burly, with a shaved head and a face like hammered iron. his eyes, dark and flat, bore into yours.

"unless you wanna be trouble," his voice cut through the residual band noise. it wasn't a suggestion. it was a command, heavy with unspoken threat.

your heart hammered against your ribs. you tried to pull your wrist free, but his grip was unyielding, almost bruising. "she needs help," you managed barely a squeak. "she’s not breathing right."

mirthless chuckle rumbled in his chest. "she’s fine. just had a little too much fun." his gaze flickered to your phone. "you call anyone, you’ll regret it."

the warning hung thick and menacing. you met his stare, a shiver running down your spine. the flat emptiness in his eyes, the casual cruelty in his tone, left no room for doubt. he meant it.

slowly, reluctantly, you let your hand drop, your phone clattering softly against the tiles. his grip loosened, then released. you scrambled backward, away from him, away from the unconscious woman, from the suffocating threat. he watched you, unsettling smirk playing on his lips, then turned his attention back to the woman, nudging her with his foot.

you burst out of the bathroom, the music now a mocking roar. you needed anna. anna would know what to do. anna would understand. you pushed through the bodies, eyes scanning the faces, a frantic desperation clawing at your throat. "anna!" you shouted, the word swallowed by the sheer volume. "anna!"

no one heard you. no one even seemed to notice your distress. they just continued to push each other, lost in their own discordant revelry. you spotted a doorway, half hidden behind a towering speaker, and instinctively veered towards it, hoping to find a quieter space, a less crowded corner where anna might be.

it led to a short, narrow hallway, mercifully less populated. at the end, another door, slightly ajar, spilled a soft, yellow light onto the floor. you pushed it open, a desperate plea for help forming on your lips.

the room contrasted to the chaos outside. a single, bare bulb cast a warm glow over a small, unmade bed. and there, on the floor, surrounded by a haphazard collection of worn stuffed animals and bright plastic blocks, sat anna, but she wasn't alone. a small figure, no older than five, sat nestled against her side, a book with brightly colored illustrations open in it's lap. the child, a boy with a shock of dark hair and wide, innocent eyes, looked up as you entered.

"mommy, who’s that?" his voice, clear and sweet, pierced the lingering noise in your ears like a needle.

mommy.

the word echoed, reverberated, then shattered something fragile inside you. anna’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. a flicker of something, guilt? embarrassment? crossed her face before she quickly composed herself.

"y/n," she said, her voice lowered as she gently pushed the boy behind her. "everything alright?"

everything alright? the irony tasted heavy. now, a child. her child, in this suffocating place. the realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. this wasn’t just a party. this wasn't just a group of friends messing around. this was a life. a harsh, brutal, unforgiving life that you had no part in. the music, which had been an unpleasant background noise, now felt like a blaring siren, screaming the truth. you didn't belong here. not even close. this wasn't edgy. this wasn't rebellious. this was dangerous. this was real.

you shook your head, unable to speak, your throat tight with unshed tears. the image of the passed out woman, the man’s cold eyes, the innocent child, all swirled in a sickening vortex.

"i..." you started, then stopped, the words catching. you didn’t need to explain. anna, with her sudden shift in demeanor, her protective stance over the child, understood.

you turned, a silent retreat, your feet moving on their own accord. you didn't say goodbye. you didn't look back. the door clicked shut behind you, a soft thud against the relentless thrum of the bass.

you navigated the hallway, then the living room, a ghost moving through the throng. no one noticed your departure. the band still roared, seonghwa still shrieked into the mic as he kicked the audience in the face in a blur of motion. you pushed past the last lingering bodies near the door, the cool night air hitting your face like a lifeline.

the street was alive with a different kind of noise. the band’s sound, though fainter, still pulsed through the asphalt, relentless reminder of what you were leaving behind. a group of figures huddled under a flickering street lamp, their movements jerky, unnatural. as you approached, their eyes, glazed and vacant, fixed on you.

"hey, pretty thing, all alone?" one slurred, his voice hoarse, lewd grin spreading across his face.

"where you going in such a hurry?" another whistled, a long, drawn out sound that made your skin crawl.

you kept walking, pace quickening, eyes fixed straight ahead. don’t look. don’t engage. don’t acknowledge. your heart hammered a frantic drum against your ribs. you felt exposed, vulnerable, felt the harsh reality of the street.

your car door shut like a beacon of safety at the end of the block. you fumbled for your keys, fingers clumsy with fear, gripping the steering wheel with knuckles white the whole drive back home, breath coming in ragged gasps. not daring to glance in the rearview mirror once. you drove faster than necessary.

this was not your world. this was not where you belonged. you would never come back. you promised yourself that, a vow whispered into the empty, echoing space of your car, a promise etched in the raw, aching fear still thrumming beneath your skin.

the click of the lock echoed. inside, the air heavy with scent of instant noodles and something sweet, like canned peaches. a white plastic container sat on the kitchen counter, half-eaten, a pair of chopsticks resting beside it. san had takeout. a cold knot tightened in your stomach. you forgot to make him dinner earlier. another layer to the evening’s sour taste.

san, shirtless, was just shrugging out of his work trousers when you entered the room, his back to you. he paused, one leg still in the pant leg, turning his head at the sound of your entrance. his brown eyes, warm and steady, widened slightly.

"you’re back early," he said, the words a quiet murmur in the hushed room. a flicker of surprise crossed his face. he finished pulling off his pants, tossing them onto the laundry hamper with an easy flick of his wrist.

you managed a weak nod, the muscles in your face protesting the effort, too tired to feign a smile. your gaze slid past him, landing on the bathroom door. escape. you moved towards it.

"y/n." his voice stopped you mid stride. you looked over your shoulder, hand hovering over the cool brass doorknob.

"what’s that smell?"

you didn't turn around, the lie already forming on your tongue, bitter pill. "i... i fell into a puddle earlier."

a beat of silence stretched, taut and thin. you watched him, standing there, his brow furrowed, processing your words. you waited for the follow up, the gentle probing, the concern that used to laced his questions. but it didn’t come.

"oh," he said, the single syllable flat, devoid of inflection. he picked up his shirt from the bed, pulling it over his head, then pulled back the covers.

you finally turned, gaze fixed on his retreating back, already settling in. your eyes traced the strong line of his shoulder, the curve of his neck. he was there, and he wasn't. is that all you’re going to ask? the words hovered on your tongue, sharp and desperate. you wanted him to push, to see through your flimsy lie, to demand more. you wanted him to care enough to unravel the carefully constructed facade. almost, you wanted him to know. to know about the music, the drugs, the woman, the fear, the suffocating loneliness that had driven you there in the first place.

"is that all you’re going to ask?" you heard yourself say.

he paused, his hand reaching for the bedside lamp. "is there something else i should know?'

your heart hammered against your ribs. this was it. the open door. the invitation. a single word, a sigh, a broken sentence, and the truth would spill out. you needed to test the boundaries, to see how far he would go, how deep he would dig.

"no," you said, the lie tasting like ash. your gaze held his, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of suspicion, anything that would tell you he wasn’t buying it.

he held your gaze for a moment longer, then his lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "okay then." he reached for the lamp, plunging the room into near darkness. he shifted, settling deeper into the pillows.

a choked sound, a low groan of frustration, escaped your lips. he hadn’t pushed. he hadn’t questioned. he hadn’t cared enough to look beyond the surface. you turned abruptly, stalking towards the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a satisfying thud. the sound echoed, a punctuation mark on your silent fury.

san lay in the sudden darkness, his eyes wide open. the faint aroma of something acrid you brought and he couldn't quite place, still lingered in the air. a puddle, he thought. she fell in a puddle. it sounded plausible enough. you were clumsy sometimes, always lost in your own thoughts. he trusted you. he trusted you completely. a small smile touched his lips. it was good you were out, seeing old friends. you needed that. a small part of him felt a pang of guilt for not being able to provide more excitement, more spontaneity in your life. but he was working for your future, for your stability, to provide for you. he believed that was love, that was care. he rolled onto his side, pulling the duvet up to his chin. he heard the shower running, the sound a soft, comforting hum. he closed his eyes, his mind already drifting to tomorrow's spreadsheets, the complex equations that made perfect sense in a world that often didn't. everything was fine. you were having fun. it was okay if you forgot dinner sometimes. you could always order takeout. he was happy. he assumed you were too.

the next morning, the apartment hummed with the usual rhythm of your routine. you woke before him, the first rays of dawn painting the bedroom walls a soft grey. you made the bed, pulling the sheets taut, plumping the pillows with practiced ease. the scent of freshly brewed coffee soon filled the air, followed by the sizzle of eggs in the pan.

san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed in his crisp white shirt and specifically tailored pants. he kissed your cheek, a soft brush of lips, and then sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.

it became a monotonous cycle of routine.

you'd have your small talk, watch him eat, his movements precise, efficient, and then he was out the door. then, you'd wander into the bedroom, the perfectly made bed an ironic symbol of your life. you'd pick up your phone, cold blinding glass, and scrolled through social media. endless stream of meaningless shorts of nothing. you'd sink yourself in bed and let the hours melt. youtube videos, a reality show you cared about for two hours, articles about celebrity gossip. anything to fill the void, to drown out the insistent whisper of your own thoughts.

you woke him, prepared his meals, vaguely cleaned what was obvious. but the moments in between stretched, vast and empty. you spent them in bed, phone in hand, the world outside shrinking to the confines of your screen. at night, you wouldn't sleep. every shadow twisted into a threat, every creak of the floorboards a reminder of unspoken dangers. san had simply mentioned you seemed a little tired. you’d blame it on a bad dream, a headache. anything but the truth. the vibrant, productive life you once shared with san, the shared dreams, the late night conversations, they felt like a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, isolated existence.

one evening, san’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, the familiar jingle of his keys preceding his entrance. he walked into the kitchen, his briefcase thudding softly onto the counter. he paused, his eyes scanning the immaculate space. the stovetop was clean, the counters clear. no scent of cooking, no simmering pots.

"i ordered pizza," you said, voice flat, emerging from the living room where you sat on the sofa, scrolling through your phone. the thought of cooking, of meticulously chopping vegetables and stirring pots, felt like an insurmountable task. the effort, the pretense of normalcy, was too much. you simply couldn’t.

"okay," his voice quiet. you couldn't decipher his tone, surprise? confusion? whatever.

for once, he didn't immediately take his laptop. he watched you, his expression unreadable. he picked up a slice, silence punctuated only by the soft chewing sounds.

"i spoke to noeul today," he said, cutting through the quiet.

you froze, a slice of pizza halfway to your mouth. "oh?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice came out a little too sharp.

"she was wondering why you stood her up for lunch," he continued, took another bite of pizza, his eyes still fixed on you.

"i... i wasn't feeling well," you swallowed, the pizza suddenly tasting like cardboard.

he paused, chewing slowing. his dark eyes, usually so placid, held a new depth, a subtle intensity. he studied your face, his gaze searching, probing.

"is everything okay, y/n?" he asked, the question soft, gentle, yet it hit you with the force of a blow. this was the first time in weeks, months even, that he had truly looked at you, truly asked.

you felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you. relief that he was finally seeing, finally asking. fear that he would see too much. anger that it had taken him this long. a desperate, clinging hope that he might actually understand.

you opened your mouth, but what could you say? no, san. everything is not okay. i’m lonely. melancholic. i’m lost. i’ve been hanging out with people who smoke weed and threaten me. i lied to you. i don’t know who i am anymore. the truth felt too vast, too overwhelming, too ugly to articulate.

you closed your mouth, nodding slowly. "yes," you whispered, the lie a refuge. "everything’s fine."

he didn’t push further. he simply nodded, a slow thoughtful movement. he finished his pizza in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking towards you. he didn't know what to do. he thought he was doing everything right, providing stability, working hard. but he felt that something wasn't actually right. he could feel it. and for the first time, the thought that his stability might not be enough began to gnaw at him.

୨୧

"well, well, well," you couldn't see seonghwa's face through the phone but you just knew a smile stretched across his face, all teeth and charm. "look who finally decided to give signs of life."

you took a breath, "i’m sorry about that. i felt a little... overwhelmed."

"overwhelmed?" he chuckled a sound that grated. "we had a blast, though. sally was asking where you went."

a forced light laugh came out of you. "i'm sorry, it's just... don't take this the wrong way but, i don't think it's my scene."

the seconds of silence made you more nervous than you liked to admit. "oh? why’s that? did anna scare you off? she’s all bark, no bite, you know."

"it’s not anna." you walked to the window, staring out at the streets. "it’s just not... it’s not for me." you chose your words carefully.

"not for you, huh... too much for the perfect little housewife?"

you didn't know what to say, or even if you should reply. this is not the way you had wanted to come off.

"come on, y/n. " his tone shifted again, becoming almost playful, seductive. "you can’t just ditch us. we were just getting to know you. and you, me, we had a connection, didn’t we?"

you closed your eyes and sighed. "i appreciate the invitation, seonghwa. but i really don’t think it’s a good idea."

"wait, wait, wait." his voice was quick, slightly desperate. "don’t hang up. this saturday. it’ll be different. i promise."

"different how?"

"no loud music. no... overwhelming crowds." he mimicked your earlier word with annoyance. "it’ll be at my place. daylight. we’ll just chill. listen to some records. maybe sally will bring her new bass. anna her camera, snap some pictures. it’ll be... a real hangout. no pressure. just us."

a day hangout. at his place. no crowds. the thought of seeing anna, of making sure she was okay, flickered. and sally. you’d genuinely liked sally. you chewed on your lip, disappearing without a trace, even from people who were clearly not good for you, felt... rude. you were not rude. you prided yourself on your manners, on leaving things tidily. this would be your last clean exit. a proper goodbye.

"it'll be calm? no substances?" you asked with a small voice.

"yeah. we'll just chill."

you sighed, a long, slow release of air. "fine. but if it gets crazy, i’m leaving."

"deal!" his voice triumphant. "i’ll text you the address. saturday. two o’clock. don’t be late, y/n."

you hung up on him, the silence of the kitchen pressing in on you. a mistake? probably. but you had to make things right. you had to say goodbye. properly.

the next few days were a flurry of quiet preparations. you found a well loved cookbook at a second hand store, it's pages dog eared and stained with flour. sally had seemed genuinely interested in your chicken tacos, you remember her bouncing as she peered over your shoulder. a small childish bunny stuffed animal, soft and grey, caught your eye in a boutique window. anna’s son. he deserved a little softness in a world that seemed so hard. you wrapped the gifts carefully, a futile attempt to infuse them with the warmth you wished you could offer.

saturday afternoon, the sun bright in the sky. you drove, the directions seonghwa had texted leading you through unfamiliar streets, past industrial parks and forgotten warehouses. the address finally brought you to a hidden nook, tucked away behind a row of dilapidated auto shops. a trailer park. a small, unexpected community of metal boxes, each with it's own patch of scraggly grass and faded plastic lawn ornaments. you hadn’t known such a place existed in the heart of the city.

seonghwa’s trailer, a faded blue, stood at the end of a gravel path. your stomach twisted. you clutched the gifts tighter, the paper rustling. you knocked, a soft tap that felt too polite for the setting. the door creaked open, revealing him. his hair looking a little disheveled, as if he’d just woken up. a faint smell of something herbal, not entirely unpleasant, wafted from inside.

"oh, you actually came." he grinned as he rubbed the weariness out of his face.

"i said i would." you offered a small smile, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness that settled between you. "i brought some things." you held up the wrapped gifts.

"oh, for me?" he reached for them, but you pulled back slightly.

"no. for sally and anna’s son."

his hand dropped, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "right. well, come on in. you’re the first one here."

the trailer was small, surprisingly neat but dim. a worn couch, covered in a faded floral sheet, dominated the living area. a small television flickered silently in the corner, displaying a nature documentary. a guitar leaned against the wall. it felt... lived in.

"make yourself at home," he gestured vaguely at the couch. "the others should be here any minute. mark’s always late. sally said she had to pick up some new strings. anna… well, anna’s anna." he laughed, a short, nervous sound.

you sat on the edge of the couch, placing the gifts carefully beside you. the cushions sagged beneath you, smell of old fabric rised to meet you. the silence, punctuated only by the chirping of unseen birds on the television, was deafening. you felt a sudden urge to fill it, to chatter, to ask about his band, about anything. but you couldn't.

"want something to drink?" he asked, already moving towards a small, cluttered kitchenette.

"just water, please." you watched him, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone so wiry. he pulled out two glasses, poured a clear liquid from a plastic bottle into one, and then, to another one that was already sitting on the counter. he didn’t seem to notice your gaze.

a tiny, insistent voice in the back of your mind, screamed. you took the glass, your fingers brushing his, skin rough. you brought the glass to your lips, pretending to take a sip, letting the rim touch your mouth, but not letting any liquid pass.

"so," he said, settling beside you on the couch, much closer than you would have preferred. "how’s... housewifing?"

you stiffened. "it’s good. i like it."

"yeah? seems a little... boring for someone like you." he leaned back, his arm brushing yours. the contact made your skin prickle.

"it’s not boring,”°"you said, maybe a little too quickly. "i like taking care of things. taking care of san."

"san." he said the name slowly, like tasting it. "busy guy, huh?"

"he works hard," you defended automatically. "he provides for us."

"yeah, i bet." he turned his body fully towards you, knee touching yours. his gaze dropping to your hands, clasped tightly in your lap. "but does he... pleasure you?"

you looked at him in shock, offended. your cheeks flushed crimson, a wave of heat rushing through you. shock, outrage, and a deep, mortifying embarrassment tangled together. you stared at him, mouth agape, unable to form a single word. the flickering television, the stale air, his proximity, it all coalesced into a suffocating pressure. "what did you just say?"

he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. his eyes held yours, unwavering. "i mean, you’re bright, y/n. you’re smart. you’ve got this... spark. yet you spend your days fucking, polishing silverware and waiting for some suit to come home. does he ever even make you feel good?"

your heart hammered against your ribs. "i like polishing silverware. i like making a home."

"do you?" he reached out, his fingers tracing a pattern on your arm, just above your elbow. "or do you just tell yourself that because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do?"

you flinched, pulling your arm away. "i don’t appreciate that, seonghwa."

"just being honest. that’s what friends do, right?" he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

the small, dusty clock on the wall pointed at four, you glanced at it, then at the door, wishing that your eyes could pierce a hole and reveal other people, anyone. yet no one else had arrived. the pit in your stomach deepened. "maybe i should call sally. or anna."

"nah, don’t bother." he waved a dismissive hand. "they probably won't even come. you know how it is." he paused, a predatory glint appeared in his round eyes. "guess it’ll be just us."

the words rang heavy and suffocating. it clicked. a cold, sickening realization washed over you. there was never "others." you had been tricked. the gifts, the polite goodbyes, all of it a naive delusion.

"oh." you stood up abruptly, the movement jarring. "i... i think i should go. maybe i should come back when the others arrive." your mind raced, scrambling for an excuse, anything to get out. you tried to infuse your voice with a calm you didn’t feel, to make it sound like a reasonable suggestion, not a desperate plea.

"don’t be stupid, y/n. you just got here." he stood and pulled you towards him. the close proximity of his body, the insufferable smell of weed making you almost gag. "you’re lonely, aren’t you? i see it in your eyes. the way you just exist and he doesn't even notice."

"i don’t know what you mean." your voice trembled.

"why? you don’t want to admit it?" he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear. his insidious words pricked at the spots. the truth of them, despite the venomous delivery, stung. but the way he was using them, twisting them, made your skin crawl.

you tried to push past him, a surge of adrenaline making you bold. “let me go.”

he grabbed your arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist. "no." he pulled you back, hard, sending you stumbling onto the couch. the gifts clattered to the floor. he pinned you there, his face inches from yours. "i know you don’t love him. you're goddamn pathetic with him and everyone sees it."

you felt a surge of adrenaline, a pumping desperate need to escape. “you don’t know anything about me. or san.” you pulled harder, twisting your body, trying to create distance.

he didn’t let go. instead, his other hand came up, resting on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin. "i know you don't love him. i know you’re unhappy." the accusation, so utterly false, ignited a furious spark within you. "why else would you keep coming back here?"

"you’re wrong!" sharp and venomous, your voice cut through the fear. "you’re completely wrong. i love san. i love him more than anything. and i would never, ever be unfaithful to him. especially not with... with someone like you!" the last words, raw and unfiltered, spilled from your lips. the thought of betraying san, of allowing this man to even suggest such a thing, filled you with a righteous anger.

a vein throbbed in his temple. for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. his face contorted, a mask of rage. primal scream ripped through your mind, though no sound escaped your lips. a sudden, visceral revulsion surged through you, a raw, untamed force you hadn’t known you possessed. you didn’t think, you reacted. with a guttural cry that was more gasp than sound, you twisted your body, yanking your arm free from his grasp with a strength born of pure terror. you stumbled back, tripping over your own feet, but you caught yourself, your eyes wide, fixed on him.

"hey, y/n, calm down. let's talk-" his face a mask of something ugly. he took a step towards you, his hand still outstretched.

"don’t you touch me!" you shrieked, the words finally tearing free holding a fierce conviction.

with a desperate lunge, you pushed past him and found the doorknob, fingers clumsy with terror and heart pounding against your ribs. please, please be unlocked. the knob turned protesting a squeal. a small miracle. you yanked it open, the weak sunlight blinding you for a moment.

you didn’t look back. you ran. the gravel crunched under your shoes, the faded blue trailer shrinking behind you. you didn’t stop until you reached your car, fumbling with the keys, your hands shaking so violently you could barely push the button. you threw yourself inside, locking the doors, lungs burning. the engine roared to life, and you sped away, leaving the trailer park, the sickly rose bush, and the terrifying encounter in a cloud of dust. the gifts lay forgotten on the floor of the trailer, naive hope, now shattered.

୨୧

"i ran into someone today."

"at the market?"

"an old friend. from high school. apparently some of them still hang out and, i was invited."

"that's good, you should go."

"really? you don't mind?"

"why would i mind? it's good for you to see people, you're always here. you should get out more."

"i mean... i haven't seen them in years. since graduation, probably."

"people change, that's okay. it'll be nice to reconnect. you've been cooped up, it's good to have plans."

"i guess so."

knees drawn to your chest, the phone thrown to the cushion next to you. you had to call him, you really had to, and he did leave. cheeks damp, tiny ragged sobs caught in your throat, you barely registered when the door swung open. he stood at the doorway, crisp button down now slightly rumpled, his tie loosened. his eyes scanned the room, then landed on you. he didn't say anything, just kicked the door shut with his heel and moved towards you deliberately.

"san," you choked out a fragile whisper, "i'm so sorry. i'm so, so sorry i made you come home."

he didn't answer with words, simply sunk onto the couch beside you, the springs protesting faintly. his strong arms wrapped around your shaking shoulders, pulling you into his chest. the clean, subtle cedar scent of his cologne filled your senses, chasing away the lingering stench of smoke and fear. you buried your face in his shirt and let the dam break.

hot and stinging tears streamed down your face, soaking into his shirt. each sob tore through you, tearing sounds you hadn't realized you were holding back. his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close. he didn't try to stop the tears, didn't offer empty platitudes. he just held you, a silent comforting presence.

"it’s okay," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "it's okay, y/n. i'm here."

fingers fisted in his shirt, the fabric stretching taut. the world outside the circle of his arms ceased to exist. there was only the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his breathing. time stretched and blurred. you cried until your throat ached, until your eyes felt swollen and raw, until the tremors in your body slowly began to subside.

when the sobs dwindled to quiet sniffles, you pulled back slightly, your head still resting against his shoulder, your gaze fixed on the intricate weave of his shirt. a deep, shuddering breath hitched in your chest.

"i… i need to tell you something," you whispered.

he squeezed your shoulder gently. "take your time."

the silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things. you needed to say it, all of it. the truth, ugly and raw, demanded to be set free.

"i haven’t been... i haven’t been doing well, san," you began, your voice still hoarse. "not really. i mean, i love being home. i love our apartment, i love cooking for you, taking care of everything. i really do. but" you carefully searched for the right words, the words that wouldn’t sound like an accusation. "it got... lonely. really lonely."

at his arm tightening around your waist, you glanced up at his face. his brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with a deep, quiet concern, but no judgment.

"i know you work hard," you continued, rushing the words out before you could lose your nerve. "i know you do it for us, for our future, and i appreciate it, san, i really do. sometimes, i just... i just want to talk. to someone. about anything. about my day, about a stupid show i watched, about a new recipe i found. just... to talk. and you're not there."

he didn’t interrupt, just listened, his gaze steady on your face.

"and then… i met seonghwa again."

the name plastered, foreign and sharp. san’s head tilted slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

"seonghwa?" he repeated, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. "who is... i thought you said you were meeting anna? your old classmate?"

your heart sank at his innocence, at how you had let him assume with unclear conversations.

"no, anna is... seonghwa’s friend,” you explained, the words tumbling out. "she’s part of his group. he was my classmate in high school. not a close one, but... yeah. he’s the one i ran into at the supermarket."

san’s placid eyes held a hint of something unreadable. he still didn’t speak, just waited.

"i didn’t mean for any of it to happen," you confessed, your voice cracking again. "i just... i just wanted to be included. to feel like i was part of something. they seemed so... free. and easy. and i was so lonely." you paused, drawing a shaky breath, preparing for the hardest part. "at first it seemed harmless. they were just... different than me, something new. but then it escalated. the parties. the noise. the... the smoke.” you hesitated, then forced yourself to say it. "i... i smoked weed, san. once. i know, i know it was stupid. i’m so sorry."

tears welled up again and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for his reaction. but he still didn’t say anything, just held you closer, so you continued and everything spilled. the memories flooding back, sharp and vivid. from the hazy afternoons to the girl, her unnatural stillness and anna's so, so young son yet already involved into such a chaotic world. your voice broke with the image behind eyelids. then today, at seonghwa's. reliving the terror, the helplessness, made you shiver with a torrent of fear and disgust and self reproach.

you dissolved into fresh sobs, the weight of the confession crushing you. you waited for anger, for disappointment, for the distance to grow between you even more. but instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer.

"y/n," he said, his voice deeper than usual, a quiet intensity in his tone. "look at me."

you reluctantly lifted your head, tear streaked face meeting his gaze. his eyes were now clouded with a raw pain that mirrored your own.

"you have nothing to be sorry for," he stated, his voice firm, unwavering. "not for feeling lonely. not for wanting connection. and not for trying to find it." he paused, his thumb stroking your cheek, wiping away a tear. "i’m the one who should be sorry. i let you feel that way. i let you feel so alone that you had to look for it somewhere else. i was so caught up in work, in making sure we had everything we needed, that i forgot to give you what you actually needed. me."

fresh tears pricking your eyes, you shook your head. "no, san. that’s not fair. you work so hard. you provide everything. i should have just told you. i should have talked to you. i just... i didn’t want to cause conflict. i didn’t want to seem ungrateful."

"conflict is part of a relationship, y/n," he countered softly. "it’s how we grow. and you are never ungrateful. i know you. i just... i wasn’t listening. i wasn’t seeing. i was so focused on building a future, i forgot to live in the present. with you." his gaze was intense, full of regret. "i saw you, every morning, making the bed perfectly. i saw the dinners you planned. i saw the baked goods you made, and gave away. i thought... i thought you were happy. i thought that was just you, being you. i didn’t realize it was... a symptom. i thought stability meant happiness. i thought if i provided for everything, you wouldn’t have to worry. i thought that was how i showed you i loved you. but i forgot to show you i loved you with my time. with my presence. with my words."

"but i should have said something," you insisted, your voice still thick with guilt. "i let it fester. i bottled it up. i smoked weed behind your back. that’s not okay, san. that’s not okay."

"and it’s not okay that i left you feeling so emotionally neglected that you felt like you had to," he countered, his voice gentle but firm. "we both made mistakes, y/n. mine was in being absent. yours was in not speaking up. but none of that changes how much i still love you."

he pulled you back into his embrace, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear. a comforting, familiar rhythm.

"i love you, y/n," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "more than anything. and i am so, so sorry that you went through all of that. that you were scared. that you were hurt. that you felt alone. i promise you, you will never feel that way again. not with me."

you clung to him, tears still flowing, but these were different. these were tears of relief, of release, of a profound love finally understood. you felt the tension that had been coiled in your chest for months slowly unwind, dissolving into the warmth of his embrace.

"i love you too, san," you sobbed, the words muffled against his shirt. "i love you so much."

held for a long time, the only sounds the quiet sniffles, the soft rustle of clothes, the steady rhythm of two hearts beating in unison. the city outside grew darker, the streetlights casting long, pale shadows through the window. but inside, in the circle of his arms, a fragile light had begun to glow. it wasn’t a solution, not yet. but it was a new beginning.

୨୧

morning rays painted stripes across the duvet. you stirred, the warmth beside you a comforting anchor. san’s arm, heavy and solid, rested across your waist. his breath, slow and even, feathered against your neck. you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. the memory of yesterday, the raw vulnerability, the shared tears, a fragile precious thing.

quiet sigh escaping your lips, you stretched with a yawn. the bed felt different today, lighter, like a burden had lifted. you eased yourself from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. the choreography of making coffee began. the gentle hum of the machine, the rich aroma blooming in the air. you poured two mugs, placing san’s on his bedside table before returning to your side of the bed, he still slept.

you traced the line of his jaw with your finger, the slight stubble rough beneath your touch. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rested against his skin. a small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.

"morning," his voice, deep and gravelly with sleep, startled you. his eyes slowly opened, finding yours.

"morning, sannie," you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple.

he stretched, his big arms flexing, the muscles taut beneath his skin. he reached for you, pulling you closer until your head rested on his shoulder. "i’m not going to work today."

you blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. "what?"

"i said, i’m not going to work today," he repeated, his thumb stroking the skin of your arm. "or tomorrow. i took the weekend off."

a small, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you. "you did not. you never take the weekend off. you have that big report due monday."

he shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his gaze steady. "i called lee at like 3 am. he’s covering. the report can wait. we can’t."

your heart gave a small, hopeful flutter. the words, simple and direct, resonated deep within you. you reached up, cupping his cheek. his skin felt warm against your palm.

"really?" you asked thin with emotion.

he nodded, a soft smile gracing his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "really."

the weight that had pressed down on your chest for so long began to ease, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t felt in months. you leaned into him, burying your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin, a mix of sleep and his subtle leftover cologne.

"what are we going to do?" you murmured, the question laced with a hesitant joy.

he held you tighter. "whatever you want. show me your world, y/n."

a lump formed in your throat. you pulled back, a small, genuine smile blooming on your face. "okay," you breathed. "okay."

the morning unfolded slowly for once, no rush to get ready, no frantic dash for him to find a parking spot. you made a more elaborate breakfast than usual, eggs scrambled with herbs, crisp bacon, and slices of avocado. he watched you, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, his phone conspicuously absent. he simply watched, gaze attentive, as you moved with a quiet efficiency.

he ate with a quiet appreciation, savoring each bite. the silence between you was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but comfortable, filled with the soft clink of forks against plates, the distant chirping of birds.

after breakfast, you led him to the bedroom and demonstrated your bed making routine, movements precise and practiced. he watched, his head tilted, an expression mixed with amusement and curiosity.

the hours melted into a gentle rhythm. you showed him your small rituals. the way you organized the pantry, grouping spices by frequency of use. the careful sorting of laundry, whites, colors, delicates. the methodical scrubbing of the bathroom, each surface gleaming. he followed you, your silent observer, occasionally offering a helping hand.

you found yourself talking more than you had in months, explaining the logic behind your choices, the small satisfactions you found in these mundane tasks. he listened, truly listened, his eyes never leaving your face. it was no longer how are you? but why do you do this that way?

lunch was a rather simple affair, sandwiches and fruit, eaten at the kitchen counter. you found yourself telling him about a new recipe you wanted to try, a complicated japanese stew you’d been researching. he listened, asking questions about the ingredients, the cooking process. it felt like a real conversation, not just a series of perfunctory exchanges.

as dusk began to settle, casting a soft, blue hue through the apartment, you found yourselves in the living room. you moved the large, plush couch, pushing it closer to the wide window that overlooked the street below. the city lights began to twinkle a distant murmur from the streets.

you sat side by side, the comfortable silence settling around you once more. he reached out, his hand slowly finding your arm. his fingers traced a gentle path from your wrist to your elbow, a soft reassuring touch. you leaned your head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear.

the silence stretched, not empty, but full of unspoken emotions, of rediscovered intimacy. you watched the cars pass below, their headlights cutting through the growing darkness.

after a long while, he stirred. his hand tightened on your arm, then he slowly, gently, pulled you onto his lap. your legs tangled with his, your body molding against his hard frame. he shifted, adjusting you until you were nestled perfectly, your back against his chest. his lips found your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss, then moving to the delicate skin of your neck. a shiver ran through you, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. he kissed the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and a soft giggle bubbled up from your chest.

"you okay? is this okay?" he murmured.

you nodded, your head resting against his shoulder. "more than okay."

he pulled back slightly, turning you so you faced him, his hands resting on your hips. his brown eyes held a tenderness that made your breath catch.

"y/n," he began, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "do you... do you ever think about kids?"

୨୧

effortlessly, he laid you gently on the bed, following you down, his body a warm weight against yours. his lips found yours, soft at first, then deepening, hungry desperation underlying the tenderness. your mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in. his tongue tangled with yours, a slow, sensual dance, tasting of coffee and him.

"mine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to whisper the word. "you’re mine, y/n. no one else’s."

his hands, large and strong, moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly, deliberately, pulling it up and over your head. the cool air brushed against your skin for a moment before his hands were there, warm and firm, stroking your sides, your ribs, the soft skin of your belly.

you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your throat. you reached for his shirt, fingers trembling slightly. he helped, peeling the fabric from his broad shoulders, revealing the taut muscles of his chest before he reached around, touch gentle, unfastening the hook of your bra. the lace fell away, revealing your breasts, full and soft in the dim light. he stared, his gaze lingering and before you knew it, he leaned down, lips closing over one nipple, drawing it into his mouth. a jolt of pure pleasure shot through you. he sucked, softly at first, then harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. your breath hitched, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him closer. he moved to the other breast, suckling with equal fervor, his free hand stroking your side, making goosebumps rise on your skin.

"so beautiful," he breathed, pulling back to look at your flushed face. "so fucking beautiful."

rough with desire, igniting a fire deep within you. you reached for the button of his jeans, eager to shed the remaining barriers between you, pushing them down his hips, along with his boxers. his cock sprang free, already hard and engorged, glistening in the dim light. you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his heat, stroking the soft skin. he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

"baby," he gasped, his voice strained. "god, y/n."

you continued to stroke him, feeling the pulse of his arousal against your palm. your own desire mounted, a burning ache between your legs. he reached for your shorts, pulling them down with your panties. the cool air kissed your bare skin, a fleeting sensation before his hand was there, warm and knowing, finding the wetness between your thighs.

his fingers parted your folds, gently, slowly, exploring the slickness, the delicate curves of your clit. you gasped, your hips arching instinctively. he dipped a finger inside you, then another, preparing you. you were already so wet, your body aching for him. a soft squelching sound accompanied his movements, a wet, intimate symphony.

"so wet," his voice husky, eyes never leaving yours. "for me."

he watched your face, gauging your reactions, thumb circling your clit, drawing out whimpers and soft cries from deep within your throat. you writhed beneath his touch, your body trembling, on the precipice of release.

"please," you pleaded, your voice hoarse. "san, please."

he shifted, kneeling between your legs. his heavy cock, slick with your wetness, brushed against your opening. you gasped, a desperate sound. he hesitated, looking into your eyes, a possessive fire burning in his gaze.

"say..." he whispered, slightly overwhelmed already. "say you’re mine."

"yours," you choked out, tears stinging your eyes, a heady mix of pleasure and raw emotion. "i’m yours, san. only yours."

he entered you then, slowly, pushing past the soft resistance, filling you completely. a deep groan rumbled in his chest as he buried himself within you. you cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. he paused, letting you adjust, letting your body stretch and encompass him. the feeling was overwhelming, profound sense of fullness, of belonging.

he began to move, slow, deliberate rhythm at first, his hips rocking against yours. the friction was exquisite, the sound of your bodies joining, a wet, rhythmic shlicking. he pulled back almost completely, then drove back in, deep and hard, a sigh escaping his lips. your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.

"mine," he repeated, each thrust punctuated by the word. "no one will ever... have you like this, only me."

the pace quickened, becoming more urgent, more primal. he pounded into you, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through your core. your nails dug into his back, leaving faint red marks on his tanned skin. your hips rose to meet his, matching his rhythm, your bodies a blur of motion in the dim light. the bed creaked beneath you, a testament to the intensity of your passion.

he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue plundering yours, tasting your desire, your cries muffled against his lips. your climax built, a tight coil in your belly, spreading outwards, consuming you. you bucked against him, your body convulsing around his cock. a guttural cry tore from your throat as you shattered, waves of pure bliss washing over you.

the thrusts got deeper, harder, his own climax building quickly on the heels of yours. groans and bodies tensing, hips slamming into yours one last time as he emptied himself deep inside you. his hot cum flooded you, warm thick rush that made you gasp.

collapsed and slick with sweat, your legs were still wrapped around him, intimately entwined. he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"mine," he whispered the promise again. "forever."

fingers tangling in his damp hair, you held him close. the noise outside, the loneliness, the fear, all faded away, replaced by the overwhelming presence of him, of this rediscovered connection. you felt utterly safe, utterly loved, utterly his.

he shifted, pulling back slightly, propping himself on his elbows, his eyes soft, heavy lidded. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a tender exploration.

"i love you, y/n."

the words, so rarely spoken, so deeply felt, resonated through you. a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but these were tears of joy, of relief, of a profound sense of peace.

"i love you too, san," you whispered back. "more than anything."

a new chapter had begun. a chapter filled with soft reassurances, intentional conversations, and a love that, though tested, had found it's way back home. the question of children lingered, a new seed planted in the fertile ground of your renewed intimacy, a promise of a future you could now, finally, envision together.

each day a thread re-stitched into the fabric of your life together. no longer a frayed edge, but a strengthening seam. the silence shedding it's heavy cloak of unspoken expectation. now, it held the hum of shared understanding, a quiet comfort that didn't demand filling. some days you still spent less time together than you'd wanted, yet, even then, the goodbye no longer felt like a hurried escape.

you learned to speak your needs, not with the tremor of a plea, but with the steady beat of a declaration. he listened, brow furrowing in concentration, his eyes soft with an empathy he’d struggled to articulate before. you saw the effort, the conscious wrestling with words that didn’t come easily to him. it was a language you were both learning, halting at first, then gaining fluency with each shared vulnerability. he’d ask about your day, not as a formality, but with genuine curiosity, sometimes even calling during his lunch break, a rare occurrence that made your heart do a little skip. love rediscovered, a future being built, one honest word, one tender touch, at a time.

your phone still buzzed with notifications from instagram. you scrolled past anna’s stories, a flurry of candid shots from her son’s fifth birthday party. a lopsided cake, sticky fingers, a wide, gap toothed grin. you tapped the little heart icon, then saw sally’s latest transformation, her hair now a vibrant neon green. she’d posted a picture of a sizzling pan, tagged with a question about your secret to perfectly crisp tofu. you sent back a detailed message, outlining marinades and pan temperatures, a smile touching your lips. you knew, and they knew, that the physical space between your worlds had widened, perhaps irrevocably. there was no expectation of meeting up, no casual invitations to late night gigs. seonghwa’s shadow still stretched too long, too dark, across that part of your memory. the thought of stepping back into that haze, even for a moment, made your stomach clench. you had found your way back to the light, and you were fiercely protective of it.

this morning, however, began with no alarms. skin to skin, a perfect fit. he had begged for five more minutes and how could you say no when his mouth was already moving in between your thighs? lazy swipes, you felt your muscles tense slightly, then relax, his hand finding your hip, drawing you closer, before moving your legs over his shoulders. his tongue stroked the soft skin of your pussy, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

time dissolved. the soft rustle of sheets, the faint thumping of your heart against his. the world outside your bedroom, outside this intimate cocoon, ceased to exist. you were just two bodies, intertwined, rediscovering a forgotten language.

when your third orgasm of that morning alone hit, you pulled your head back, accidentally looking at the clock and freezing, a gasp escaping your lips. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still clouded with passion, then clearing with the dawning realization. a groan, this one of frustration, escaped him.

"shit, shit, shit," you cursed under your breath. "oh, san. you're going to be late."

a deep sigh, rueful sound laced with disappointment escaped him. you pushed yourself up, pulling the sheet with you, a sudden chill striking your skin. he ran a hand through his hair, dishevelled from sleep and your shared passion. "i know." he sat up, stretching, his muscles rippling, a sight that still made your breath catch. he threw his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet falling away, revealing the strong lines of his back, the curve of his shoulders and his half erect dick.

"go, go," you urged, though a part of you wanted to pull him back, to steal a few more precious minutes. you threw off the covers, padding naked to the closet, already mentally planning his lunch.

he glanced back, a wry smile on his face. "you’re not exactly helping." his eyes lingered on your retreating figure, a spark of lingering desire in them.

"i’m making your lunch. that’s helping." you laughed shyly, a clear sound before pulling out a crisp white shirt, a dark tie, laying them out on the bed for him.

when the sound of the shower starting grounded you, you moved with purpose, opening the fridge, pulling out containers. yesterday’s leftover bulgogi, a side of kimchi, some fresh fruit. you packed it all neatly into his bento box, arranging the colours, making it appealing.

now dressed in his dark suit trousers, he emerged from the bathroom, his shirt still unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his chest. his hair was damp, slicked back, making him look even more handsome, more put together. he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his solid frame. chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.

"i love you," he murmured, the words no longer feeling forced, but a natural outflow.

you leaned into him, closing your eyes for a moment. "i love you too," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

he squeezed you gently, then released you, picking up his jacket. you followed him to the doorframe, a familiar ritual, but one that now held a deeper significance. he turned, his eyes searching yours, then he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss. it was a kiss that spoke of hurried passion, of regret for lost time, and of promises for the future. his hand found your butt, giving it an extra, firm squeeze, a playful, intimate gesture that made you giggle.

"sannie, you have to go." you laughed against his lips.

"i know, just let me-"

he pulled you back in, tongues dancing against each other as he opened the door.

"you gotta... go... leave..." despite your protests, you were leaning into the kisses as well.

finally, when he pulled back, a wide grin appeared on his face, those dimples on full display. "i left something for you on the counter." his eyes twinkled.

your eyebrows rose in surprise. "oh?"

he just winked, then stepped out into the hallway. "have a good day," he called over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor.

"you too." you watched him go with a warmth spreading through you, chasing away the morning chill. your cheeks burned pleasant blush. you closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, the echo of his kiss still on your lips.

a curious smile played on your lips. you turned, walking back into the kitchen, your eyes scanning the clean, uncluttered surface. amidst the neatly stacked mail and the fruit bowl, an envelope lay, pristine white, tucked beside the coffee maker.

your heart gave a little flutter. you picked it up, fingers tracing the simple, elegant script of your name. you recognized his handwriting, though it was slightly more rushed than usual, a testament to his morning scramble. you glanced back at the lace box that sat on your dresser. finally, a new companion piece awaited. you carefully tore open the seal, your breath held in anticipation.

you pulled out a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. it wasn’t a thick expensive stationery, but a page torn from a small, spiral bound notebook, perhaps one he kept for jotting down notes at work. the paper felt thin, slightly rough urough under your fingertips. the words were penned in his familiar, slightly cramped hand, some of them a little smudged, as if he’d written it quickly, probably during a stolen moment on his break.

you began to read, a soft smile blooming on your face.

my y/n:

you know how i am with words, they get stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. it’s frustrating. for both of us, i know. i think about that first letter i wrote you. it was bad. really bad. i cringed just thinking about it. but i tried, i guess, even if it doesn’t look like it. these past few weeks... they’ve been good, better. i hope it's the same for you. seeing you smile again, truly smile, it’s like the sun coming out after a long winter. i never want that winter to come back. i never want you to feel that coldness again. i was so blind. so stupid. i thought providing was enough but i was wrong. you taught me that. you always teach me things, even when you don’t mean to. i want to be better. for us. for you. i want to learn how to say these things out loud, not just write them down when no one’s looking. i’m sorry for the pain i caused. i’m sorry i let you feel alone. i promise to keep trying. to keep learning. to keep loving you, in all the ways you deserve. you are my home, y/n, my everything, my wife, and i will never ever let another man think they got a mere chance with you, never again. you're mine and i'm yours.

you're stuck with me, always.

san.

୨୧

masterlist.

[bigbabygremlin]

CRYING AND THROWING UP THIS WAS AN ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECE TO ME!!

[karmacharmeleon18]

[lemondrop-sunrise]

[teaxtease]

S. MINGI — five stars

synopsis: he’s a small artist your rich friend got you tickets to see up close. after the show, you catch him at a bar. is this all fanservice or something more?

note: yes, this is a reupload from last year. i just had to rewrite it, sorry if you’ve already read it :(

warnings: 3.1k words, rockstar mingi AU, afab fem reader, porn with plot, celebrity/fan dynamic, p in v unprotected sex (pls wrap it up y’all), foul language, dirty talk, usage of 'beautiful' 'baby' and 'min' as petnames, light choking (mingi receiving), cum eating, cunnilingus implied, big dick mingi, barely any foreplay, possessive mingi (?), no solid dynamic, wooyoung is a fanboy and a wingman, not proofread. 

he's gorgeous.

that's the first thought that came to mind as you and your friend, wooyoung, nudged each other behind the railing. mingi was only a few feet away, smiling at another fan who was getting him to sign their album. and you just couldn’t help but stare.

short bubblegum pink hair, black-out shades perched on his straight nose, plush lips pulled into an easy grin. he looked better than any of the pictures you’d seen online, flushed and too eager to meet people he’d never see again.

but your phone was out of battery, and you had no idea what to do when you got your very own three-second interaction.

it was too late to come up with something, though. wooyoung was already handing him a poster to sign, camera in his face, gushing about how cool he was on stage. the taller man smiled, only glancing at wooyoung and muttering a quick 'thanks for coming'.

now, it was your turn and you had absolutely nothing to offer him. your poster was too deep in your friend's bag to fish out, your albums were at home, and he couldn't take a selfie on your dead phone.

so you gripped onto the metal railing right in front of you and settled for: "hi, mingi, what's your favorite song to perform?"

he was on autopilot, his hand out and awaiting the item you'd surely want autographed. but your question broke him out of his automaticity, "autobahn. you don't have anything for me?"

embarrassment made your heart squeeze as he really stared at you, his eyes tracing curiously over your features. "no, i'm sorry. my phone died, and i don't have an album or anything."

he laughed. the breathy sound was a dizzying contrast to... everything. the heavy eyeliner around his eyes, the thick rings on his hands, his intense gaze. "don't apologize, beautiful. what's your name?"

you introduced yourself and felt your pulse quicken as he started to sign other items and take selfies. but his attention was on you.

"that's really pretty," he hummed, taking yet another glance at you, "is this your first time?"

"no," you answered too quickly, "i came here with my ex-boyfriend last tour. we broke up during the concert, actually."

the fans around you laughed amongst themselves, and you wanted the earth to swallow you whole after such a random response. it didn't help that he was so close you could smell his cologne.

"seriously?" he asked, laughing alongside the crowd behind you. "bet you were out of his league anyway. i did you a favor."

he handed a plushie back to a fan behind you before putting his hand out for you to take. you hesitated, so he insisted, "let me see your hand."

you were quick to comply with his spoken command; he quietly repeated your name to himself, "here. hopefully this was a better experience than last time. thank you for coming."

your eyes widened as he placed one of his rings on the palm of your hand. people gasped in awe, some even shoving others to take a look. but he had already moved onto the next area of fans before you could even thank him back.

after making it out of the hell that was the parking garage, wooyoung insisted that you keep the ‘party’ going. it was the first time you’d found an excuse to wear your new heels out, and it would’ve been a waste not to show them off, in his words. perhaps you were too easily convinced by the man at the steering wheel, because soon enough, he was on your arm, guiding you into a high-end bar.

the inside was barely lit by flashing red lights, sticky floors testing the soles of your pumps as you maneuvered through the crowd. music was blasting, something sultry and vaguely recognizable, interrupted by the dj’s unnecessary adlibs. but the drunk crowd was moving like that was their favorite song, and you couldn’t help but sway to the beat as you walked past the outskirts of the dance floor to the bar.

"dude, he totally wanted you," wooyoung said loudly as he propped you up on a barstool, practically closing you into the bar itself with how close he leaned in, "i even got a video of him talking to you, and he's literally looking at you like the rest of us weren't even there."

"stop," you whined, embarrassed by his wild conclusions, mouth moving right next to his ear. "it's just fan service."

he pulled back just enough to level you with a stare that said come on.

"well, he'd definitely service you— oh, my god. oh… my… god," his words tapered off into giggles as he looked past you.

you turned to the side, thinking there'd be somebody throwing up or naked on the dance floor, only to see mingi nearing the bar.

"no fucking way," you muttered, turning back towards your friend when you accidentally made eye contact. you shared a few moments of unintelligible rambling before he approached the two of you, entourage forgotten somewhere behind him.

“small world,” he said over the music, sparing wooyoung a warm smile before zeroing in on you, “you should join my section.”

that could not be real. he could not possibly be real. he had changed out of his performance outfit, and he somehow looked even hotter. various bulky silver chains were replaced by a simple thin one, tailored pants replaced by worn black denim. the adrenaline-boosted smile he wore not even an hour ago was something simpler. realer. just as heart-wrenching, if not more.

the insistent poking at your ribs reminded you that you needed to respond. you glanced over at wooyoung, who nodded enthusiastically. but you couldn’t just leave him behind. not after he’d bought the tickets. he'd driven you there. paid for parking and the skirt you were wearing. you’d kiss him, if he weren't… well, wooyoung.

“only if there’s enough room for both of us,” you pulled your friend closer by his arm, mustering up your most convincing smile.

mingi hummed at the request, not even thinking it over before nodding, “there’s plenty. tell the guard by the elevator you’re with joong, he’ll let you in. meet me on the top floor.”

an elevator ride later, you strutted onto the nightclub’s rooftop. it was louder than you expected, sparkly faces scattered throughout the area, bodies swaying to the music spilling from the speakers near the dj booth. a handsome man spun the discs, one hand pressing a headphone to his ear as a few pretty girls climbed onto the table next to him. 

“look where you got us,” wooyoung exclaimed right next to your ear, arm linked with yours, “want a drink?”

“i’m trying to stay sober tonight,” you replied, loosening your hold on him as he glanced behind you. 

you felt it too. the intense stare digging into your back, the approach to come.

“i’d say you’re no fun, but i think this’ll be a night to remember. good luck,” he responded, gifting you a wink before threading through the crowd.

only a few seconds passed before a hand ghosted the small of your back. you jolted, head whipping to the side to meet mingi’s gaze. the view was surreal, colored neon lights accentuating his playful expression and the curious glint he couldn’t quite hide.

he said nothing, removing his right hand from your back to put it out for the second time that night. he expected you to take it. you did, relishing in the triumphant smile that pulled at his lips as he guided you through the sea of people, nodding in response to greetings and congratulations thrown his way.

he opened the door to a private room, gesturing at the guard before nodding his head toward the open space, “i want you to myself for a little. is that okay?”

it didn’t take another word before you were stepping inside, settling onto the couch as he dimmed the lights.

"so," he began after sitting beside you, stretching his long legs under the center table. the material of his pants brushed against your bare skin, but he didn’t move as he spoke, "fate?"

you couldn’t help but smile, feeling all kinds of emotions running through your veins as he held your gaze under the dim blue lighting. the music from outside poured in softly, the shadow of his idling guard visible through the privacy glass of the door.

"maybe," you replied, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

his strong hands took the jug of water from the center table and served two cups of it. he lifted one of the glasses to his lips, took a sip, and cleared his throat. "tell me about your ex. i've never heard of someone being broken up with during my shows."

you relaxed slightly, repeating to yourself that he was just another person. just another man. "right, well... we weren't together long. but he wouldn't let me go to your show with a friend because he said that'd be cheating. you were his favorite artist, so he invited himself. he decided that cheering for you was also cheating. long story short, he broke up with me, and he left before the show was over."

he exhaled amusedly in response, sensing your nerves and feeding off of your attention. his eyes focused on his ring around your middle finger. a disapproving scoff filled the air, "he didn't even let me finish? what an asshole. sorry he ruined that for you."

you shook your head, taking a sip of water as he processed the story.

"so you came to this show with a secure guy at home?" he asked tentatively, watching you carefully as you set your cup down. “or is that guy with you your boyfriend?”

"no, i’m single," you corrected, "i'd rather scream for you comfortably."

your odd choice of words was out before you could take them back, and they made him snort, "that's what i like to hear."

in a blur, you end up completely bare, face pressing against a pillow at a luxurious hotel a few minutes from the bar. there’s lip gloss smudged across your chin, surely staining the cotton beneath you, but you can't even pretend to care as mingi traces the arch of your back with a firm thumb.

"look at that," he groans to himself, biting down on his kiss-swollen lips, "baby, you're soaked."

the line he traces down your back encourages you to arch deeper, more desperate for a rewarding touch. "mingi," you complain, the cold breeze from the air conditioning making your craving for his warmth even stronger.

he shushes you, leaning over to press a kiss on your shoulder, "i know. i feel you pushing back on me.”

"then do something,” you plead, bending even further as his woody scent hits your nose. he’s so close you could count his eyelashes, and the thought makes you clench.

he barely suppresses a moan at your desperation, one arm wrapping around your front to support your weight, "spread your legs a little more f'me."

you do as you're told, mind clouded with need, and he placates you by sliding himself between your folds. you tense when his tip brushes on your clit, and he makes it his mission to do the same thing a few more times, until you're moaning in his hold.

slick sounds of the motion fill the room and he shudders, watching the side of your face and taking pleasure from seeing the way your brows furrow as your eyes fall shut.

but he stops abruptly when you choke on a whine, hands steadying on your waist and voice right next to your ear, "gotta see you. i'm gonna turn you over."

he adjusts a pillow under you before flipping you onto your back. there’s not enough time to respond as he leans down for a heated kiss. his plush lips are slightly chapped, moving against yours as if he’s been waiting decades for the chance to kiss you again. the movements are more sure than the ones in the club room, like he’s fully decided that this is right. that the best choice had really been offering you the privacy of a hotel room.

it’s a confident exchange, messy but precise, the goal clear for the night. you inhale sharply when he swipes a thumb over your hardened nipple, he groans when you nip at his bottom lip in response.

“want me to finger you or somethin’?” he asks in a rush against your open mouth when you start pushing your hips closer to his, “i don’t wanna hurt you.”

against your better judgment, you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, “just fuck me.”

his eyes widen in a mix of amusement and desire, “okay, but let me know if—“

“—i can take it, mingi, please,” you insist, heels digging into his back to push him closer.

the movement encourages the length of him to lie right over your stomach, stopping just below your belly button. the view punches a shaky breath out of his lungs, and his demeanor shifts, “of course you can.” he makes a show of licking his ring and middle fingers and slipping his hand between your legs, circling your clit with ease, “bet i could slip right in, hm? so fucking needy, i love it.”

he’s immediately proven right when you use your own hand to guide him into you. he shudders in surprise, a cute smile gracing his face. he doesn’t hesitate to give you what you want, slowly pressing into you.

each torturous inch forces your body to intake a heavy breath. he’s bigger than anyone you had taken before, the stretch making your body twitch in small movements away from him. but he’s not allowing you to escape, one hand holding your hip down while another spreads you open for him.

his eyes follow the tilt of your head, and he takes advantage of the view by pressing open-mouthed kisses right under your jaw. his nose presses against your neck, and he moans in harmony with you as he bottoms out, “fuck, you’re so sexy. you okay?”

“mingi, move,” you take a steadying deep breath, the fullness satisfying but not nearly enough. he laughs softly at your words, nipping at your neck before straightening up.

“i’ll take that as a yes,” he replies, digging his knees into the mattress and pinning your wrists above you.

your mind can barely register the way he invades your senses. you can see he’s struggling to keep his eyes open, his jaw slack as he pistons into you.

you can feel the hand on your wrists tightening periodically, his other hand busy playing with your clit.

you can hear him moaning your name in that voice you had listened to thousands of times over in your favorite songs.

the voice you’d many times played at night when you just couldn’t sleep and your body needed release. he’d led you there, in your fantasies, and you’d apologized to him in your mind afterwards. and now he’s panting above you, dick twitching inside you when your palm pushes down where you can feel him.

he’s fucking into you desperately, exploring you with his gaze as if he’s trying to mentally map out all the places he’s going to claim for himself. he’s not holding back how aroused he is, drool collecting at the corner of his mouth as he whines a breathy, “c’mon, fuck me back, baby.”

“so good, min, ‘m close,” you tremble with effort as you move your hips to meet his thrusts, moaning when his clouded eyes snap up to your face.

the hotel bed creaks with your effort and he nods enthusiastically, a wild smile gracing his face. his thumb on your clit is still drawing jumbled patterns as he gears all his focus into making you reach your high, “i know— shit, i know, you’re clenching like crazy. wish you could see how pretty you look right now. yeah, taking me like you own me.”

he’s rambling, completely dazed as he studies your features with lust in its purest form, “bet you’ve thought about this before. your ex was right, getting jealous over me.” he pauses, releasing your hands and adjusting the pillow under you to angle himself even deeper, “imagine what he’d think, seeing us like this.”

the muscles of your thigh stretch deliciously as he uses his free hand to fold one of your legs closer to your chest. your jaw drops in a low moan, hands instinctively clawing at his shoulders and he exhales sharply, head dipping forward, “did you fuck him like this?” his voice turns into a whimper when you shake your head, “he didn’t deserve it. you sound so pretty, fuck, i could put you on a track and listen for hours.”

his voice vibrating right over your face is enough to push you over the edge. he doesn’t let up on your clit, rubbing it messily until you push his ringed hand away. 

“i know, baby, i‘m sorry. just a lil’ more, yeah?” he insists, groaning when you grab him roughly by the base of his neck and pull him down for a sloppy kiss. the tight squeeze and the lick of your tongue against his lips send a jolt of heat down his spine, and he follows right behind you, breaking away from the kiss just in time to pull out and release over your lower abdomen and inner thighs.

an unintelligible curse word drops from mingi's lips as he controls his breathing, watching his cum drip all over your skin.

you take a few moments to gather yourself, head tilted back to stop yourself from finishing again just from the sight in front of you: your idol panting like a dog, the flustered red skin of his pelvis slick with your arousal.

he was yours, for that moment in time. the bruises on your neck were a better keepsake than a signature on his latest album.

cotton sheets rustle underneath you, coaxing your eyes open as he moves back to lie down onto his stomach. his eyes are trained onto your face as you push yourself up by your elbows, his ringed fingers gently pushing your knees apart, “feeling good?”

“yes. thank you,” you instinctively reach down to rake your hands through his short hair. your new ring glistens in the warm light emitted by the hotel lamp.

he grins innocently at your touch as if he’s not hardening against the sheets. his hand massages the untainted flesh of your leg, hot tongue brushing against your inner thigh as he cleans up the mix of your arousals with a moan, “don’t thank me yet. you can give me one more, right?” 

[the texts you wake up to, 9:43 AM]

| unknown number: sorry about leaving you, i had a flight to catch | unknown number: but the room’s booked for another day and your ride home is paid for | unknown number: i’ll lyk when i’m in town again :) free tickets and maybe a backstage pass if you’re down?

| wooyo: dude?? answer my calls??? why r u at a random hotel | wooyo: and why tf did i just get an email from QK asking me to sign an nda, saying i witnessed something confidential? | wooyo: omfg. it just clicked. did u actually fuck THE song mingi? | wooyo: blink twice if yes??? and hypothetically… how many stars would u rate him?