there's only one person you can trust to make your head go quiet when the whole fucking world seems to be screaming at you
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au series, part 14/?
🎤︎︎ 18+ | 13.6k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, yunho is an angel sent from heaven above | oops i did it again but be nice to me bc im fragile rn
“AS A SOCIETY, we care too much about body count, I think. The whole concept of a body count is wild to me, actually. If you think about it, we give a lot of significance to a number, like it represents a person, like we can tell who they are as a human fucking being because of how many people they’ve fucked. I sent out a feeler on my subreddit–which I do fucking read, by the way–and asked what a person’s body count needs to be in order for you to date them. You guys freaked me the fuck out.
“Five… ten… twenty… I know I asked the question, but the fact that you all had answers? You thought about it, and actually came up with a number. What if you met your soulmate, but their body count is six? Eleven? Twenty-one? Would you kick them to the curb? Would you say ‘Sorry, I don’t date whores’? Because that’s basically what you’re saying by even having a limit. You’re saying if someone crosses your personal threshold, then they aren’t worth considering a future with. It’s not because they’re liars or cheaters or shitty human beings, it’s because they’ve had more sex than you prefer before they even met you. Isn’t that baffling?
“At one point, I think I might have had that mentality, too, when I was younger and not as experienced. If it's a preference for you, fine, have your preferences, but if it’s because it skeeves you out or something that the person you want has once wanted other people, if it changes how you see them, it’s different. That number didn’t change the person, the only thing that number changed is how you view the person.
“I’ve met people with low body counts who are piece-of-shit cheaters, dirty fucking liars. Like, under ten, maybe even under five low. But I’ve met people with high body counts who have never cheated on anyone, who are painfully honest and are even picky about who they have sex with because their morals are strong. I’ve met people who save sex for relationships and stay in the relationship even if the sex is borderline awful. Isn’t it interesting that body count has nothing to fucking do with who you are as a person?
“Body count doesn’t tell me who you are. It doesn’t tell me if you’re kind, if you’re generous, if you’re caring. It doesn’t tell me if you’re rude, selfish, or emotionally unavailable. All it tells me is that you’ve had sex. That’s it. And for us, at our age, somewhere in our twenties, god– who fucking cares? We all have sex! I’ve spent months telling everyone in great detail what I do, I’ve given tips on how to please your partner, I’ve been giving you all a goddamn manual to fuck. You want advice from someone who’s experienced, but if you actually meet someone who is experienced, suddenly they’re a whore. That just doesn’t sit right with me.
“I think this is my question: if I reached through the phone and handed you two people, both are your perfect type. Everything you could ever want in a partner. You share the same values, you want the same future, you feel the same about almost everything. The only difference is that one has a body count of five, and the other has a body count of fifty. Would the person with the higher body count really be of less value to you? Would they be less attractive to you, just because of that number? Think about it.
“Also, date whoever the fuck you want, have your preferences. Seriously. But a body count isn’t the fucking same as the Myers-Briggs, it doesn’t tell you anything about a person. It doesn’t tell you who’s kind, who will treat you well, who will see you when you can’t see yourself. The only thing a body count can tell you is that the person has had sex. That’s it.
“Sorry the think piece was a rant today, but that’s been bugging me. I needed to get it off my chest. Join me next week where hopefully I’ll have a few stories to tell, all of ‘em personal, all of ‘em about making my own body count higher. And they’ll be unscripted, as always.”
You pull your headphones out of your ears as your professor strides into the lecture hall. You need to get out of the habit of listening to your own episodes after you post them, because you can hear the frustration in your voice, the anger lining each syllable, the episode feels personal. And even if it is, even if the topic of body count and the concept of double standards has been bugging you since that evening you spent with Wooyoung, you don’t need another fucking megathread on r/Unscripted about Mister Piss-Me-Off.
You’ve never been more grateful for a privacy screen on your phone as you pull up your own subreddit. There’s talk, of course, but not much. No one’s put two and two together. You hate that there’s an air of anxiety around the word yet.
You swipe out of Reddit, open up your messages instead.
yunho: are u in class
yunho: wanting and needing coffee rn. and to see ur face
You smile at your screen.
you: unforch i am in class
you: i might leave tho idk im restless today i can’t focus
A bubble pops up with three dots immediately.
yunho: stop playing on ur phone then
yunho: pay attention and i’ll bring you coffee to ur building after
Your lips scrunch, disappointed. Fucker.
you: fine </3
you: boo tomato tomato
you: tell san to make it extra yummy today
yunho: im not texting u anymore
yunho: pay attention
Your top lip lifts at your screen, but you listen, locking your phone and bringing your attention back up to your professor. He’s writing on the wide, thick whiteboard, and even if you’re trying your hardest to pay attention, your ears perk up to the conversation happening behind you.
“Did you listen?” A guy. You can’t remember his name.
“The body count one? The one she posted this morning?”
Your spine goes rigid, eyes widening. You bring your gaze back to the table in front of you.
“It’s stupid, obviously someone got on her ass about her own body count.”
“So? I liked it, she’s right. Who cares about body count?” You’ve always liked that girl. She gave you a pen when you forgot your own, once.
“Everyone cares about body count. It’s like, instilled in us as humans.”
“It’s instilled in you as a man.”
You can’t help the way your lips curve, staring at your desk.
The professor clears his throat, and the two behind you go quiet. You look up through your brows, body on fire. He’s probably somewhere in his forties, dressed in business-casual, like a proper professor. He tilts his head, the movement youthful, “Don’t stop on my account, please, keep going. We can use it for today.”
You can feel the color drain from your face. He doesn’t mean what you think he means, does he?
The two behind you don’t make a sound. The professor points to the board, “We’re talking about source credibility. Who here has listened to the podcast that’s all over campus? Someone remind me what it’s called, Unwritten?”
“Unscripted,” a girl from the front row corrects as her hand shoots upward. You look around the room, the stacked rows of seats, about seventy-five percent of the hands go up. Yours stay glued to the table in front of you.
He pushes away from the board, looking up at the audience of students, “I hear the host is anonymous… Does that make her more credible, or less?”
The same girl from the front answers, “Less. She loses credibility with anonymity.”
The girl from behind you counters, “More. If no one knows who she is, then she can’t gain anything from the podcast. It’s popular, she could monetize it easily.”
A guy from the left side of the room adds, “She’s obviously experienced, I feel like she’s pretty obviously credible.”
Someone in the row before him turns around, “You think sleeping around makes her credible?”
You need to get the fuck out of here. You need to leave.
The professor cuts in, “That’s a good question. Does having a lot of sexual experience make you a more credible source on sex?”
The girl from behind you answers, “Of course, why would you take sex advice from someone who doesn’t have sex?”
The girl from the front makes a noise like she doesn’t agree. “Doing it a lot doesn’t mean you’re good at it, though.”
The professor crosses his arms, his voice booming throughout the room, “Interesting. Now let me ask: if her identity was revealed tomorrow, how many of you would change your opinion on her? If she was someone you didn’t expect.”
Bile forms in your throat, your fingers gripping onto your pen like you’re pulling a trigger. You refuse to look, to see if any hands are raised.
A smile curves his lips, “But did anything change? Her arguments, her advice, the facts?” You can feel the silence in the room. You could touch it. “So what changed, then? Other than putting a face to the name?”
The girl in the front answers again, “It would decide her credibility. But if she revealed herself, she’d be judged ruthlessly as a woman. If she were to expose her own identity, people would be able to look into her life, see who she is, who she’s slept with. They would be able to find out real facts, instead of taking her advice at face value.”
“So, the discussion would become qualification,” the professor continues. “How many of you have imagined what she looks like?”
Your throat constricts around nothing as you glance around the room, the hands raised in the air feel like they were all pointing at you. You might actually fucking cry. Unscripted being spoken about with your friends is one thing, but in class of all places?
He pauses between each question, “Did you imagine someone conventionally attractive? Someone older than you? Someone who looks like they’d have a lot of experience? Confident? Bold?” Then he smiles at the class, at the silence that’s covered the room like a blanket. “You all have invented a source, one you trust, in your imagination. That’s what an audience does when information is missing, they fill in the blanks.”
You tune the rest out. You don’t even mean to, you don’t think your ears work anymore. He writes on the board, he speaks, the class answers questions, you feel like a ghost, counting down the minutes until the class is over. You don’t think your phone screen locked once with how many times you tapped it to show the time.
Unscripted is getting too big. It’s reaching farther than you ever expected it to, farther than you ever fucking wanted it to. When you started posting, it was to give women an outlet, a safe space to exist where sex wasn’t a taboo topic to speak about. That women can love sex just as much as men do, and it’s normal. It’s natural. You can’t help feeling like it’s turned into something else entirely.
Something your friends can debate, something the campus can gossip about, something to be fucking lectured in your goddamn class. No one is just listening to enjoy it anymore, they’re analyzing it, they’re picking it apart piece by piece, they want to know who you are. They want to know you.
You don’t want to be known.
You had your shit packed up before he finished the last few closing words and rushed out of the class like a bat out of hell. You feel exposed, like the bigger Unscripted gets, the smaller you are. They’ve imagined what your fucking face looks like. For the first time since you started Unscripted, there’s regret sitting heavy in your gut, and it beckons you to move to action. You should delete it all. Every post, everything, you should remove your online presence entirely.
“There’s my sunshine girl.” Yunho is standing right outside of the double doors, two coffees in his hands, a gray hoodie swallowing his upper half, bright blue shorts reaching mid-thigh.
You don’t know when the last breath you took was. But seeing him, a grin on his cheeks, holding a coffee out for you, the air tastes sweeter. Fresher. Like you’re breathing relief into your lungs. You don’t take it from his hand yet, you walk into him, pressing your forehead into his cotton-covered chest. You breathe in his smell, laundry detergent, a little weed-y.
“What’s wrong?” His elbows wrap around you, he presses his lips to the top of your head. “Bad class?”
You nod, forehead still pressed to his chest. “I knew I should have skipped.”
He huffs amusement. “The drama. Do you have any more classes today?”
You shake your head in his chest, probably fucking up your hair. “I want to go home and sleep.”
“Take a nap before the girls come over,” he leans back enough to make you lift your head to see him. “You guys are pregaming at your place, right?”
He slides your coffee in between your bodies, and you catch the straw between your lips, taking a sip. You moan at the taste, “Fuck, I’m making sure Jen fucks San extra good for this.” You grin for the first time all afternoon, taking the cup from his hand, “Thank you, and yeah, the girls are coming over.” Your lips scrunch as you stare at the coffee swirling in the plastic cup. “I don’t even feel like partying tonight.”
“You don’t have to,” he immediately reassures you. “There’s literally another one tomorrow, and that party will arguably be better than ours.”
You snort, “You have no faith in your own frat, Yunho. I always have more fun at your house.”
He shrugs. “I’d leave my own party for Jungwon’s. You don’t have to spare my feelings when I know the truth.”
You roll your eyes, “Come on. Let’s get away from this stupid fucking building.”
“Yes ma’am,” Yunho answers, amusement playing in his tone as he follows you away from your now demonic lecture hall.
You're halfway home before the thoughts creep up again. Yunho always gives you space, lets you work shit out on your own before you present them to him. But you can’t explain this to him, you can’t tell him any of it, but his comfort is what you need right now.
You turn your head to look up at him, “Do you want to nap with me?”
His brows furrow, “I have a party to set up, sunshine. I gotta go with Wooyoung to the liquor store.”
“Make him go alone,” you pout. “There’s like, twenty more of you, he can find someone else to go with him. Make Mingi go.”
“I’d tell Joong to go before I’d tell Mingi,” he laughs a little. “Joong is stronger, believe it or not.”
Your lips curve, “Really? He’s so tiny.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Yunho muses. “Mingi’s just tall. He’s not strong, he’s a softie in every sense of the word. You know him, you’ve been around him.”
You shake your head. “I judged a book by its cover. I’m fucked up.”
Yunho wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “I’ll nap with you if you promise to wake up with enough time for me to go back home.”
“Deal,” you nod into his hoodie. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
“Guys.” Your nose crinkles at the sound, like it might have come from the astral realm, certainly not from someone inside your bedroom. “Guys! Wake up.”
Air gets trapped in your nose as a yawn pulls your body into movement, arms stretching over your head.
“Jesus fuck, did you even set an alarm?”
Your eyes peel open to Yunjin standing over the other side of your bed, hands on her hips. You blink once, twice. “What?”
“Sannie just called me freaking the fuck out over Yunho not being home,” she’s whisper-yelling, because Yunho beside you hasn’t stirred the slightest bit.
You look at him, hair fucked up, shirtless, softly snoring. You smile, “He’s so cute.”
“He won’t be after San fucks him up for not being home,” she’s speaking in her normal volume now. “Wake him up.”
“Fine, fine,” you say through another yawn, lifting yourself up on your elbows. After she leaves your room that’s as dark as night, you flip over, peppering kisses up Yunho’s chest, his neck, you feel him stirring as you place the last one on his cheek.
He groans, turning on his back, rubbing at his face. His voice is groggy as he asks, “What time is it?”
You feel around the bedsheets for your phone. You don’t find it. “I don’t know, but Jen just came in here saying San is blowing her shit up about you not being home.”
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “How long have we been asleep?”
“No idea,” you answer without a shred of care in your tone. You wish you could go back to sleep. “Let’s skip. You can stay here and we can go back to sleep.”
Eyes half open, he reaches for you, pulling you into his chest. You let him, pressing your cheek against his bare skin, and the two of you lay there silently for a minute or an hour, you don’t care.
“How do you feel?” he mumbles, voice still coated in sleep.
You hum against his chest, “Like I don’t wanna get up.”
One of his hands slides under your shirt, fingertips dancing up your back. “I don’t really want to, either.”
“See?” You peel your face off his chest, looking at him. “We should just stay here.”
He smiles, leaning forward to press a quick peck to your lips. “I would if I could.” You immediately pout. He huffs a laugh, “If we lay here any longer it’ll just be harder to get up.”
You crawl on top of him fully, your thighs landing on either side of his hips, your upper half perched on his chest. “Please?”
He groans, palms finding your thighs like magnets, thumbs rubbing at your bare skin. “I have to go,” he squeezes your thighs. “I know what you’re doing.”
You play coy, “I’m not doing anything.”
He shakes his head before lightly smacking one of your thighs once, “Up.” You pout further, unmoving. “If I have to say it twice then I’m not fucking you later, either.”
You suck in a breath as you crawl off of him, a streak of need shooting up your spine. “That was mean,” you whine, on your back now, watching as he crawls off the bed.
He laughs to himself, “You’re just easy.”
“Not easy,” you correct. “I listen like you taught me to, there’s a difference.”
He pulls his hoodie over his head, then leans onto the bed to press a kiss to your lips before saying, “I’ll see you later, you can listen to me then.”
“Fine,” you mutter.
He huffs a laugh under his breath, “You’re pushing it, brat.”
You grin, turning on your side, palm holding your head up. “How far can I push before you give in?”
He shakes his head, but there’s a grin on his lips. “You’re ridiculous. I’ll see you later.”
“Bye,” you say, watching as he leaves through your door. When you hear the front door close, you frown. You don’t want to be alone with your thoughts.
Luckily, you don’t have to be. Yunjin storms into your room right after, turning the lights on before she’s talking at a volume too loud for your just woken state, “I don’t get it.”
You blink at her, staring at her hands on her hips, her tight jaw. She doesn’t give you a chance to ask. “You said you’re not exclusive, but why are you sleeping together at seven at night on a Monday?”
Your brows furrow. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” Yunjin shrugs. “Nothing’s wrong, per se–”
You interject, already dumbfounded, “Per se?”
“Girl,” she huffs, walking forward until she’s sitting on the edge of your bed. “You ended exclusivity before there was even something real between you and now you’re spending more time together than you were before. Isn’t this like, the opposite of how it’s supposed to go?”
“Huh?” Your neck cranes forward. “We’re not dating, Jen. We’re both on the same page, it’s not like we’re eloping.”
She pops a brow. “With your track record I wouldn’t be so sure.”
You smack your teeth, laying back down. “I had a shitty day, Jen. I’m not in the mood to figure this shit out, I just wanted to take a nap.”
“With him,” she adds.
You sit up on your elbows again, shooting her a flat stare. “Yes, with him. He’s comforting.”
“Comforting,” she echoes in a breath. She lays down on her side, elbow propped up beneath her as she asks, “What happened? Why was your day shitty?”
“My class discussed Unscripted,” you mumble, mindlessly kicking at the sheets around your feet.
She sits up. “What? Your class?”
You sigh, then groan, laying flat on your back to run your hands over your face, turning on your side. Your voice comes out muffled as you groan out, “They imagined what I fucking look like, Jen.”
“What the fuck?” Her voice is pitched, shocked, a little disbelieving. “Wait, start from the beginning.”
You lay there, knees tucked up on your side as you tell her everything. How your professor made your podcast into a lecture, the questions he asked, how many fucking people in your class not only listen, but engage. They listen hard enough to debate.
You feel sick all over again.
“That’s fucking terrifying,” she says when you finish, her face scrunched up in horror. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I want to delete it all,” you whisper, chest feeling tight. Then your lip quivers before you can get the rest out, “I want to wipe Unscripted off the internet. Gone forever. I’m done.”
“No,” she leans closer, crawling up on the bed until she’s laying right beside you. “Don’t say that.”
Your voice cracks, eyes filling with watery heat as you say, “I mean it, Jen. I don’t like this.”
“I know,” her voice is softer now, comforting. “But Unscripted is a part of you, babe. Through everything, even when I couldn’t be there for you, she was.” She reaches over, moving a piece of hair out of your face, frowning as she watches your tears fall. “You love Unscripted.”
You sniffle, lips quivering, nose twitching as you try to hold back your tears, your fear that wraps around you like a fucking straight jacket. You can’t.
She lets you get it out for a minute or two, a light hand on your arm, thumb swiping across your skin. When you’re sniffling snot and you can feel how swollen your eyes have gotten, she speaks again. “I know how scared you are, but Unscripted is your voice. She’s you. And you’re not the only person she’s important to, I think Sannie would be destroyed if you stopped posting.”
A laugh breaks through, just one, but it’s heavy and coated in your crying voice. You wipe your eyes, “He would be destroyed.”
She's smiling at the sight of you smiling. “See? I know it’s scary, but people really fucking love you, even if they don’t know it’s you.”
You shake your head, sniffling. “I don’t know, Jen. The bigger it gets, the easier it will be to put the pieces together. I think I should cut it off before it gets to that point.”
“Do it next week,” she offers. “Or in a few days, or whenever this feeling passes. Delete it when your head is clear, not when you’re scared or crying or upset.”
You nod, looking at her, lips still quivering. You manage to mutter a small, broken, “Thank you.”
“I’ve got your back,” she smiles. “I love you, I love Unscripted, I love every version of you that exists. I want you to love her, too.”
“I’ll try,” you force out, managing a smile. “I really don’t want to go tonight.”
Her lips tighten in a frown. “Unfortunately, now you kinda have to go.” She smiles again before saying, “I won’t let you sit in here and cry all night.”
You pout, “But it’s been so long since I’ve laid in here and cried.”
“Progress,” she nods, assured. “Let’s keep up the good work, girl.” You groan, rolling away from her, and she laughs before stretching her body over yours, searching for your face. “Come on, you deserve a night away from thinking about all this shit.”
“We party every other day,” you groan out. “I need a break or I’m gonna gain the fucking freshman fifteen again.”
“You work at a gym,” she argues, tone final. “You’re coming, end of story. No more arguing.”
She pushes off your body to lift herself up, and all you can do is mutter a pained sound. You’re sure she’s in your doorway when she yells, “Get up!”
You sigh, laying flat on your back, you sprawl your arms out on either side of you, searching for your phone again. You find it under you, hot as hell like you’ve been laying on it this entire time. You have two missed calls from San, texts from San, texts from Mingi, texts from Wooyoung. You don’t even open them, sighing as you throw your phone next to you again. A second goes by of you staring at your ceiling before you inevitably pick your phone up again.
mister rich: is yunho there
mister rich: answer
mister rich: tell him he owes me
You gnaw on your bottom lip, fingers hovering over your keyboard.
you: my bad
you: hes on his way back now
The three dots pop up sooner than you thought they would.
mister rich: next time can u wait to fuck him after he goes to the liquor store w me
you: we weren’t even fucking
you: we were sleeping
mister rich: thats even worse
mister rich: u two gross me out
You smile at your screen while typing back.
you: be jealous ho
you: i can smell the envy from here
mister rich: ur smelling the sweat lingering in ur sheets from that fatass nap
you: LMFAO
you: ok that was funny
you: fuck u
mister rich: r u coming tn
You gnaw on your bottom lip again, bending your knees up, ankles crossing.
you: yeah im coming
mister rich: make sure u shower so u dont stink up my house
You scoff, turning on your side.
you: make sure You shower
you: u probably still smell like whatever girl u fucked today
mister rich: i smell like a garden full of blooming flowers
mister rich: and body wash i bought from lush
you: so manly
You hear Yunjin yell from her bedroom, so with a complaining noise, you force yourself out of bed. But you don’t close your phone, and you don’t leave it in your bedroom, either. Wooyoung keeps texting you, and then continues texting you while you get ready. You did your hair, your makeup, even when the girls start walking in your house to pregame, he’s in your phone sending witty messages every few minutes.
Sitting with the heels of your feet propped up on the edge of your chair, you send him one last message before going out to the kitchen with the rest of the girls.
you: ok fuck off now
you: the girls are here
mister rich: is jihyo there
mister rich: did u decide if ur spending the night with her or yunho yet
you: ur so irritating
you: yunho tho
mister rich: u sure??
mister rich: hes talking crazy to mingi rn
you: maybe ill end the night with both of them then
you: only time will tell
mister rich: omfg ur turning into me. u really are my twin
You thumbs-down the message.
you: pray i dont see u tn deadass
Hopping off your chair, you’re only half-dressed as you walk out into the kitchen grinning, greeting Jihyo, Sana and Momo, the first three to arrive. Jihyo’s hair is slicked back, an open-front top on her upper half, baggy jeans on her lower. You kiss her on the cheek, giving her a hug, complimenting her as soon as you see her. Whether she’s in a dress or something casual, she always looks fucking incredible, it doesn’t matter what clothes she has on. Perks of being literally perfect.
Sana looks like a princess dressed in pink, Momo looks like she chose the smallest articles of clothing in her closet, both look to die for. Delectable. You’re glad they’re all here not only so you can stare at them in awe, but also so they can help choose an outfit for you.
You make yourself a drink before becoming their personal Barbie doll. Four olives just because you can, you sip on your martini from the chair in your vanity while all four of your friends go through your closet like it’s a shopping mall. Music bleeds in from the kitchen, the same pregame playlist Yunjin always connects to your speaker, it serves to bring your mood up the rest of the way.
By the time the other girls barrel in, you’re dressed, a little tipsy, and you can’t seem to wipe the smile off your face.
Wooyoung sits on the counter in the kitchen. People started showing up a while ago, but he isn’t the one to approach with greetings. He sips on his beer, watching from the corner, listening as his brothers make their loud-mouthed greetings, instead. Well, it’s really only Yeosang who’s still greeting everyone, and mainly because he’s been drunk for the past two hours.
Hongjoong, Seonghwa and Jongho were somewhere else, maybe on the back porch, smoking. San, Yunho and Mingi stand in different parts of the kitchen, yelling to each other over the packed counter, their voices bouncing off the bottles of liquor. Something about having enough beer, having enough weed, and Wooyoung almost makes his third jab toward Yunho about not coming with him to the liquor store. He had to get Mingi to come with him, and Mingi can only carry one case of beer at a time.
He decides to let Yunho off the hook, he doesn’t really feel like bothering the older man anymore. He doesn’t feel like doing anything except sitting, watching, sipping his beer. And checking his phone.
He pulls it from his pocket, tapping the screen. Approaching ten-thirty, his lock screen is empty, just like it was five minutes ago. He shoves it back in his pocket.
“Why do you keep checking your phone?” San asks, brows furrowed, leaning on the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen. He talks across the room like there’s no one else inside it, like other than the four of them, the kitchen is empty. “Who’s coming here that you’re so impatient to see?”
“Your mom,” Wooyoung quips before bringing his beer back up to his lips.
Mingi snorts before anyone else can react, “How old are you?”
Like he had it locked and loaded, he responds, “Old enough to fuck his mom.”
“It’d be funny if it wasn’t possible,” San grimaces from the other side of the kitchen. “With you, anything is fucking possible.”
“Not anything,” Yunho interjects. “There are plenty of people on campus he hasn’t fucked yet, there are entire genders he hasn’t tapped.”
Wooyoung’s bottom lip folds over with a shrug like Yunho has a point. Mingi gasps at the lack of rebuttal, “Did you just come out? Should we celebrate? Should we invite RuPaul?”
“I just mean he’s not wrong,” Wooyoung says before sipping his beer again.
Mingi gapes at him while Yunho laughs, and San doesn’t pay it any mind because he knows Yunho’s not wrong. He probably knows Wooyoung is at the least curious about the idea, too.
“When’s she getting here?” Mingi asks, leaning over Yunho’s shoulder as the blonde pulls out his phone. Wooyoung’s head turns, eyes narrowing like he might see past Yunho’s privacy screen.
“She’s here,” Yunho answers, and Wooyoung fixes his gaze out toward the living room. Plenty of people he knows, plenty of people he recognizes, plenty of people he’s been inside of, but none that make him want to hop off the countertop.
He grabs his phone out of his pocket again like maybe this time there might be a message waiting for him. There isn’t.
By now, usually he at least has his eyes set on someone. Usually there’s a woman who’s made eyes at him, flirted with him, already tried to get him upstairs. Sometimes he is already upstairs by now. Tonight, the faces blur together, or maybe that’s because he won’t even get off the counter to window shop.
San lays his elbow on Wooyoung’s knee, he didn’t even notice his best friend crossing the room. Voice whiney, he moans, “I don’t feel like mingling. I want to drink with Jen and then have sloppy, drunk sex and pass out.”
Wooyoung snorts, “Magical Monday night for you.”
San pops a brow. “Not you? Usually I can’t find you by now.”
It shouldn’t surprise him anymore how well San knows him, but it always does anyway. Wooyoung sighs, “Waiting for her to come to me.”
“Or him, apparently,” San muses, then realizes he’s leaning half his body on Wooyoung’s legs. He raises his brows at Wooyoung like he might be interested.
He can’t help but laugh, pushing him off. “Go find your girlfriend to have sloppy, drunk sex.”
“She’s not my girlfriend," San answers, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. He lowers his voice just enough for Wooyoung to still hear him over the music, “Do you think she’d want to be my girlfriend?”
“Of course,” Wooyoung reassures him. “You’re obsessed with each other.”
San grins ear-to-ear. “I’m obsessed with her.”
“Trust me,” Wooyoung lays a hand on his shoulder. “She’s just as obsessed with you.”
They sit in content silence other than the blaring bass for a moment before San ruins it completely. “Since when are you two texting?”
Wooyoung whips his head to look at San, surprise and disbelief written across his features. “How’d you know I was texting her?”
“Because I know you,” San answers simply. “I’ve never seen you actually care about someone who isn’t one of us. It’s weird, I can recognize it from a mile away.”
Wooyoung’s nose crinkles. Softly, he mutters, “I don’t care.”
San stands in front of Wooyoung, staring at the younger man like he’s actually fucking stupid. Then his face softens as he leans his elbow back into Wooyoung’s thigh again, “Jen told me she had a rough day today.”
“Why?” Wooyoung asks. “What happened?” San smirks. Wooyoung grimaces, “You’re an asshole.”
San shrugs, “Okay, I had to prove my point, but Jen did actually say that. Apparently, she didn’t even tell Jen what happened, all she said was something happened in class.”
You never complain about school, about academics. Actually, Wooyoung doesn’t know if he’s ever heard you talk about school other than the fact that you’re studying journalism.
“Is she still coming?” Wooyoung asks, even if he knows it’s a stupid question because you told him you’re coming. Maybe Yunjin gave San an update.
San nods, “Yeah, Jen said she had to basically peel her off her bed, I don’t know what happened.”
His gaze flickers back to the front door as he sips his beer. It couldn’t be that bad if you’re still coming, right?
Yunho comes back into the kitchen, he doesn’t look at Wooyoung or San before opening the fridge, pulling out a beer. San grabs his attention, “Are they here?”
Yunho nods while he sips from his can. “Up front talking to another group of girls, I don't know who.”
“Does your girl seem to be feeling better?” San asks.
Yunho shakes his head, then shrugs. “She’s acting fine.” He stretches his neck from side to side like he’s trying to figure it out. “She seems off, I don’t know. She doesn’t wanna talk about it.”
Damn. Yunho doesn’t even know?
“She was texting me earlier and she seemed fine,” Wooyoung adds before he can stop himself. He’s aware that he shouldn’t be adding anything to this conversation, it’s not his place to pry. San’s elbow digs into his knee a little harder as if to say I knew I was right.
Yunho sighs, “I don’t know. Maybe you can get it out of her.”
Wooyoung huffs his amusement with a shake of his head. “She tells me what she chooses to tell me.”
Mingi calls his name from the outskirts of the crowd, and like a dog whose ears just flipped upward, Yunho turns and immediately walks toward him.
San turns his head slowly, brows raised. “So you were texting her.”
“Fuck off,” Wooyoung quips. “No shit I was texting her.”
San laughs before pushing off Wooyoung’s leg. “I’m gonna go find Jen.”
“Good, go,” Wooyoung points at the crowd. “I’ll be after you soon enough.”
Wooyoung chugs down the rest of his beer, hoping it’ll take the edge off of the conversation he just had. You were texting him for like, an hour, and not once did Wooyoung think something was wrong. Is it hard to tell over text? Is it easy to tell over text, and he’s just fucking dense? Wooyoung has never had to decipher a woman’s wellbeing over text before.
Oh my fucking god, he thinks. He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t even want to. Maybe he kind of wants to.
He wonders if you would tell him. If you didn’t tell Yunho, then it’s bad. If you didn’t tell Yunjin, then it’s really fucking bad. If Yunho thinks Wooyoung might be important enough for you to tell… he wonders if he is. But wouldn’t you have said something over text? Or is this another one of those times where you bottle it up inside you and refuse to speak? He can still see you looking out the window of his car, your fingernails plucking at your jeans, your body so stiff and fucking uncomfortable. He can still hear the sound of you apologizing to him, which he hates, because he genuinely never wants to hear it again.
So weird. He hates it. He hates that he hates it.
He pushes off the counter, throwing his empty can in the big ass recycling bin the frat brings inside for parties. He grabs another from the fridge before facing the crowd in front of him.
Maybe he’ll make sure you’re okay. Make sure you don’t have that pathetic look on your face.
Then he’ll go shopping.
Your smile is nowhere to be seen when you inevitably cross the threshold into Yunho’s frat. Your anxiety persists even under the blanket of alcohol; the martini and the extra shot you took weren’t enough to clear your mind, to give you a clean slate before coming here. You don’t want to be here.
The music is loud, the air is thick and humid, there’s too many people– you wonder if every single one of them listened to you talk about body count this morning. You wonder if they agree, if they disagree, if they’ve imagined what your face looks like. You pull your sleeves over your palms, walking at the back of your group, hoping that maybe if the girls are distracted enough, you could sneak out from right behind them.
“You’re here!”
Of course not. Does he have a tracker on you or something?
You plaster a smile on your lips as Yunho approaches from your left, and the usual relief that washes over you when you see him doesn’t come. He kisses you, and you wish it lingered for a second longer, just to see if it might help.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks, sliding his fingers through the belt loops of your shorts.
“I’ll get there,” you smile, letting him tug you toward him. Referring to the girls in front of you currently talking up another group of girls, you answer, “We’ll all go.”
“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, brows furrowing, head tilting. “Still upset about class?”
“Yeah,” you say softly, lips flat. You redirect your gaze to your boots. “I’ll be fine, though. I’ll get drunk or something.”
“Be careful,” he says, but there’s no warning in his tone. He slips his fingers out from your belt loops as he muses, “I don’t wanna have to hold your hair while you’re over the toilet later.” When all you give him is a weak smile in response, he adds, “I’d do it, though. If you needed me to.”
“I know,” you nod, standing up on your tippy toes. “I’ll find you in a little.”
He presses another kiss to your lips, then he’s back off in the direction he came in. Fuck, you fucking hate this. You hate acting like this, but you can’t force yourself to pretend any better, to make it any more believable. You feel like you’re nearing a fucking breaking point, and maybe a house party isn’t the smartest place to be.
At least Yunjin was right about something. You’ve already cried, what the fuck else is there to do? Lay in your bed, thinking, weeping? You miss your bed. You think the tears would return just fine if you let them.
You turn to Yunjin again, sneaking up behind her, tugging on her purse strap. “Jen, I think I should go.”
She whips around, pausing mid-conversation. “What? Fuck no, you just got here. Let’s go get a drink.”
You stop her before she has a chance to move. “I don’t think drinking right now is smart.”
“Who cares about smart?” She props her hands on her hips. “Is ‘smart’ laying in bed, crying? No. You’ll feel better eventually.”
You grind your teeth together, frustrated. You should have just fucking snuck out, but no, you had to fucking tell her. She doesn’t let you dwell on it, she grabs your hand and pulls you through the crowd like she has one, singular mission.
She guides you steadily, weaving between bodies until you catch the neutral, bright lighting of the kitchen. “My girls!” San shouts from the kitchen, still too far away for you to see him. Yunjin squeals, and your lips curve automatically, involuntarily. You’ve never seen her like someone so much that she squeals just hearing their voice.
When you finally see him, he’s standing with Yeosang who looks fucked up already, his blonde hair unkempt, splotches of liquor on his gray tee. San seems like he’s keeping him upright with his arm tightly bound around Yeosang’s bicep. You greet them before asking, “Is he good?”
“‘m so good,” Yeosang slurs, leaning his head into San’s shoulder. “Are you good?”
You laugh a little, unsure of the appropriate reaction to have right now. “I’m okay.”
“He’s done for,” Yunjin muses quietly, her hand covering her mouth in amused disbelief. “Yeosang, I fear it’s time for bed, babe.”
“He just got started,” San reassures you and Yunjin, holding Yeosang a little tighter. The sleeves of his black tee squeeze his bicep with his hold on Yeosang– you literally can’t help but notice. “He’s not ready yet. Right, Yeo? You’re not ready yet, are you?”
“Fuuuck no,” Yeosang pulls away with a lazy grin. “Jongho promised games.”
“He promised Nascar,” San says quieter to the two of you. “The relay flip-cup game.”.
“We’ll play,” San nods, reassuring him. “Actually, go find him, we’ll play now.” When Yeosang scurries off, he turns to you and Yunjin, “Let’s get you drinks. That just bought us at least thirty minutes, Jongho is upstairs fucking.”
You’re shaking your head as you turn to the countertop filled with bottles. You reach for vodka immediately, and San makes a noise like he just remembered something. “We bought vermouth! Oh my god, I almost forgot, he bought vermouth.”
Your jaw drops. “For me?”
“Who else drinks martinis at twenty fucking one years old?” San asks, ripping open the fridge, reaching inside it. “This has been in the fridge for at least an hour. There’s another one in there, too.”
He hands you a chilled rocks glass in the shape of a v, keeping the jar of olives to himself. You blink at him, fingers burning against the chill of the glass. You can’t believe it. “You put a fucking glass in the fridge for me?”
San rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like I just gave you a million dollars.”
Your jaw is pried open, you can’t stop blinking in disbelief. “Who?” you ask, moving with him toward the unopened bottle of vermouth. He cracks it as you ask again, “Who got it?”
He looks at you with a flat stare. “Who do you think? Gimme the glass.”
You hand it to him, and you watch as he poorly mixes your martini. Not enough olive juice, too much vermouth. You don’t care, especially not when he drops four fucking olives in the glass and hands it to you. Who do you think? You almost can’t believe it.
“Thank you,” you mumble, immediately plucking an olive out to pop it into your mouth. “This is so nice.”
You turn to Yunjin and she’s wiggling her eyebrows over the top of her shades. She mouths the words, “He loves you.”
“Go fuck yourself,” you fire back at full volume with a mouth full of salty olive. You turn on your heel, eyes on the crowd, focusing on individual faces until you catch one you recognize.
Bronzy skin, a head of wavy, shoulder-length black hair. You lift up on your tippy toes to see him better. He sees you, too, from where he stands on the edge of the mass of bodies in the living room, a small smile playing on his lips. You lift up your drink, stomach bubbling with gratitude, you hope he can see it on your face. As he lifts his beer in response, your smile grows.
You turn back to Yunjin who’s guiding San through making her drink. You wish you’d done that, but at least the martini tastes better knowing someone who cares about you made it for you. You might go as far as to say someone who cares about you bought the ingredients, too.
“Look who’s smiling,” Yunjin coos from beside San, leaning her head onto his shoulder. “I told you a drink would fix everything.”
“It didn’t fix anything,” you argue, “but it helped. When can we get Jongho down here to start playing that game?”
San looks up through his brows mid-pour. “You wanna play?”
You shrug, “I think so.”
“Here, babydoll,” San hands her the bottle, the glass, wiping his watery palms on his jeans. “I’ll go get Jongho.” He stops after two steps, turning back around, “Fuck, I’m scared. If he beats the shit out of me, it’s on your hands.”
You huff a laugh, “I think you could take him.”
San looks at you like you’re fucking stupid before he says, “No the fuck I can’t.”
You glance at Yunjin who shrugs, then you snort. San is fucking huge, you called him Biceps for, like, the first week of knowing him for a reason. If Jongho could take him, you don’t want to know how fucking strong Jongho is.
You turn around again, and you tell yourself you aren’t looking for him, but on him is where your gaze lands. Wooyoung’s outfit is like Yunho’s, but in shades of black instead of white and gray. Charcoal denim on his legs, his ankles are crossed, leaving a sliver of golden skin exposed below his black tee. His arms are crossed, too, you can see the edge of his tattoo from where you stand, the inky thorns, the veins surrounding them. He’s doused in silver, a contrast to his skin, it stands out, you don’t doubt that it’s intentional.
Your feet move before you can think about it. It doesn’t take you long to cross the room, and your mind is blank the entire time, like he’s plucked the thoughts from your head just by looking at you. He’s good at that, you think.
“Hi,” you greet him, standing an arm’s length away. “Thanks for buying me… stuff.”
Wooyoung’s lips tug upward, “Stuff?”
“Martini stuff.” You hold up your drink, lips bent in a tight smile. “I had a really fucked up day and it’s helping. A little.”
He uncurls his legs, standing a little straighter, a little taller. You tilt your head to keep his eye. He laughs a little as he says, “Just a little? Y’know, you’re really good at insulting me, but you’re kinda shitty at saying thank you.”
“No I’m not,” you argue, top lip lifted. You thanked him after the night he brought you to the batting cages well enough. “This is just…” You look at your shoes. “Unexpected.”
“More the reason to thank me properly,” he grins. “I’m nice to my friends, and we’re friends now.”
“I’m learning that,” your brows pop at the sentiment. You give him a one over before teasing, “I’m not smelling a flower garden, by the way.”
“No?” he asks, then straight up brings his armpit up to his nose. Your eyes widen, grin spreading. “Smells floral to me.”
You crinkle your nose, but your amusement is clear. “You’re gross.”
“Sniff.” He holds his arm out, brows raised. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Fuck no,” you muster through a laugh, taking a step back. “What the fuck? Do I look like someone who would sniff a fucking armpit in the middle of a party?”
Wooyoung shrugs. “Who knows what you’re into these days.”
“Not armpits,” you shudder. “I’m sure there’s plenty of women in here who would stick their face in there, though. Why is the man who’s never alone, alone?”
“It’s early,” he says simply. “I’ve got time to choose.”
“Shopping,” you muse. Verbally inhaling, you mutter, “Choose wisely, I guess.”
“What’s up with you?” he tilts his chin as he asks, brows knitted together with curiosity. “You’re being too quiet.”
“Too quiet?”
“Yes, it’s weird.” He’s looking at you like he can see through you. “Why was your day fucked up?”
You should have expected the question. You sigh, shaking your head, “Don’t ask.”
“I already did,” he counters.
You take a swig of your drink. “Then don’t expect an answer.”
He takes a beat to stare at you with his brows furrowed, like he can’t figure out the issue. You let him look, because at least with this, you know he can’t. His eyes narrow, “You’re no fun tonight.”
“Then stop talking to me,” you answer simply.
“I didn’t start the conversation,” he argues.
You smile. “But you can walk away.”
“Fair enough,” his bottom lip bends over, like it’s checkmate. He stares at you for another second, like he’s really fucking trying to figure out what’s in your head. He takes a gulp of his beer before saying, “Come take a shot with me, Virgin.”
He starts walking before you have a chance to protest. You stay on his heel, talking at him from behind, “You? Taking shots? At a party?”
He turns his head halfway, brows furrowed like you’re not making sense. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it,” you shrug, walking back into the kitchen. “But I don’t think we’ve ever hung out at a party before.”
“All of our interactions at parties are in bedrooms,” he points out, his tone full of amusement. There’s a grin playing on his lips, it’s subtle, but it’s there.
You smack your teeth, complaining, “Don’t say it like that.”
“It’s true,” he says through a tiny laugh, grabbing shot glasses, one of the bottles of vodka. He pours until the glasses are unnecessarily full, muttering a tiny, “Oops.”
“Oops, my ass,” you scowl. “Are you trying to get me fucked up?”
“Depends on the meaning of that question,” he muses, sliding a glass toward you.
You pick it up, and the liquid sways against the edge of the glass. Focused on the glass, you don’t look at him as you ask, “How did you think I meant it?”
“Take another one after this and I’ll tell you,” he says simply, looking at you with his lips tight.
You clink your glass with his, and shoot the liquor back. You hiss, and to your satisfaction, so does he. His lips peel back from his teeth, neck straining, you smile through the burn in your own throat. “Jung Wooyoung can’t take shots, noted.”
“Yes I can,” he argues. “You just watched me take one.”
You grab the bottle of vodka, “Then take another one.”
He mimics your voice as he asks, “Are you trying to get me fucked up?”
You laugh out loud at that, spilling a little vodka onto the counter. You curse under your breath, then slide him a glass. “One more.”
He pushes out a heavy breath, then picks up the glass, clinking it with yours. It burns a little less the second time, it’s smoother, or maybe you’re just feeling it now. His face morphs into something unattractive, and again, you fucking laugh.
“Okay. Tell me,” you cross your arms, leaning your hip into the counter.
He licks the front of his teeth under his top lip, “Tell me why your day was shitty first.”
“My class earlier was fucked up, and–” you cut yourself off, realizing how easy the words slipped out. “You fucking bitch, that was on purpose!”
He smiles, “Yes, I’m trying to get you fucked up, and that’s the reason why.”
“Conniving. Maybe we shouldn’t be friends after all,” you shake your head, but there’s still humor laced in your tone.
He shrugs, “Were we ever really friends in the first place?”
Your stomach flips before your thoughts are cut clean off. “Are you guys taking shots?” you hear from your left, Mingi. He’s in shorts, a hoodie, the hood hiding his head of black hair. Sunglasses hide his eyes, too, like he doesn’t want to be seen or something. Your brows furrow, but you don’t ask.
“Yeah,” you answer simply. “Want one?”
“Take one with me,” he smiles like he might be drunk already. “You too, Woo.”
“Three?” you mutter under your breath. You should find Yunho and warn him.
“Is it shot o’clock?” San yells, Yunjin and Jongho flanking him. You don’t have to find Yunho, because he follows their tail.
Yunho wiggles his way through, sliding an arm around your waist, kissing the side of your head. “How you feeling, sunshine?”
At least it’s easier to smile now. “Like I want another shot,” you answer simply, leaning into him.
His eyes graze over the counter, taking in the mess of bottles. “How many have you had?”
“Just two,” you shrug, eyes drifting to your other side, at Wooyoung. His gaze is stuck on your waist, Yunho's arm around you. You wiggle your fingers in his line of sight, “Are you alive? Or did two shots kill you already?”
“You both took shots?” Yunho asks. “Sweet, I think we’re gonna play Nascar after this.”
“Play,” you tell Wooyoung, who still hasn’t answered you yet.
He finally meets your eye, silently nodding before he says, “Yeah. I mean, sure, yeah, I’ll play.”
Everyone lines up around the counter, passing the bottle of vodka down the line. You cough after your third shot, the burn fiery, worse than the last two. You look at Wooyoung, who looks the opposite of you this time. He laughs at your expression, your face bent up in suffering.
You smack him on the arm with the outside of your hand, laughing with him. “Shut up, bitch, that fucking hurt.”
“Good.” He’s still laughing, too. “I hope it makes you suck at the game.”
“What if we’re on the same team?” you argue. “Then you have an ass player on your team.”
He shrugs, grinning, “Better you than me.”
You shake your head, turning to Yunho who wears a simple smile, like he just watched and enjoyed the exchange between you and Wooyoung. He bends down to say quietly, “You’re smiling.”
“Out of pity,” you respond. “Wooyoung’s not that funny.”
“Yes he is,” Yunho disagrees. “I’m glad that he–”
“Are we fucking playing or what?”
You all whip around as one to Yeosang yelling from across the kitchen, his grin wide, his eyes glossy. Oh, he’s fucked up. There’s somehow more liquor on his shirt now, his lips are wet, his hair is a mess… Everyone shouts their agreement as you turn to Yunho, voice quiet as you ask, “Is he okay to play?”
Yunho shrugs. “He’s fine, just fucked up.”
You chew on your bottom lip. “Are you sure?”
“He won’t need his stomach pumped, if that’s what you’re asking,” Yunho grins. “That’s just Yeosang.”
Your lips scrunch. How does someone that drunk even comprehend the logistics of a game? Especially the hand-eye coordination it takes to flip a cup?
“Let’s go,” San announces. “That way Jongho can get back to his boy-toy.”
Jongho’s eyes widen, cheeks going pink. He follows San through the hallway, yelling, “He’s not my boy-toy!”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you hear from the hallway. “Your boyfriend.”
“He’s not that either!”
You turn to Wooyoung, then to Yunho, brows raised, amused. “Jongho likes guys?”
“Have you not noticed?” Yunho asks, a sly grin playing on his lips. He starts for the hallway as he says, “All of us do.”
You look at Wooyoung who seems to be considering it. He holds up a finger, “I don’t know yet.”
You grin, “Bi-curious?”
“I’m a whore,” he shrugs, like that explains it. And it does, you guess, but the way he says it makes you laugh out loud.
He’s drunk, you think. His cheeks are pink, his grin is lazy, his entire body language feels… soft. Easy. For some reason, you’re finding comfort in it, in him. Not the kind of comfort that tells you everything will be okay, but a steady reminder that everything’s okay right now. You hope he stays downstairs for a while.
There’s a table set up in the hallway toward the bathroom, two lines of red solo cups on either side. The music feels muted in the hallway, like the bass couldn’t turn the corner to meet you in here, but it tries to get through the wall, a hummed vibration bleeding through.
“Teams,” San announces. “Jen’s on my team. I want Jongho, too.”
Wooyoung scoffs from behind you, following you to the table, “I’m not your first choice? Or your fucking second?”
“I want to win,” San argues, filling up his red solo cup with a shots’ worth of beer.
You laugh under your breath, head tucked as you line up beside Yunho, Mingi on his other side.
“The fuck are you laughing at?” Wooyoung says quieter, moving in close to you.
Your smile is still there as you answer, “He basically just said you fucking suck.”
“Here, sunshine.” Yunho passes you an already opened beer. “Fill up your cup, don’t put too much in, though.”
You thank him, then fill up your cup while Wooyoung keeps going, “I don’t suck, I used to be fucking great at this game. He’s just saying that because I haven’t played in a while.”
You hand him the beer, then plant your hands on your hips. “Why haven’t you played?”
“Too busy fuckin’,” he shrugs, pouring the beer into his cup then sliding the into the middle of the table.
“Do we all know how to play?” San asks the table. Everyone nods, and you nod too, figuring it’s just flip cup. Relay has to mean you go down the line, right?
Yeosang interrupts, “Wait, are these our teams?”
“It’s four and four,” Jongho points to the table with an open-faced palm. “Are you complaining?”
“You’re on my team, so no,” Yeosang beams. Jongho’s lips perk up at the corners.
Your team is you, Yunho, Mingi and Wooyoung. That has to be good, right? At least you’re not first or last. You find Yunjin’s eye across the table, or at least you think you do, she still has her sunglasses on. She smiles and it’s lazy, bent with liquor, as if she’s so light she doesn’t care what she’s doing. You smile back.
“Mingi starts,” Wooyoung whispers in your ear. “As you go down the line, you flip the cup like a regular game of flip cup.” You don’t question how he knows that you’ve never played before. “At the end, whichever team wins gets to steal someone. Then someone on the losing team has to drink more to keep the amount of cups even.”
You lean in a little closer, whispering back, “What if the winning team steals two people?”
“Then two people have to drink three times,” he explains.
“Oh,” your brows furrow as you put it together. “What if the winning team loses?”
“Then they steal someone back,” he answers simply. “So this game could go on all night if everyone is super good and speedy.”
You snort, looking up at him. “Speedy?”
“Speedy,” he shrugs. “You know, quick.”
You bark out a laugh, “I know what speedy means, it’s just funny that you said it.”
“Shut up,” he barks back, pointing to the head of the table. “Focus on flipping.”
You watch as Mingi and San bounce their cups off each other, and they hit the table once before knocking back the beer. San is faster than Mingi, but Yunho is quicker than Yunjin. Your heartbeat picks up as you lift your cup, but you don’t feel the pressure as you place the cup at the edge of the table. You knock it upward with the tip of your finger, and it flips once in the air before landing perfectly.
You turn to Wooyoung, and just as you look, his cup falls to the side. Your mouth is moving before you can think about it, “Flip it, bitch.”
“I’m fucking trying!” he yells back, bringing the cup to the edge of the table again. His fingertips flick the cup upward, and it flips once in the air, but bounces as it lands, tipping on its side.
“Lighter,” you tell him. He doesn’t answer, bent over, your eyes sneak down his back, where the base of his spine is exposed. There’s dips in the back of his hips, dimples on his back. Abruptly, he stands up straight, his shirt covering his back again.
He’s smirking as he gloats, “I flipped it.”
You blink back into focus before quipping, “After three tries.”
The other team is cheering, and you realize quickly that they won. You didn’t even look over to see if Wooyoung was in time or not, too focused on him flipping the cup, too focused on his silky, smooth skin.
“We’re stealing Yunho,” Jongho decides for the team.
Yunjin pouts, whispering something to San. He nods, “We’ll pick her next round, I promise.”
Yunho slips to the other side without complaint. Mingi turns to you, “Who’s drinking three times?”
You and Wooyoung look at each other for a beat before you turn back to Mingi. In unison, you and Wooyoung say, “You.”
“You’re quicker than me,” Mingi pouts. “You drink more.”
You look back at Wooyoung, and his lips are tightly pinned in a line like Mingi has a point. You turn your head to glance at Yunho, “You’re sick and twisted for leaving me.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, “Then come over here with me.”
Your cheeks feel hot as Wooyoung fills up the glasses for you. You stare at them, shaking your head. At least it’s only a shot-amount of beer.
You’re oddly good at this game. Mingi struggles, but you flip all three cups effortlessly. Wooyoung struggles a little less this round, flipping his cup on the second try instead of the third. You nod like you’re impressed, “Progress, Mister Rich.”
He wiggles his brows. “I told you I used to be nasty.”
“You’re still nasty,” you quip. “Just not at Nascar.”
Yunjin calls your name, “Come over here, we’re stealing you.”
You round the table with a pep in your step, sliding in between Yunjin and Yunho. You watch as Mingi and Wooyoung turn their backs to you, their arms hooked over one another, whispering, strategizing. You turn to Yunjin, “No shot they’ll win, right?”
“They both have to drink three times since there’s six of us, I think,” Yunjin slurs, leaning her body into you. “That’s what Sannie said. No shot.”
You nod, and when you look back at the table, Yunho is filling up your cup. You smile at him, “Thanks.”
“Duh,” he says with a silly smile, bumping his hip into you. “What are you doing tonight?”
Your brows lift, mouth opening, then it closes. You shrug. Shrug. He laughs at you, “I know I said I’ll be with you later, but it’s cool if that’s not the plan anymore.”
You have no other plan. You basically murmur, “Really?”
“Trust me.” He juts his chin toward Mingi. “It’s fine.”
“Are we fucking playing or not?” Jongho looks down the line, Yeosang’s smiling face popping up right behind him. “Let’s go.”
You turn, facing Wooyoung who’s finishing off the last cup. He looks to Mingi, completely assured, “We got this.”
You smile again as Mingi agrees, brows furrowed, focused. So cute.
San and Mingi start for a third time, and Mingi fumbles at the start, the first cup. Yunjin fumbles after San. By the third cup, you and Mingi are neck-and-neck. You fumble.
“Fuck,” you mutter, trying again. You flip it on the second try, and then step away from the table out of instinct, like you might fuck something up if you stay too close.
You watch Wooyoung, how his Adam’s apple bobs while he chugs. His focused face, his nimble fingers, you watch until accomplishment steals his entire face. His arms go above his head in a cheer, and you can’t process that they won, not when his shirt lifts halfway up his stomach, exposing his sculpted abdomen. Abs, several of them– what the fuck? Two sharp lines diagonally lead into the waistband of his low hanging jeans, curving muscle making it impossible to pull your eyes away.
When his shirt falls back down, he says your name. Your actual name. You pick your head up, cheeks on fire, terrified that he caught you. Instead, he says, “We’re stealing you back.”
You swallow, looking at Yunho, giving him a half-smile. He returns it with a broad grin as you round the table again, newfound nerves biting at your heels with each step. It’s not like you forgot he’s sexy, and you know he works out, you’ve seen almost all of the upper half of his torso already. Now you have enough to piece it all together in your mind.
“I told you I’m nasty,” Wooyoung is already smirking by the time you take your place between them.
“Yet you still brought me back,” you say effortlessly. You miss your martini. “Clearly, you need me.”
“You’re good at this game,” Mingi says from beside you, accompanied by a cute pout. “You’re the obvious choice.”
“Hey,” Yunho scoffs from the other side of the table. “Not me?”
Mingi’s lips spread in a wide grin, “She’s got you beat, babe.”
Your tongue pokes out when you look at Yunho, proud of yourself, taunting him just a little. He shakes his head, amused. The third round is quick, like the blink of an eye. All three of you fucking fumble, and your confidence plummets. You defend yourself immediately, “It’s not my fault, I’m drunk.”
Wooyoung chokes on a laugh, “So are we!”
“Who do you want?” Mingi asks across the table.
Jongho’s lips are scrunched as he looks between the three of you. “No one, really,” he says honestly. Your lips flatten. But then he says your name, and your smile returns. You refuse to pay attention to the I guess he added onto the end.
“I think it’s fucked that you haven’t chosen me once,” Wooyoung complains from across the table, hand shooting out towards San.
San’s returning laugh is coated in disbelief, “It’s not even up to me! Jongho is choosing.”
“I thought we had something special,” Wooyoung shakes his head, looking away dramatically. This might be the most inebriated you’ve ever seen him. “Whatever, I guess,” he continues, waving a hand behind him.
San doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m so sorry, baby. Next time we win, I’ll choose you.”
Wooyoung turns halfway, “You mean it?”
“Of course I do,” San places a hand over his heart. You watch them flirt, bicker, whatever it is in complete disbelief, in amusement, entertained like you’re watching a show. You saw a glimpse into this part of Wooyoung the night everyone came over to your apartment, but he wasn’t nearly as unguarded, as free as he is right now. You don’t want it to ever end.
You look up to Yunho, “Is this regular?”
“I still think they hooked up our freshman year and just won’t tell anyone,” Yunho answers in a whisper. “It comes out when they’re both drunk, especially Wooyoung.”
You laugh, almost in awe, bringing your hands up to your cheeks. “I love tonight.”
“Good,” Yunho leans in to press an obnoxious kiss to your cheek. You push him off, giggling, wiping at your wet cheek like it was gross. Then you kiss him when he starts pouting.
The rest of the game goes by smoothly, your team wins again, San successfully steals Wooyoung, leaving a pouting Mingi by himself. Yeosang laughs so hard at Mingi’s helpless expression that you have to wait for him to take a pee break before he comes back to play the last round. When he comes back, the game finishes in one quick round, Yeosang didn’t even get to drink before the round was over. He drank anyway.
Everyone breaks off, Jongho leaves to find his boy-whatever, Yeosang decides it’s bedtime. Yunjin and San leave to go upstairs, and you’re left with Wooyoung, Yunho and Mingi. Yunho finishes stacking the empty cups, leaving them underneath the table before he glances at the three of you who probably look like you’re standing around, waiting for him.
He laughs a little. “What?” You, Mingi and Wooyoung shrug at once. Yunho snorts, “You look like children.” He glances at Wooyoung beside you, then at you, then at Mingi, all separately like he’s making a choice. Finally, he says, “Min, wanna go smoke?”
Mingi nods, and Yunho winks at you before Mingi follows him down and out of the hallway. You chew on your bottom lip, gaze sneaking over to Wooyoung who’s watching them leave, too. You cut through the silence, “I left my martini in the kitchen.”
“Make a new one,” he says immediately. “There’s a lot of people here, no one was watching it. I bought two glasses, I think.”
Your smile returns as you walk ahead of him toward the kitchen. “Of course you did, Mister Rich.”
“Well, what happens when you finish the first?” he asks from behind you. “You have to wait for another drink while the glass chills? That’s stupid.”
“Or I could just use ice,” you offer, voice light as you spot your martini sitting lonely on the counter.
He follows you, weaving through the same people to get to the counter, “Who the fuck likes ice in their martini?”
“Not me,” you answer with a little laugh. You pour out the remaining liquid in your glass, then treat the kitchen like it’s empty as you make yourself another.
“Exactly,” he leans up against the counter, watching you. “No one likes ice in a martini. Two glasses.” You side-eye him as he holds up two fingers, a smile playing on your lips. He drops his hand, asking, “What?”
You shrug, still smiling, “Nothing. Get another beer.”
“Nah,” he shakes his head. “If I drink any more, I can’t fuck.”
You choke on a laugh while dropping three olives into your glass, “You won’t be able to get it up?”
“I don’t like having super drunk sex,” he shrugs, body swaying against the counter. He’s definitely drunk, but definitely not crossing the threshold into hammered. You think you’re both on the same wavelength. He looks at you, “What’s the point if you don’t remember? Or if you’re so fucked up you can’t focus on the sex? I hate that feeling.”
“I forget you have morals sometimes,” you say mindlessly, then slap your lips closed, realizing how it came out. You face him, “That’s not what I meant. I mean, like, you have a lot of rules about fucking people, even though you’re the only person I know who fucks so many different people.”
His grin is lazy, mindless. “I know what you mean.” He sighs, “Sex is only fun when it’s good sex. There’s ways to make it good, and there’s ways to make it bad.”
“It makes sense,” you lean up against the counter next to him, sipping your martini.
He turns his head to you, “What makes sense?”
“Why everyone wants to fuck you,” you say simply. “You don’t just fuck to fuck. Even if you don’t really care about the person you’re sleeping with, you care about how you’re making them feel.”
His brows furrow, lips bending, “I care about the person, I just don’t care about what happens after we have sex. My care ends when I tie up the condom.”
Your nose crinkles. “Gross.”
“Condoms?” He pops a brow. “Yunho doesn’t use one?”
“I meant the visual of tying a condom is gross,” you shiver. “But no, he doesn’t.”
“Did he get tested before you fucked him?” Wooyoung asks, intrigued now. “Did you?”
You shrug, “No, I don’t know. I didn’t ask him, but I know we’re both clean.”
“You’re playing with fire,” Wooyoung looks away again, taking a deep breath. “Take it from me.” He takes another sip of his beer before asking, “Are you on the pill, at least?”
Your cheeks burn as you mumble, “Yeah. I never got off it after I broke up with Yeonjun.”
“At least you don’t have to worry about–”
“Don’t even say it,” you wave a hand. “Don’t speak that into the universe.”
He lifts his beer, “My bad.”
“Has that ever happened to you?” you ask instead. “A scare?”
“Of course,” he answers like it’s obvious. “The very first time I had sex, a scare came after. Granted neither of us knew shit about shit, but that fear has been in me from the start.” You raise your brows. He shrugs. “It still took me getting chlamydia to realize condoms are helpful.”
Your grin spreads, a laugh tumbling past your lips. “Who are you fucking, then?”
“Huh?”
“If you can’t get too drunk because then you can’t fuck, then who are you fucking?” you explain, crossing your arms. You look around you, there’s at least three women in the kitchen alone that he has either fucked before, or would fuck. He looks, too.
His lips flatten as he makes a noncommittal sound. “Whoever asks me, probably.” You stare at him for two seconds before he notices. “What?”
“Whoever asks you?” you repeat, like you can’t believe it. “That’s it? You don’t have a type?”
His head tilts, “I’m sorry, is this our first time meeting? Should I introduce myself?”
“Asshole,” you mutter. “You have to have some form of a type, there’s no way you fuck whoever asks you.”
“I don’t have a type!” he insists. “If someone wants to fuck me, and I want to fuck them, then I do. Simple as that.”
You shake your head, looking away. He pushes off the counter, deadpanning, “You’re the one who said you understand me a little better now.”
“And I do,” you argue. “But that doesn’t mean I would just fuck whoever wants to fuck me, there has to be something there. Attraction, a little chemistry, at least.”
“See, I don’t have that issue,” he shrugs. “I have chemistry with everyone, and everyone thinks I’m sexy.”
“But do you think everyone’s sexy?” you counter.
“Good question.” His head tilts again. “I think only sexy people try to fuck me most of the time, to be honest.”
You choke on a laugh. “So you’ve never turned anyone down?”
He holds up a finger toward you. “I never said that.”
And you realize then that he has turned people down, you being one of them. Your smile drops as you turn away from him, bringing your martini back up to your lips. You can feel the energy being sucked out of the air, like you’re stealing it all, forcing it inside your body and transforming it into something dark before letting it out again.
“Hello?” he says after a beat. “What’d I say?”
“Nothing,” you lie. “You’re fine. Go find someone to fuck.”
He says your name again. You whip your head to face him, “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Your name?” he asks, brows tied together. “It’s your fucking name.”
“Okay,” you look away again. He makes a disbelieving noise, a laugh, maybe, but he doesn’t move. You watch the people in the kitchen, people laughing, smiling, with no idea that you’ve just ruined your entire night, your entire fucking day for a second time.
“That’s not why I said no to you,” he says, softer now, all the bite missing from his tone. “I said no to you because of Yunho–”
“Do you know how mortifying it is?” You cut him off with the question. You refuse to look at him as you keep talking, “It’s embarrassing, knowing that the guy who has fucked literally everybody rejected me. Twice.”
“I told you–”
“I don’t care,” you say plainly, finally looking at him. He looks confused for the most part, but there’s a sliver of guilt in his eyes, and you want there to be. “I don’t care what your reason is, I told you what I wanted, and you said no.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he answers just as plainly. “You can’t be mad at me for that. The very next fucking day I walked into the Penny to see you making out with Jihyo, don’t you think that was confusing for me?”
“Why do you care?” you press him, pushing off the counter. “You probably took someone home from the fucking Penny. Are you seriously pissed that I didn’t come running to you after I talked to Yunho?”
“Kinda, yeah,” he shrugs, like he’s actually saying no shit. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because it wasn’t about you!” you finally break, exasperated. “I didn’t go non-exclusive just to fuck you, Wooyoung, even though I’m sure your big fucking ego was thinking exactly that.”
“But you still wanted me,” he puts emphasis on the word, taking a step toward you. “And ever since that night, you’ve been acting like you don’t. Which one is it?”
“W-what?” you take a step back, keeping the distance. “You said earlier that we’re friends, Wooyoung.”
“When the fuck have we ever been friends?” he asks, stepping forward again. You can smell him now, and fuck him for being right, because he did spray something floral today. “The day we met, you asked me if I would’ve fucked you. If I would have done what your shitty ex didn’t.”
You laugh. “Did you take that as me coming onto you? Are you serious?”
“You know that’s not the point,” he argues, firmer now. Your back hits the counter. “I didn’t take anyone home from the Penny that night.”
Your voice lowers as you ask, “Why not?”
“Because I wanted you,” he says shamelessly. You think your heart stills in your chest. “Yunho told me you weren’t exclusive while I saw you making out with Jihyo. I left because I wanted you.”
Your stomach does a flip. You don’t know what the fuck to say, all you can do is stare at him. It shouldn’t be surprising, he wants everyone, he wants sex all the fucking time. But you can feel it spreading, the heat, stemming from your gut to every limb, every nerve ending. He wanted you.
You swear it’s the alcohol that gives you the confidence to ask, “Do you still?”
His eyes, so dark, drop to your mouth. “Yes,” he basically whispers, right before his gaze meets yours again. It’s honest, the look in his eyes. There’s no smirk, there’s no witty response, there’s no fucking challenge. He means it.
Your thighs clench together, your knees feel weak, your heart is banging on your fucking breastplate. You want him. You’ve wanted him for too fucking long now, you want more than his face between your legs, you want more than a kiss in his car. You want him.
“Let’s go,” you offer, almost coy. “Bring me upstairs, then.”
- seeing virgin slowly develop from talking about squirting and edging as superficial topics to talking about deeper topics like body count is so telling. she’s actually getting into the real taboos and challenging standards regardless of controversy. her view of sex has developed so much from the beginning to now it’s genuinely crazy. i love how you implemented that through podcast episodes.
- you wrote the class scene so well, my palms started getting sweaty the more people talked about the identity behind unscripted. i don’t know whether virgin will ever be revealed but it’s making my stomach churn.
- jen and san are so cute and the comment about jen fucking san extra good for virgin made me giggle
- (i also noticed virgin freely checking out other people such as jihyo, san, and mingi. callback to the 5 person kiss. slowly freeing herself from the limits she set??!!/-!.!.)
- jen and virgin’s friendship is to die for they care about each other so bad i Might cry
- wooyo virgin banter had me hard in .000127 seconds
- talking about san’s mom genuinely had me shitting like omg have some class 😭😭😭😭
- THE MARTINI STUFF. the martinis. oh my hod you should’ve seen how hard my jaw dropped at the vermouth.
- also san and yunho Noticing everything….. omg…. u can’t hide shit from them at all
- san flirting with wooyoung throughout the chapter had me holding my breath omfg
- bisexual wy. drunk wy. flirty wy……
- nascar had me giggling the whole time
- yunho weighing his options and choosing mingi for the night. SMARTho. CONSIDERATEho.
- the argument had so much tension omfg i had my feet kicking extra hard omggomrgomg
♰summary: Your mysterious butler Yeosang is tired of seeing you getting heartbroken over bad boys. So, he shows you the charms of a true gentleman.
♰word count: 1.2k
♰warnings: bondage, unprotected sex
Your butler Yeosang is as mysterious as he is handsome. Very much so. But tonight, he's different.
"My lady, pardon my boldness, but I wish to make unforgettable love to you tonight." The words smoothly trickle from his lips while his gaze remains emotionless, fixated on you.
"Uh, what?" You say as you almost spit out your tea.
Yeosang sighs and rubs his temples in frustration. How much clearer can he be? "Y/n, how many 'bad boys' do you have to cry over to see that you're choosing the wrong type of guys? I'm tired of seeing you get hurt." He was right. For the last couple of nights you brought handsome stranger after handsome stranger to the mansion. And all it resulted in a wild night of fun, but tears soon after.
Sure, those guys may have been stereotypical bad boys-- tattoo artists, musicians, underground fighters-- but that didn't mean he was allowed to point out your very obvious, toxic type.
He hums as he sees the gears in your head turning. "Do you finally understand your mistake? So instead of trash like those guys, how about you spend a night with someone who's refined and elegant. A true gentleman like myself?" He gracefully walks closer to you and leans down to whisper in your ear. "Let me show you how I'm better I am. Let me expand your horizons and show you what you've been missing..."
"My lady." He gently stretches his hand out to you and you ponder for a moment before taking it. He smiles softly, bringing your hand up to his lips that just gently brush against your fingers. "Phenomenal choice."
Yeosang carefully lifts you bridal-style, holding you gently as he makes his way to the bedroom. He softly lays you on your back while he climbs on top, making out with you. The kisses are long, deep, and full of tongue. He savors your saliva, treasuring it before swallowing every drop. His actions don't need any introduction, the way he handles your body flows beautifully like classical music.
"Manners make the man, and tonight I will show you a real man so you'll never accept anything less."
He drags a silk gloved hand down your neck until the back of his hand rests on top of your clothed breast. You shiver at his relentless teasing that has you pressing your thighs together tightly.
"Yeosang, please. Don't make me beg."
He raises an eyebrow and gives you a small half-smile. "I won't make you do anything. In fact, you won't be able to hold back at your own accord."
Before you can question him, he's peeling your blouse and skirt off then fixes white silk ribbons to your wrists and ankles that attach to your bed frame, leaving you spread out in nothing but a pair of lace panties. "No bra. Why do I bother doing your laundry if you're not going to use it?" He scolds while twisting your nipples hard, coaxing a loud moan out of you. The sensation goes straight to your core, soaking through the black lace of your underwear. He pauses to admire the way the it hugs your skin while simultaneously covering nothing at all. Using his now bare hand, he cups your heat, pressing it hard against the lace.
Just as he said, you can't resist rutting against it like you're in heat. The friction from the lace paired with his soft but large palm has you pulling at your restraints, yearning for more of his touch. He can sense this, and from the obvious bulge in his trousers, he feels it too. He then slips your panties off and tosses them onto the carpet.
Looking at your nude body, he licks his lips, committing the image to memory. "You are the finest art piece I've ever had the honor to lay my eyes on."
You blush while he discards his clothes, his cock long, his tip red and leaking with pre come. "Tonight, like any other night, I am your humble servant. I want you to do nothing but lay there, relax, and take me like the goddess you are."
Climbing on top of you, he lines his length up with your entrance, sinking into you until you can't take in any more. "Such a pretty, delicate little thing you are. I can't wait to break you." He groans while throwing his head back. His chest rises and falls quickly while he relishes the tight squeeze your fluttering pussy gives him. Despite not being abnormally thick, he's far too long. His tip pokes against nerves you were previously unaware existed, another inch or two not even sheathed inside you.
You whimper while he waits for you to adjust, then drags himself completely out before unexpectedly slamming into you again. He leans down into your neck, biting it and leaving hickeys scattered down to your collar bones. You feel completely dumb, frozen in place unable to form a thought while he rams into you, using his kisses to distract you from the sting you secretly like.
You'd never tell him, but you don't have to, because your hard nipples, wetness, and screams tell him everything he needs to know.
Moving his face to your exposed armpits, he licks and kisses the spot while rolling his hips in a steady rhythm. The whines you make are louder, more desperate as he succumbs to his most primal need. Never before have you felt more full, more worshipped than you do now.
"How does it feel having a love slave? A man so desperate for your touch, he feels like he could come just from you glancing at his cock." He pants with a furrowed brow and dark eyes. Unbeknownst to you, his sanity is being held by a single thread that is ready to snap.
"It feels- uh!- good..." You moan while erratically pulling at your restraints while he continues pounding into you.
"Mark my words Y/n, if another unworthy man dares lay a finger on you I will bend you over in front of him and fuck you until you both learn the errors of your ways." He growls, snapping his hips wildly a couple of more times before he pulls out, finishing all over your body in delicate swirling patterns, leaving his lewd yet graceful signature on you. Meanwhile, your own release hits, spilling onto the sheets underneath you.
Yeosang climbs off of you with his composure as proper as he can muster before untying your hands, enabling you to sit up. As you soothe your red wrists, he's carefully removing the bedsheets from under you.
"What are you doing?" You ask him, trying to fill the silence.
"I'm going to do my job: cleaning up after you. But this time, I'll do it naked and you can watch me." He says while grabbing his handkerchief and kneeling eye level with your core, wiping it gently.
A whimper slips out of you from the sensation and he laughs.
"Can this be your new uniform?" You joke.
"Anything for the lady of the house." He says with a lustful gleam in his eyes.
03JYH23 Presents: The Ateez Diaries, a 2k followers Vampire Special 🩸
Seonghwa has lived too long. He’s weary, detached, and drifting through the decades with the quiet grace of a bygone era, speaking in the polite, formal cadence of the old world. Sitting in a dim New Orleans jazz club, swirling his bourbon, he’s merely existing—until you walk through the door. In a world full of noise, you are the first thing in a century that makes his immortal, tired heart actually want to beat again.
➢ vampire!seonghwa x human!reader | ➢ supernatural au, vampire au, angst, love at first sight | ➢ compulsion, loneliness, references to death/mortality | ➢ 8k | ➢ master list | ➢ i was writing it with my window open wide and raindrops banging on my windowsill; summer turned a little rainy on my part of the earth. this one is a little different, it focuses more on seonghwa than the reader, but i hope you'll like it 🌧️🖤
ㅤㅤㅤThe bourbon was older than the young man who poured it.
Seonghwa turned the crystal tumbler between his fingers, watching amber liquor catch the low light of the brass lamps. It moved lazily, painting gold against cut glass before settling once more into perfect stillness. He found himself envying it.
Even whiskey, eventually, reached the bottom of the glass.
The jazz club had changed names three times since he first discovered it. The wallpaper was new. The velvet had been replaced. Smoking had become a memory rather than a haze that lingered beneath the chandeliers. Yet it still smelled the same. Mahogany polished until it gleamed beneath dim light. Bourbon rich enough to burn sweetly. Expensive perfume woven through the room like invisible silk. Rain carried in on tailored coats each time the front door opened.
New Orleans had always smelled alive.
He supposed that was why he’d returned. Not for nostalgia. Not for absolution, simply because endings ought to know where they belong. His had begun here. Nearly three centuries ago, beneath a sky swollen with summer storms, in a city that welcomed monsters as easily as saints. He had arrived a frightened young man with a beating heart. He had left with neither.
A quiet melody drifted from the stage as the pianist surrendered to the saxophone. Applause rose, polite and restrained, before dissolving into murmured conversation, crystal clinked against crystal.
Seonghwa inclined his head in silent thanks as his drink was served. “Much obliged.”
The bartender smiled, unaware that the gentleman thanking him had witnessed Napoleon’s empire rise and fall before his great-grandfather had drawn his first breath. People rarely looked twice at old manners, they simply assumed old money… if only wealth were the strangest thing he possessed.
Seonghwa lifted the glass, more from habit than desire, the bourbon no longer intoxicated him. Neither did music. Nor beauty. Nor the passing of seasons. Time had sanded every sharp edge from existence until centuries blurred into one another with exhausting grace. Faces faded, cities transformed, empires crumbled into museum exhibits, lovers became names carved into stone.
For fifty-three years, one thought had accompanied Seonghwa with unwavering devotion.
Enough.
Not desperation, not grief. Merely certainty that he had lived long enough to become a relic wandering through a world that no longer required remembering.
Outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the Mississippi. Inside, a woman laughed three tables away. She was young, perhaps twenty-five. She threw her head back with the careless abandon reserved for those who had not yet learned how quickly years accumulated. Seonghwa watched her for a moment, not because she fascinated him but because once upon a time he had believed laughter sounded eternal. Now he knew better. Give it twenty years, the corners of her eyes would soften first. Another ten, perhaps fifteen, and silver would begin collecting discreetly at her temples.
Then, inevitably… Someone would attend her funeral.
He lowered his gaze to the bourbon. Everyone became a memory eventually, Seonghwa simply remained long enough to remember them. Grief had once been a violent thing, he remembered weeping until sunrise over faces whose names he could no longer recall. Now grief resembled old velvet: it was soft, heavy, constant enough that he only noticed its absence.
The quartet played beautifully, Seonghwa knew because he remembered when the song had first been written. He remembered hearing it played badly in crowded rooms thick with cigar smoke. He remembered the man who had once claimed, with complete confidence, that jazz would never survive another decade. He had been buried for almost a century. The music remained. As did Seonghwa. Against both their wishes.
“Another bourbon, sir?” The young man could not have been more than thirty. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the forearms, a smile practiced enough to appear effortless. There was youth in his face—not merely in smooth skin, but in certainty that tomorrow would arrive because it always had.
“If you would be so kind.”
The bartender inclined his head and reached for the bottle, “You’ve hardly touched this one.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth. “No,” his voice was soft, warm despite the years it carried. “I seldom do.” The explanation seemed enough, the bartender simply nodded before replacing the bottle and drifting toward another patron. People rarely questioned peculiarities when accompanied by impeccable manners. They invented explanations kinder than the truth: old money, an eccentric collector, a lonely widower. Any of those fit more comfortably than monster. Seonghwa rested two fingers against the cool crystal once more. The bourbon smelled of oak, vanilla, and smoke. He remembered when whiskey had been harsher, remembered when it had been poured into rough clay cups by men with dirt beneath their fingernails and hope in their eyes. He remembered the first distillery he’d ever visited, the owner had insisted his son would inherit it. Neither man survived the fever that winter. The distillery did, and it still produced award-winning bottles.
Time had a peculiar sense of humor.
Seonghwa’s eyes wandered lazily across the room, the club breathed around him. Conversation rose and fell, never loud enough to intrude upon the quartet tucked into the corner beneath crimson curtains. Couples leaned close enough to become silhouettes rather than individuals. A businessman loosened his tie as he laughed, an elderly woman, draped in emerald silk and pearls, tapped one gloved finger against her glass in perfect rhythm with the music.
Life.
Everywhere.
Ordinary.
Fragile.
Beautiful.
Seonghwa had once believed beauty could become ordinary only through abundance. He had been wrong. It became ordinary through repetition. The first sunrise after his turning had stolen every word from his mouth, three centuries later he scarcely looked toward the horizon. He had witnessed cathedrals rise stone by stone, wars begin over pride and end in silence. He had danced in ballrooms illuminated by thousands of candles, crossed oceans beneath sails, watched electricity replace fire, watched horse-drawn carriages surrender to automobiles, telegrams to telephones, letters to glowing screens small enough to fit within a pocket.
Humanity insisted upon moving forward. Only he remained. Always arriving. Never belonging.
Another woman laughed somewhere behind him, bright and unrestrained. Laughter had become strangely predictable over the centuries, Seonghwa could hear affection in its cadence. Hear uncertainty, the careful politeness reserved for strangers and the careless joy shared between old friends. There had been a time when he memorised voices. There had been lovers whose laughter alone could draw him from another room.
Now...
Now voices dissolved together, becoming part of the same endless symphony that accompanied every city, every century. He could scarcely remember the sound of the first woman he’d ever loved. He remembered her eyes, remembered the warmth of her hand. He remembered the way grief had hollowed him when the war took her away from him.
Her laugh… time had stolen that.
Perhaps that had been its cruelest theft, not lives but memories. A mortal lost someone and mourned them for decades, an immortal mourned until memory itself began to fray.
What remained after three hundred years?
Seonghwa closed his eyes briefly.
There had been so many names, perhaps too many. If he allowed himself, he could still recite them, not because he wished to remember but because he feared the day he no longer could. His maker, his first friend after the turning, the pianist who had hidden him during a fever epidemic, the child who had insisted he looked lonely and offered him half of her sugared pastry before running back to her mother. Soldiers, artists, priests, sinners, lovers, enemies. Every one of them beneath the earth, reduced to dates carved into stone. Except him. The realisation no longer hurt, pain required sharpness, and his had long ago worn smooth. It settled inside him instead, constant enough that he noticed only when, for the briefest of moments, it lifted. Seonghwa could not remember the last time that had happened. Perhaps fifty years, perhaps longer, the decades had begun bleeding into one another sometime before the twentieth century. He marked them now not by calendars, but by funerals, by the buildings that vanished from familiar streets, by the faces that stopped appearing. He had become intimately acquainted with disappearance.
It was why New Orleans had called him back. The city had taken almost everything from him. It had also given him eternity.
How strange that the two should prove inseparable.
His gaze drifted toward the rain-speckled window. Beyond the glass, the streets shimmered beneath gaslight-shaped electric lamps, reflections trembling in puddles left by an evening storm. The French Quarter wore time differently than other places. It accepted change the way old aristocrats accepted wrinkles—with dignity and no expectation of reclaiming youth. Some cities forgot, New Orleans remembered. Perhaps that was why he had returned, not to relive the beginning but simply to decide whether he wished to witness another ending. His time has come. He had seen everything he had once longed to see, loved more deeply than he believed possible, buried everyone he had ever sworn never to lose.
If eternity was a gift, it had become one left unopened. No. That wasn't true. It had been opened.
Admired.
Treasured.
And, eventually, outlived.
Seonghwa wondered—not for the first time—whether the heart could simply grow tired in ways the body never would.
The quartet drifted into another song, someone near the stage applauded softly, rain whispered against the windows. And Seonghwa, elegant as a portrait left hanging in a house that no longer belonged to its owners, sat alone with a drink he would never finish, waiting for nothing at all.
Or so he believed.
The resolve he needed to end it all felt closer tonight than it had in decades. He could simply leave his daylight ring, walk out and wait on a secluded balcony for the unforgiving New Orleans sun to burn away the centuries. It would be a quiet conclusion to a loud existence.
The old oak door groaned on its hinges, a draft slipped into the room, cool with rain, carrying the scent of wet pavement. Someone laughed near the entrance, someone apologised for dripping water onto the hardwood floor, the quartet never missed a note. Nothing remarkable had happened.
And yet—
Seonghwa frowned.
It was... quiet.
No.
Not the room.
Himself.
For the first time in longer than he cared to calculate, the incessant drone inside his mind—the endless procession of memory and melancholy—had fallen still. The silence was so unfamiliar that he found himself searching for its cause. His fingers loosened around the crystal glass. An odd sensation unfurled beneath his ribs, not pain, nor hunger. Something... remembered. His brow knit almost imperceptibly.
Impossible.
He had not possessed a heartbeat in nearly three centuries. Yet, for the briefest instant, he could have sworn he felt the phantom echo of one.
Once.
Slow.
Heavy.
Then nothing.
His hand stilled entirely.
“...Sir?”
The bartender stood beside him, a bottle poised politely in one hand.
“Pardon?”
“You were saying something.”
Seonghwa blinked.
Had he?
“I beg your pardon,” he replied, smoothing invisible creases from his cuff. “I fear my thoughts wandered.”
“They’ll do that in this place,” the bartender smiled before moving on, Seonghwa remained motionless. That...
...had never happened before.
He had mistaken many things across the centuries: grief for love, loneliness for desire, habit for purpose. But never this, his body did not forget itself. It did not invent sensations, and it certainly did not… he almost laughed.
Heartbeat.
How absurd that he was allowing nostalgia to masquerade as memory. New Orleans had always been dangerous in that regard. He was simply tired, that was all.
He lifted the glass, the bourbon reaching his lips yet he didn’t drink. Someone had entered his peripheral vision, he paid them no mind. A woman removed her raincoat near the entrance, shaking droplets from the dark fabric before offering an apologetic smile to the hostess. She laughed at something the older woman said, warm and unforced. The sound drifted across the room with impossible clarity, threading effortlessly between the saxophone and the murmured conversations. Seonghwa’s fingers tightened around the crystal.
No, not the laugh.
The feeling.
There it was again, that impossible pressure beneath his ribs.
A second phantom heartbeat.
Then another.
Slow.
Measured.
His eyes lifted before permission could be granted.
The movement startled him, it was instinct, his gaze crossed the room and it found you immediately. Not because you demanded attention, quite the opposite. You weren’t trying, you stood beneath the warm glow of the entrance lamps, one hand tucked into the belt of your coat while the hostess spoke animatedly to you. Rain had kissed loose strands of hair that framed your face animated by easy expressions—curious eyes, a crooked smile offered without calculation, the sort of smile that belonged to someone who still believed strangers might become friends before the evening was over.
There was nothing theatrical about you, nothing that should have undone three centuries of impeccable composure. You were simply… Alive. Not in the way every mortal was alive. There was a peculiar brightness to you, as though the world had not yet succeeded in convincing you to dull yourself for its comfort. You looked at people when they spoke as if every story mattered, as if every passing moment deserved to be witnessed. Seonghwa had forgotten such people existed. The realisation struck him because he had once been one of them. Long before hunger, long before blood, long before eternity had taught him that every bright thing was destined to fade. You thanked the hostess with a touch to the older woman’s arm.
Such a small gesture.
So inconsequential.
And Seonghwa felt something inside him fracture, not painfully. Quietly, like ice surrendering to the first warmth of spring. His immortal existence had been defined by one unwavering truth. Everything ended: cities, kingdoms, families, love. Even grief, if given enough centuries. Yet as he watched you smile at a stranger… A thought entered his mind that had not visited him in over fifty years.
Perhaps not tonight.
His fingers slowly released the glass.
For the first time in decades tomorrow did not feel like a sentence.
Seonghwa did not realize he was watching until you began walking toward him, well not toward him. Toward the empty seat beside him.
Of course.
The rest of the bar had filled sometime during the evening, every velvet stool occupied save the one at his right. You slowed, glancing first at the vacant chair before turning those impossibly attentive eyes upon him. “Excuse me,” your voice was softer than he’d expected. “Is this seat taken?”
For the briefest moment, Seonghwa forgot language, a ridiculous thing. He spoke six languages with varying degrees of fluency. Yet a simple question seemed to catch somewhere between thought and speech. He rose instinctively, one hand resting lightly against the back of the chair. “It is not,” his voice emerged calm, and measured. “If it would please you.”
A smile, small and grateful. “Thank you.”
The bartender appeared almost immediately. “What can I get you?”
“A dirty martini,” you paused, “...extra olives.”
“Coming right up.”
The exchange lasted mere seconds. Seonghwa stared fixedly ahead, he had perfected stillness centuries ago, he would not be discourteous enough to stare. Nor discourteous enough to acknowledge the peculiar awareness that now occupied every one of his senses. Coldness reached him first, not unpleasant, not the biting chill of winter, rather the lingering coolness left behind by rain, clinging to damp skin and fabric. It radiated gently from you, dissolving against the warmth of the crowded room.
Then—
Your scent.
His eyes closed, only for an instant. Rainwater, jasmine. Something impossibly soft... vanilla, perhaps.
No.
Not vanilla.
Books, old paper. The faint sweetness of aging pages.
Beneath it all… you. Every mortal carried a scent no perfume could disguise Blood, life, and warmth. His kind often described it crudely: hunger. Seonghwa had always found that description lacking, blood did not merely smell of sustenance. It smelled of memory. Of childhood scraped knees, of racing hearts before first kisses, of laughter that stole one’s breath, of tears, of fear. Of every beautiful, fleeting thing reserved for those destined to die.
Yours...
God.
He had never encountered anything quite like it. Not sweeter, not stronger. Simply… familiar. Like hearing a melody one had loved long ago without remembering where. Something inside him leaned toward it before his body could object, his fingers tightened against the crystal tumbler.
No.
Absolutely not.
He had spent nearly three centuries mastering every instinct that separated predator from gentleman. He would not falter now, not over one woman, not over a scent. He lowered the bourbon to the polished wood with deliberate care, the glass did not tremble. His hands never did, only his thoughts.
Beside him, you thanked the bartender as your martini was set upon its coaster. “Perfect,” you plucked one olive free with the little silver pick, smiling to yourself before taking a sip. “...Mmm.” The quiet sound of satisfaction drew his attention despite every effort to remain detached. Seonghwa looked, just once. You caught him. There was no accusation in your expression, no embarrassment, only amused curiosity. “Good bourbon?” The question arrived lightly, conversationally.
Seonghwa regarded his untouched glass. “I could not honestly say.”
One elegant brow lifted. “No?”
“I’ve yet to drink it.”
You looked from the nearly full bourbon...
...to him.
“...Then why order it?”
For the first time that evening—
for the first time in what felt like an age—
the corner of Seonghwa’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t merely polite. It was small and almost imperceptible, but real. “I’m beginning to suspect,” he said quietly, “that was the question all along.”
You blinked. Then laughed. It was nothing like the laughter echoing from the tables behind you. Yours came quietly, escaping before you could stop it, accompanied by the smallest shake of your head. “That’s... incredibly cryptic.”
“I’ve been told as much.”
“Frequently?”
“Once or twice,” the answer was delivered with such unwavering sincerity that you couldn’t tell whether he was joking. You studied him from the corner of her eye. Everything about him felt... curated. Not artificial, rather intentional. His suit fit as though it had been tailored for him alone, silver cufflinks caught the warm light whenever he moved his hands, though he scarcely moved at all. His posture remained impossibly straight without seeming rigid, shoulders relaxed, one hand resting lightly beside the untouched tumbler. Even the way he occupied silence felt practiced, comfortable. Most people rushed to fill it. He simply... existed within it.
“You know,” you said after another sip of your martini, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”
“Indeed?”
“Mhm,” you rolled the olive between your teeth before setting the pick back down. “I've had one of those weeks where staying home in pyjamas sounds infinitely more appealing than putting on heels.”
“I confess I know very little of high heels.”
Another smile threatened on your face, “I would’ve never guessed.”
“No.”
You glanced at him fully this time, his expression remained composed, yet there was something so perfectly dry in his delivery that you laughed again. “You’re funnier than you let on.”
“I assure you, that was not my intention.”
“Oh, I think it was.”
Seonghwa inclined his head ever so slightly. “You are entitled to your suspicions.”
God.
Who talked like that?
Not in an affected way, not like someone performing sophistication. It sounded... natural. As though every sentence had been assembled with care before it ever reached his lips. You wondered how old he was. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Older? It was impossible to tell. There wasn’t a single line on his face, yet there was something profoundly settled about him. A patience you’d only ever seen in elderly professors or grandparents who had nothing left to prove.
“You aren’t from around here.”
His gaze drifted toward the quartet, “I was.”
“Were?”
“A very long time ago.”
You smiled, “So... college?”
A pause.
“...Something like that.”
Seonghwa hated lying but it had become necessary centuries ago. Not because he feared discovery but because the truth burdened others more than falsehood burdened him.
How old are you?
Three hundred and eight.
Where are you from?
A country whose borders no longer exist.
Do you have family?
Not anymore.
The answers had only ever invited pity or disbelief. Tonight… he found himself wishing he could answer honestly. He could not understand why.
“I come here every Thursday,” you said, swirling your martini absentmindedly. “Well... almost every Thursday.”
“A habit?”
“I like routines,” you shrugged, taking another sip of the liquor from the crystal glass. “They make life feel less chaotic.”
Seonghwa’s eyes settled on you once more. “What an extraordinary privilege.”
You frowned. “...Routine?”
“To believe there shall be enough tomorrows to justify one,” the words escaped before he could stop them. Silence followed but not awkwardly.
You looked down into the clear liquid of your drink. “...That’s a sad way of looking at it.”
“Is it?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
You rested your elbow against the bar. “Because tomorrow isn’t promised.”
“No.”
“So I’d rather have a Thursday tradition than spend every Thursday wondering whether there’s any point.” His gaze remained fixed upon you. You continued, unaware that every word was lodging somewhere deep inside him. “I mean…” You smiled sheepishly. “Maybe that’s naive.”
“No,” his answer came immediately. “...It is not."
You looked surprised by the certainty in his voice. “I think people overcomplicate happiness,” you went on. “Everyone’s chasing these huge life-changing moments,” you gestured vaguely around the room before continuing. “But sometimes...” Your eyes wandered toward the stage, where the saxophonist had begun a slow, aching solo. “...Sometimes it’s just this.”
“The music?”
You nodded. “And the rain outside. A martini,” you lifted your glass. “The extra olives,” a grin tugged at the corner of your mouth. “And accidentally making conversation with the mysterious bourbon guy who apparently buys drinks for decorative purposes.”
For a heartbeat—
a real one, or the phantom of one—
Seonghwa forgot to breathe.
Not because of the joke. Because of the ease with which you occupied the moment. That was what unsettled him most. Not your smile, not your warmth, not even the strange, impossible pull that seemed to draw him toward you despite every instinct he had spent centuries mastering. It was the simplicity of it. You had entered his evening as naturally as the rain had entered the streets outside. You had taken a place beside him as though you belonged there, as though his silence was not something to be feared or filled, but merely something that could exist beside another person.
As though loneliness was not an inevitable fate.
As though it could simply...
be interrupted.
The thought was absurd. And yet, his gaze drifted toward the untouched bourbon resting before him. For decades, he had ordered drinks he never intended to finish. A glass in his hand made him appear human enough; a small performance of normalcy he had perfected long ago. But tonight—
Tonight, he reached for it.
The crystal was cool beneath his fingers. Slowly, almost cautiously, Seonghwa lifted the glass to his lips. The bourbon was familiar, he knew every note of it before it even touched his tongue. The richness of oak, the faint sweetness of vanilla, the sharp warmth of alcohol that lingered afterward. But memory was not the same as experience. For so long, everything had simply passed through him. Music, food, seasons, years. Beautiful things had become distant reflections, things he remembered enjoying rather than things he could still enjoy. But this—
This was different. The burn was real, the warmth was real. For one brief moment, the world reached him.
Beside him, you watched the amber liquid disappear past his lips, your expression brightening with satisfaction. “Look at that,” your smile turned teasing. “The spell is broken.”
Seonghwa lowered the glass, placing it carefully against the dark mahogany. “It would appear so.”
You rested your chin in your hand, looking at him with amusement. “And who, exactly, deserves credit for such a miraculous achievement?”
His gaze moved toward you. For a moment, he had no answer. Not because he did not know but because the truth felt far too vulnerable to say. “My companion.”
Your brows lifted. “Oh?”
“Indeed.”
“And what did I do?”
The question was asked lightly but Seonghwa found himself considering it with more seriousness than it deserved. You had not done anything extraordinary, you had not performed some impossible feat. You had simply sat beside him. You had spoken. You had laughed. You had treated him as though he were not something separate from the world.
“You reminded me,” he said quietly, “of the value of an evening.” His fingers rested against the edge of the glass. “An art I fear I had entirely forgotten.”
For once, you did not immediately tease him, you only watched him. Then, slowly, a smile appeared. “Are you always this formal?”
Seonghwa inclined his head slightly. “I was taught it was discourteous to be otherwise.”
A soft laugh escaped you, a simple sound, human sound. And once again, that strange phantom sensation stirred beneath his ribs.
A heartbeat that did not exist.
A memory of something he had lost.
“Well…” You leaned closer, only slightly. “Don’t stop.”
His eyes found yours. “Excuse me?”
“It’s charming.”
The word struck him with a quiet force he had not expected.
Charming.
For centuries, he had been called many things. Elegant. Beautiful. Intimidating. Mysterious. Cold. Dangerous. People looked at him and saw old wealth, old power, old secrets. They saw something distant. Something untouchable. But charming? No. That was different. That was a word belonging to ordinary moments, to warm conversations, to someone you enjoyed sitting beside. It was not a word reserved for legends or monsters. It was a word reserved for people. And somehow, impossibly, you had looked at him and found one.
Time, which had dragged behind him for decades like a chain he could never break, seemed to loosen its grip. The quartet shifted into another song. The saxophone fell quiet, replaced by the smooth trumpet. The bartender polished the counter once, then twice, never interrupting the quiet corner you had claimed together. Your martini disappeared and was replaced with another, the silver pick holding three fresh olives. Seonghwa’s bourbon remained mostly untouched. And yet, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he was not counting. Not the exits, not the footsteps around him, not the heartbeats filling the room, not the endless years ahead of him. He was simply… there. Talking.
You spoke of books first. Not simply stories, but the feeling of them. The smell of old pages, the worn edges of a beloved novel, the strange comfort of returning to a world that had waited patiently for you. “Old books are the closest thing humans have to time travel,” you said.
Seonghwa found himself smiling faintly. “An interesting perspective.”
“It’s true,” you turned your glass slowly between your fingers. “Someone held that book before you. Someone loved it before you. Maybe someone read the same sentence and felt the same thing you did,” your eyes drifted around the room. “You can feel when something has lived.”
The words lingered.
You spoke of the French Quarter next. The architecture, and history. The way the city carried pieces of every person who had passed through it. “I love things that have survived,” you said softly, your voice lowered, almost reverent. “Antiques. Old buildings. Jazz. They have stories. They’ve seen thousands of lives, and they carry those secrets with them.”
Seonghwa looked at you and he wondered if you understood the irony of your own words. You admired things that survived, yet you had no idea you were sitting beside one. He was older than every object in this room. Older than most of the stories hidden within these walls. He carried too many memories. Too many names. Too many ghosts. Then your gaze returned to him. Bright, and curious, unburdened by the centuries he carried.
“What’s the oldest thing you’ve ever seen?”
The question was innocent, and that was why it was dangerous. Because Seonghwa answered before caution could stop him. “The construction of the—” he stopped, the words froze.
A mistake. But after centuries of silence, even the smallest crack could become an opening.
You blinked.
“Construction of what?”
The construction of the French Opera House.
Seonghwa lowered his gaze to the bourbon. He had spent his entire existence guarding this truth not because he feared what others would think but because he knew what would come after. Fear. Questions. Distance. People did not know how to love something that could outlive them. And yet, looking at you now, he found himself too tired to build another wall. He was tired of pretending, tired of weaving careful lies around a truth that had become heavier with every passing century. For just a moment… he wanted to stop. “I’m very old.”
The confession was not dramatic, there was no grand revelation, only a quiet truth spoken by a man who had carried it for far too long.
You gave a small laugh, assuming it was another piece of his dry humour. “I figured.”
His eyes remained on the glass. “You did not.”
That made you pause.
Slowly, Seonghwa lifted his gaze. “I am older than this country.”
Your smile faded, and your eyes searched his face for amusement. For any sign that he was playing some elaborate game. There was none.
The silence stretched.
Then you laughed again. But this time it was uncertain. “...You’re serious.”
“I have not lied to you this evening,” and that was when he heard it. The change in your heartbeat, the subtle shift in your breathing, the sudden rush of fear. He smelled the adrenaline before he saw the colour leave your face. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the bar, and immediately, instinct overcame everything else. Not hunger. Not self-preservation. Concern. “Look at me.”
You did.
Seonghwa softened his voice.
“You needn’t be afraid.”
The command was gentle.
The panic loosened its hold. Your heartbeat slowed, shoulders relaxed, mind remained clear. You drew in a slow breath. “...Did you just do something?”
Seonghwa looked away, “Yes.”
“What?”
A pause. Then, quietly: “I allowed you to remain calm.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, “You can do that?”
“I can.”
It should have frightened you. Instead, you studied him. Then, somehow: “Do you sleep in coffins?”
Seonghwa stared. “...Good heavens, no.”
A tiny smile appeared, “Can you go in the sun?”
“I find it highly unpleasant.”
“So...” You tilted your head. “Sunscreen?”
For a moment, he simply looked at you. Then he sighed softly. “In rather excessive quantities, yes.”
The absurdity of the conversation settled over both of you.
And somehow—
impossibly—
you laughed.
So did he.
Quietly. Briefly. But genuinely. The sound echoed through the shadowed corner of the club. And that was what finally destroyed him. Not the fact that you knew. Not the fact that you were sitting beside a creature that should have terrified you. But that you knew exactly what he was… and you were still smiling. For the first time in decades, Seonghwa did not feel like a relic. Not a monster. Not a ghost. Just a man sitting beside someone who made the world feel alive again. The laughter faded slowly, not because either of you wanted it to. Because all laughter eventually ends, that was something Seonghwa knew better than anyone. His smile remained for a moment longer than it should have. Then reality returned. The woman beside him knew. Not everything but enough. You knew the impossible, the truth hidden beneath three centuries.
“I am weirdly calm about this,” you glanced at him.
“I told you to be.”
A pause. Then the faintest hint of amusement returned to your face. “Although I do have some questions.”
“I imagined you might.”
“First…” You lifted one finger. “Do you have fangs?”
The question was so unexpectedly ordinary that he almost forgot how to respond. “Yes.”
Your eyes widened. “Really?”
“That is typically considered one of the more recognizable characteristics.”
“Can I see?”
“No,” it came immediately.
You laughed, “That was suspiciously fast.”
“It was also necessary.”
“Why?”
His expression softened. “Because you are still human.”
The teasing faded slightly, not entirely. There it was again, that small, inconvenient reminder: You were temporary. He was not. Every moment he spent with you was a moment he would eventually remember alone.
“I have to admit something,” your voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I am not sure if I should be terrified or fascinated.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Most would choose the former.”
“Most people aren’t sitting next to a vampire in a jazz club at midnight.”
“A reasonable observation.”
“Do you always answer like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve stepped out of a century-old novel.”
He lowered his gaze. “Perhaps I have simply remained in one.”
The answer should have been sad, you heard the sadness and that was what frightened him. Because you heard the things he did not say.
“How long have you been alone?”
He looked at you. Silence, a dangerous one. Because that question was far more terrifying than any question about his immortality. He could answer how old he was. He could explain what he was. But loneliness? That required admitting something was missing. His fingers tightened slightly around the glass. “I do not remember.”
Your expression changed. Not into pity, something gentler. And somehow that was worse. The room had grown quieter. The musicians had begun packing away their instruments. The last notes of the evening lingered in the air, soft and fading.
A goodbye. Everything eventually became one, Seonghwa knew that better than anyone. “I should go,” the words came automatically, the old instinct, old escape.
You tilted your head. “Do you want to?”
The question stopped him because the answer came too quickly.
No. He did not want to.
And that terrified him.
“You make things very difficult.”
A small smile appeared on your lips. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He looked at you for a long moment. Because you make me remember. Because you make me want. Because I had finally accepted the end, and then you walked through the door.
Before Seonghwa could answer, you closed the distance. Not dramatically, nor seductively. Your fingers brushed his. The contact was brief, barely there. Yet Seonghwa went completely still because every instinct told him to pull away. Every reason he had built over centuries rose at once. You were mortal. You would age. You would die. And Seonghwa? He would remain. He knew this ending. He had lived it countless times.
“Don’t,” the plea left him before he could stop it.
You paused, eyes searching his. “Don't what?”
He had no answer.
Don’t make me want this. Don’t make me remember what it feels like to be alive. Don’t give me something I cannot keep.
But you were already too close. “I don’t think you actually want to leave.” His breath caught, a human would have inhaled, he did not need to. But for a moment, he almost did. Your lips touched his for a brief moment, and Seonghwa forgot every language he had ever learned. For one impossible second, there was no history, no centuries, no graves, no inevitable ending waiting patiently in the distance.
Only warmth.
You.
The unbearable softness of being wanted.
His hands remained at his sides, he did not move because moving meant admitting that he wanted this. That he had wanted this from the moment you walked through the door. Then you pulled back slightly, enough to look at him, and that was when he realized something. You were giving him the choice: you were not asking him to take, you were asking him to stay. The realisation broke whatever remained of his restraint.
Slowly—
carefully—
as though approaching something fragile enough to disappear—
his hand lifted.
His fingers touched your cheek, cold against your warmth and for the first time in decades… he allowed himself to want. Only for a moment. He had spent so long measuring his existence in losses that he had forgotten what it meant to desire something without immediately mourning its ending. He knew better. He knew exactly what stood between you. He knew how this story ended. He had watched it happen before. So he should have stepped away, he should have thanked you for the evening, offered some elegant farewell, and disappeared into the night before this fragile warmth became something he could no longer bear to lose. That would have been the kind thing, the honourable thing, the thing he had always done. But then you looked at him and Seonghwa found himself making a terrible, selfish bargain. Just this once. One moment. One breath. He would allow himself this. He would not think of tomorrow. He would not think of the inevitable grief waiting patiently at the end of every human connection. He would simply exist here. With you. For one moment more.
The movement felt unfamiliar, almost impossible. As though his body remembered something his heart had long forgotten. His fingertips brushed your cheek, warm and alive. The contrast should have been unbearable. Instead, it was the most beautiful thing he had felt in decades. Your breath caught softly, not in fear but in surprise. And Seonghwa closed his eyes for the briefest moment. He should stop. He should stop now. Before there was more to regret. Before he crossed the final distance. But he had already crossed the most dangerous distance of all. He had let himself hope. Your eyes met his and in that quiet space between one heartbeat and the next, Seonghwa made the choice. Not forever, he was not foolish enough to believe in forever. Just now. Just this. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, an almost reverent gesture, memorising something he already knew he would lose. Then he leaned closer. Slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind. You did not.
The kiss was gentle. Not the desperate hunger of a creature starved for centuries. Not possession nor taking. Something far more dangerous.
Tenderness.
For a moment, Seonghwa forgot what he was. Forgot what he would eventually have to do. There was only the warmth of you beneath his hand. The softness of your lips. The quiet sound of your breath. The impossible miracle of being close to someone who knew the truth. He had forgotten that he could feel this. That he could want this. That there was still some part of him capable of reaching for something instead of simply letting it pass. And that was the cruelest part. Because the moment it ended, he knew. He knew he would remember it forever. A mortal moment. A fleeting moment. A single evening in a New Orleans jazz club. And somehow, it would become one of the most permanent things he had ever known.
When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against yours. His eyes remained closed. For one final second, he allowed himself to pretend. That this was possible. That he could stay. That he had not spent centuries preparing himself for goodbye. Then reality returned, and with it came the terrible knowledge that he had broken the one rule he had never allowed himself to break.
He had given his dead heart something to lose.
The rain had stopped. New Orleans shimmered beneath the streetlights, the pavement dark and gleaming. Seonghwa had walked these streets for longer than most buildings had stood. He knew every turn, every shadow, every place where history had left its mark. And yet, tonight, the city felt unfamiliar. Because you were beside him.
“You are quiet,” your voice pulled him from his thoughts, he looked at you.
“I am thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how strange it is.”
You tilted your head, “What is?”
“That after all this time…” His voice softened. “I had convinced myself I wanted nothing,” the honesty of the confession lingered between you.
“And now?”
His gaze moved over your face.
Now.
A dangerous word.
“Now I find myself wishing for things I have no right to ask for.”
“Who decides what you have a right to?”
He almost smiled, “If only it were that simple.”
“Maybe it is.”
And for one impossible moment, Seonghwa believed you. That was the tragedy. He believed you. The thought was so simple, so impossibly human. Maybe it could be that easy. Maybe a person did not need permission to want something beautiful. Maybe he was not destined only to watch life pass him by. Maybe, after centuries of saying goodbye, he could finally allow himself to stay. The hope was fragile and terrifying. And yet, for one fleeting moment, it was enough. His hand remained against your cheek, his thumb barely moving, as though he feared that even the slightest motion would break the illusion. You looked at him with such certainty that it almost hurt. As though you did not see the years behind his eyes. As though you did not see the graves. The names. The endless procession of people he had loved and lost. You only saw him.
And he had to let you go.
Not because he wanted to. Because the thought of you carrying the weight of him—the fear, the danger, the inevitable grief—was unbearable. He had spent centuries taking from life. Taking moments. Taking memories. Taking whatever little pieces of humanity he could hold onto. He would not take your future too. Slowly, he lowered his hand. The loss of warmth was immediate. And somehow, it was worse than any wound. “I am sorry.”
Your brows drew together. “For what?”
He looked at you, memorising everything he had no right to keep. The softness of your expression, the curiosity in your eyes. “I should not have allowed this evening to happen.”
You went quiet.
He hated that he was asking for something, he hated even more that you would give it. “I have lived long enough to know the consequences of wanting something I cannot keep.”
Your expression softened. “And what if I don’t care about the consequences?”
For a moment, Seonghwa saw another path. A different life, one where he stayed. One where he saw your smile again. One where he walked beside you through the years instead of watching you disappear from them. But he had seen that story before. He knew how it ended. The mortal heart was not built for eternity. Only moments. And perhaps that was what made them precious.
“You deserve a life untouched by my sorrow.”
“Is that what you think you are?” The question caught him off guard. “A sorrow?”
For a moment, he had no answer. Because once, long ago, he had been a man. Then he had become something else. Something caught between existence and absence, something that survived. “Sometimes,” he admitted quietly, “I think that is all I have been for a very long time.”
“You don’t have to be.”
His eyes closed, only briefly because if he looked at you too long, he would fail. He knew it. He would choose selfishness, he would choose one more night. One more conversation. One more morning he had no right to hope for. And he could not do that. Not to you. Not when you had given him the greatest gift anyone had given him in decades. You had reminded him he was still capable of feeling. He would not punish you for it. His eyes opened. The decision was made. “Look at me.”
Your gaze met his.
The command was softer this time, not an order but a farewell. The world seemed to quiet around you. Everything faded. “I want you to listen carefully,” his voice was barely above a whisper. “You will remember tonight. You will remember the music,” a pause, “the rain against the windows,” another, “the taste of your drink,” his gaze never left yours. “You will remember that you had a wonderful evening,” the smallest fracture appeared in his composure. “But…” His voice softened. “You will not remember me,” the words hurt more coming out than he had imagined.
“Why?”
The question was so simple yet his throat tightened. Because you had asked the one thing he could not answer without breaking.
Because I love you. Because you are the first person in half a century who made me wish for another day. Because I would rather disappear from your memory than become the reason your life changes forever.
His thumb brushed once against your cheek, the last touch, last thing he would allow himself. “I am sorry.”
“You will continue living, you will see places you have never seen, walk streets in cities you have yet to discover.”
The words became harder to say.
“You will meet people who will change your life,” but he continued. “You will fall in love,” his expression softened. “More than once, perhaps,” a tiny, sorrowful smile. “You will be loved in return,” his fingers brushed gently against your hand. “You will grow old surrounded by people you love.” The ache in his chest was unbearable but he endured it. Because this was what love was supposed to be. Not possession, not keeping. Letting someone go where they could be happiest. “You will have a long life,” his voice almost broke, “a beautiful one.” The final words left him barely above a whisper. “One that you will cherish.”
The compulsion settled gently, not like a command but like falling asleep. Your eyes softened, the tension left your shoulders, and Seonghwa watched the impossible happen. The evening remained. The memories remained. Everything remained. Except him. He stepped back and for a moment, you simply looked at him. Not knowing why your heart hurt. Not knowing why saying goodbye to a stranger felt like mourning something you had lost. Then you smiled and Seonghwa knew he had made the right choice.
You deserved every beautiful thing waiting for you.
Even if none of those things included him.
“Goodbye,” the word was barely audible but he knew you heard it even if you would never remember.
And as the city swallowed the last trace of your footsteps, Seonghwa finally understood that immortality was not the curse of never dying—it was the curse of remembering everything worth living for.
He had spent a century longing for the end, never knowing the cruelest punishment would be finding a reason to remain.
— so I just had this inkling of feeling to write a stoner bf!bangchan so high he blurted out something so ridiculous you just found out you are so into it too. jjdjdkdkkfjd idk this sounds so filthy but at the same time it is not. so I hope you guys still love this one despite.
HEY— this is an 18+ post! please proceed with viewer's discretion as this contains graphic smut themes not suitable for some readers. MDNI!!!!
The room was thick with sweet, hazy smoke, the only light coming from a dim purple LED strip and the cherry glow of the joint passing between you. You and Chan were sprawled on the big sectional sofa, limbs tangled, eyes heavy-lidded and bloodshot. The weed was strong tonight—strong enough that the world felt soft and electric at the same time, every touch lingering like it had weight.
Chan took a long, slow pull, holding it deep before leaning in to shotgun the smoke straight into your mouth. Your lips brushed, and you giggled, dizzy and warm, as the high wrapped tighter around your brain. His hand rested high on your thigh, thumb lazily stroking under the hem of your oversized tee.
You were straddling Chan’s lap, thighs spread wide over his, your oversized t-shirt already pushed up to your collarbones. The joint burned between his fingers as he took another deep hit, then leaned in to blow the smoke slowly into your open mouth. Your head was spinning, heavy and floaty at the same time, every nerve buzzing.
Chan’s free hand slid up your ribs, cupping one of your tits possessively. His thumb brushed over your hard nipple, circling it lazily.
"Do you remember when you told me you wanted a nipple ring?" Chan asked, his voice low and teasing.
You stayed quiet, letting his words linger. It was true, you had mentioned it more than once. You thought pierced nipples looked incredibly hot and sexy. It was just a silly little thought that passed on your head, but suddenly Chan pulled out a kit where tools are kept needly and proper.
You never planned for it to happen like this, but when you saw the needles, shiny piercings, and bottle of alcohol laid out in front of him, a small gasp escaped your lips. The jewelry was simple, smooth steel balls and classic dumbbell shapes that gleamed under the light.
"I bought these for you," Chan said with a hungry smile.
"I have been thinking of getting your nipples pierced myself, and in return you're piercing my tongue." His voice dropped even lower. "How does that sound?"
You wanted to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Chan always got what he wanted. Whatever he says, he shall do it. You gave a small, shy nod as he gently tucked a few loose strands of hair behind your ear. "Such a good girl," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.
Chan helped you pull off your shirt, then guided you onto his lap, your legs straddling him so your bodies pressed close together. He took his time sterilizing the needles and tools, the sharp scent of alcohol filling the air. Your heart pounded hard in your chest. A high on weed Chan both scares and excitew you. The weed which you both have been smoking since earlier was starting to spread through your body, making everything feel softer, warmer, and heavier.
"Take a deep breath for me, baby," Chan whispered.
You obeyed, inhaling deeply. The cold metal of the needle touched your sensitive nipple, and your whole body tensed. A sharp, burning sting shot through you as he slowly pushed the needle through the tender flesh. The pain was intense and electric, making your back arch. A shaky half-groan, half-moan slipped from your lips. Tears gathered in your eyes, but Chan gently wiped them away with his thumb while whispering soft praises. The mix of sharp pain and his warm hands on your bare skin sent waves of heat rushing through your body.
Before you could recover, Chan pulled you into a deep, possessive kiss. One of his strong hands gripped your hip, the other held your chin as his tongue slid into your mouth. He sucked and bit your bottom lip, drawing needy sounds from you. The room started to spin. The throbbing in your freshly pierced nipples mixed with the heat of his kiss, creating a dizzying, addictive sensation.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Chan asked in a husky voice, "Good to go?"
You nodded slowly, eyes half-closed, feeling lightheaded from the flood of sensations. After giving you a moment to breathe, he handed you the cleaned tools.
His voice was rich and smooth as he said, "Here, sweet thing. It's your turn. Pierce my tongue."
A shiver ran down your spine at the sound of his voice. You took the needle and wiped it carefully. Chan stuck his tongue out, eyes locked on yours. Without warning, you grabbed the warm, wet tip of his tongue and pushed the needle straight through the sensitive flesh. His eyes fluttered, rolling back slightly as a low, muffled groan escaped him. The sight of him reacting like that, eyelids heavy, body tensing under you, looked incredibly seductive. A rush of heat pooled low in your stomach.
Instead of feeling guilty, you felt thrilled.
Once it was done, you crashed back into each other. Your kisses turned messy and desperate, tongues sliding together, the faint metallic taste of blood only making it hotter. You moaned softly into his mouth, addicted to the new sensation. You kept kissing deeply, bodies pressed tight, until the strong haze of the drug slowly started to fade away.
You didn’t know where to focus your head. The thick haze of the weed clouded your thoughts, making everything slow and dreamy. The sharp, throbbing sting in your freshly pierced nipples kept pulling your attention. But then there was the rush of pure pleasure from the way Chan kissed you, deep, hungry, and messy, even with his tongue still freshly pierced. The faint metallic taste of blood mixed with his usual warmth only made it hotter. Pain, pleasure, and the heavy fog in your mind all blended together until you couldn’t tell them apart.
All you knew was that this felt new… exciting… addictive. Something you could definitely do again with him in the future.
gratitude & blame go hand-in-hand for jung wooyoung
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au series, part 13/?
🎤︎︎ 18+ | 6.6k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, yunho is an angel sent from heaven above
WOOYOUNG SLEPT. And slept, and slept, and fucking slept. It felt like the blink of an eye, leaving the Penny, collapsing in his bed still covered in clothes, waking up the next morning too exhausted to go to the gym. Even after hours of uninterrupted sleep he felt unrested, like he could sleep for twelve more.
He stayed awake for an hour, scrolling on his phone, opening and closing different social media platforms until his eyes started drifting closed again. He dreamt— he dreamt of something funny, something so funny he couldn’t breathe, clutching his stomach and choking on his spit. He dreamt of you, you laughed with him, tears streaming down your cheeks because neither of you could stop.
Sleep was no longer comforting, no longer safe. He jolted awake, pushing himself off the mattress, he started hanging his clothes back up half-asleep, body moving on auto pilot. Something to do with his hands.
He hears it, hands going still, spine rigid. Your laugh, all the way downstairs on the main floor, in the kitchen or the living room. It swims up through the vents, it sneaks under his door, it surrounds him and he’s drowning in it and he doesn’t understand why his life keeps boiling down to you you you.
He stands there, staring into nothing, listening. Trying to see if he can map out any words, if he can hear the conversation downstairs, who and what has you sounding so bright. Fuck that. He showers, just for noise. Then he puts his headphones on, drowns himself in assignments instead just to keep his brain busy. Then when he feels like it’s been long enough–hopefully now the house is empty–he finally goes downstairs.
Voices get louder with every step down the stairs, two. Four. He looks in the living room first, Hongjoong and Seonghwa sitting on the couch, laptops open, arguing about an assignment. Something they’re doing together. In the kitchen is Yunjin and San, giggling while mixing something in a bright orange bowl together, but they both stop laughing as soon as they see him.
Yunjin starts, “Damn–”
San finishes, “Did someone die? Why do you look like shit?”
Wooyoung doesn’t change his expression, just a flat, blank stare. He gruffs out, “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Clearly,” San huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he keeps mixing whatever’s in the bowl.
“Is there a reason why?” Yunjin leaves the bowl to San, leaning her elbows onto the counter, slyly lifting her features.
“No,” Wooyoung answers instinctively, defensively. He can feel her look, it’s hinting at something he doesn’t want to fucking hear. “I have a heavy workload right now.”
“Right,” Yunjin gives him a slow nod. “Assignments.”
San’s eyes peek upward from beneath his brows, glancing back and forth between Wooyoung and Yunjin. “What am I missing?”
Wooyoung moves for the cabinets, searching for the blender so he can make a protein shake; he needs something to do other than stand there and be fucking victim to Yunjin’s knowing eyes. The two of them didn’t even see him at the Penny last night.
“Nothing,” she assures San, sticking her finger in the bowl, licking her finger. If he wasn’t so fucking hungry he’d leave the kitchen, instead he throws the blender on the counter and begins his hunt for ingredients.
“Don’t eat the batter, Jen,” San hisses, tugging the bowl away from her. “Oh my god, you’re actually gonna eat it all.”
“No I’m not!” she argues, leaning toward where he pulled it away. “One more. One more. Please?”
San sighs, sliding the bowl toward her. Giddy as hell, she sticks her finger in again, licking it off. Wooyoung watches it all out of the corner of his eye, hoping they stay distracted.
Of course not. Yunjin, that same sly grin painted on her cheeks again, turns toward Wooyoung. “So… What do you think about Yunho and my sweet baby angel being non-exclusive?”
San picks his head up, immediately cutting it toward Wooyoung, brows tied together.
He wants to sigh. He shrugs instead. “Good for them?”
Yunjin’s eyes flare with amusement, grin growing wider. “You think so? I mean, she’s never been in that kind of relationship before, this is all pretty new for her.”
Wooyoung’s jaw clenches as he shoves shit into the blender. “Again, good for her. I’m sure she’ll have a great time.”
Yunjin’s grin turns borderline devilish. “She seemed to have a great time with Jihyo.”
Wooyoung slams the lid onto the blender harder than intended and slams his finger on the button. That was a little more intentional. He doesn’t dare look at Yunjin, but he can hear her giggling.
“What am I missing?” San asks again, louder so Wooyoung can hear over the whirling of the blender. “I feel left out. Include me. Address me.”
Wooyoung crosses his arms, leaning into the opposite side of the counter, and lets it run. San slides over, pressing the stop button, then puts his hands on his hips as he turns to Wooyoung. He doesn’t say anything, but his brows sit high.
“Ask Jen,” Wooyoung points all five fingers toward Yunjin. “She’s the one who won’t just say what she wants to fucking say.”
Yunjin sighs, defeated like he’s ruining her fucking joke or something. “Fine,” she stands a little straighter, bracing both hands on the counter behind her. “I wanted to know if that’s why you look so sad. Jihyo… Yunho.”
“Why would that make him sad?” San asks, at the same time as Wooyoung asks, “Why would that make me sad?”
Yunjin blinks at San, then furrows her brows when she looks at Wooyoung. “Do you tell him anything?”
Wooyoung pushes off the counter, “What did she tell you?”
“So there are things I don’t know,” San interjects, offended. “Why am I out of the fucking loop? One of you has about four seconds to fill me in on everything I don’t know.” Yunjin’s mouth doesn’t move, Wooyoung couldn’t speak if he tried. He wouldn’t know where to start. San’s eyes narrow as they bounce back and forth between him and Yunjin. “I’m trying really hard not to be hurt right now, someone tell me something for fuck’s sake.”
“I’m not sad,” Wooyoung finally answers, crossing his arms over his chest again. “She can fuck the whole campus for all I care, I’ve done it already.”
“But she didn’t fuck you,” Yunjin says plainly, then her lips scrunch like she regrets the way it came out. Wooyoung stiffens as the words sink in, cutting through his defense like a fucking blade. Quickly, she adds, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it like that.”
Wooyoung can see San’s jaw slowly drop from the corner of his eye, and he feels like time has frozen for just a second as clarity cuts him wide open, his emotions showing in his wounded expression. It stings and he doesn’t fucking know why, her words sit heavy on his chest, they tie a knot at the base of his spine. His fists clench at his sides.
“Wooyoung,” Yunjin says carefully, her voice soft, another apology in the form of his name.
He doesn’t know what to say. How to defend himself. All he can do is shake his head, “It’s fine.”
He turns to the blender, pushes the button lighter this time. The loud noise it makes when it comes to life sounds a lot like the whirring in his mind. His bones feel heavy, his chest twists, his mouth runs dry. What the fuck is going on in his body?
Yunjin doesn’t press him any more, thankfully. San’s eyes are on alert, like the moment Wooyoung steps out of the kitchen he’s going to ask her for every detail imaginable. Fine. Wooyoung doesn’t care if he knows, but he wonders… he wonders what she’ll say. What you told her.
He leaves the kitchen after pouring his shake into a cup, dragging his heavy bones back up to his bedroom. He barely drinks it, he showers again to wash the feeling off his skin, but he can’t scrub it off. His noise-cancelling headphones can’t even drown out his loud fucking brain. He can’t escape when he’s sleeping, he can’t escape when he’s fucking awake, he cannot live like this.
He doesn’t realize how long he’s been in his room until he looks at the time at the top of his phone screen. He doesn’t even remember choosing to lay down on his bed again. He isn’t one to doomscroll for hours on the regular, but one video turned into another, and he supposes he needs the stupid videos today, because for the first time in hours, his brain feels quiet again. He stretches when he gets out of bed, grabbing his gym bag before dragging his body down the stairs.
He grabs a banana from the kitchen island before walking out to the living room, stopping in his tracks when he sees Yunho and Mingi cuddled up on the couch, watching TV. Yunho’s laying halfway across Mingi, so comfortable, so normal it makes his stomach heavy. The two together isn’t surprising at all, but he can’t wrap his mind around how you went from someone who only allowed herself committed relationships to someone who’s okay with… this. Are you even fucking okay with it? Why didn’t you tell him? Isn’t he the person you come to for shit like this?
Mingi notices him first, eyeing him over the back of the couch, his dark hair unstyled and shaggy. “You headed to the gym?”
Yunho’s head perks up as Wooyoung forces his voice into calmness, “Yeah. They close soon, want to run a little.”
“Run outside,” Mingi mutters, bringing his attention back to the TV.
“Wait, that’s perfect, we’re all going over to Yunjin’s in a little.” Wooyoung can hear the stretch in Yunho’s voice, how his body is turned almost all the way around, blonde hair raggedy like Mingi was pulling on it. He wonders if you’d notice if you saw it. “Can you drive my sunshine girl home? You can come if you want.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Wooyoung doesn’t miss a beat replying. Then he quirks a brow, “Her car isn’t fixed yet? Have you been driving her everywhere like her personal chauffeur?”
“Don’t be an asshole,” Yunho gruffs out. “Yes or no?”
His chest feels tight all fucking over again. “You don’t want to?”
“It just makes more sense,” Yunho looks confused, like the answer is obvious. “Do you have somewhere to be?”
Wooyoung’s jaw clenches. “No,” he shakes his head, his body feels so fucking weird. “Yeah, I can take her. It’s fine.”
“Thanks,” Yunho grins. “We’ll miss you later.”
“You’ll be fine without me,” Wooyoung says through a breath before leaving through the front door.
Music plays full-blast through his car speakers. He doesn’t understand what the fuck happened in the time span of like, three fucking days. Three fucking days. You looked like you meant it, that night when you were a few inches away from where he’s sitting now, looking in his eye and telling him you want him. What did you want, then? Did you just want to kiss him? Did you just want to fuck him?
Why the fuck does that bother him so much? Why is he losing his goddamn mind?
His gut is still wrenching as he rips open the door to the gym. His palms feel sweaty against the metal handle, electricity in his fingertips, even his breathing is a little shallow. It’s instinct, taking two steps inside, his gaze darting to the counter. There’s a tall man with dark hair standing at the counter, leaning into it too casually, and just behind it he catches the tail end of you dropping to the floor, your hair moving a millisecond behind your body.
“You’re kidding,” he whispers, fully under his breath. Did you just fucking duck? Are you hiding from him? Are you actually fucking joking?
You’ve worked at this gym for an entire year. A whole fucking year. And never once has Choi Soobin walked through the jingling doors, dressed in sweats and a tee like he belongs here or something.
You haven’t seen him since that night in his condo when you walked in on Yeonjun and Beomgyu. But he looks the same, of course he does, mousey face, knowing eyes like secrets exist just for him to fucking find them out. The sight of him makes your blood boil, jaw clenching, eyes slanting like you could blow him up with your fucking mind.
You speak as soon as he’s close enough to hear. “The fuck are you doing here?”
It invokes a sly grin immediately. “I thought I’d come get a membership. It’s not expensive, right?”
You step back when he leans his elbows over the counter, peeking over it to see what’s behind. You hiss, “You’ve never worked out a day in your life, Soobin.”
“Maybe I want to start.” When he looks back up at you, a chill runs down your spine. “Sell me one. Do you make a commission?”
“No,” you answer, voice venomous. “It’s a commercial gym.”
“Damn,” he tugs his lips to one side, maybe pouty. “I wanted to make your paycheck a little fatter.”
“What are you doing here, Soobin?” You cross your arms over your chest, jaw tight. “If you’re here to watch another unveiling of a cheating scandal, I hate to break it to you, but I’m not dating anyone.”
“No?” His head tilts, a snarky smile stretching his lips thin. “Not even zip-tie Yunho?”
“We’re not exclusive,” you snap. “What does it matter to you?”
“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice,” he pushes off the counter to stand up straight, shrugging. You can feel his height, head tilting upward to hold his eye. “Your real voice.” Your brows furrow, head tilting, ready to ask what the fuck he means, but he cuts off your thoughts. “Since when are you into non-committal shit, anyway?”
“Since now,” you answer, then your body does a full, disgusted shiver as his words sink in. “You wanted to hear my voice? Are you hitting on me, you fucking douchebag?”
He smirks, a small laugh tumbling off his tongue. “No, I’m not hitting on you. What made you switch sides? I heard a whisper about you and Park Jihyo.”
Your face warps into even more confusion. “Who did you hear that from?”
“It’s a small campus,” he shrugs. “I know lots of people.”
Now you’re just irritated. “Why the fuck do you even care? You’re like, speaking in fucking tongues, Soobin, spit it the fuck out.”
Soobin opens his mouth just as the front door jingles, and you catch the slightest glimpse of golden skin and black hair before your knees fold. Your heart drops to your ass, then your ass drops to the fucking floor. You’ve been wondering when you were going to see him since he rejected you in his car, but god, you could have had more time. You could have at least figured out what you’re going to say before you saw him.
Soobin’s head peeks over the counter, brows furrowed but eyes amused. “Are you good?”
“Go,” you whisper-yell, shooing him off with one hand. “Get the fuck away!”
Then Wooyoung’s head leans over the counter right beside his. He pops a brow, head tilting like a fucking dog, “Virgin?”
You force a smile, an awkward one at best. “I dropped something,” you blurt, then look beneath you at the spotless floor. You lean forward, praying to god your knees cover you grabbing whatever the fuck you can get your hands on from the bottom shelf. Holding it up, you pray to god it is what you think it is as you try to back yourself up, “A stapler. See?”
“That’s tape,” Soobin corrects you.
You wince as you look at the tape dispenser. You stand back up too quickly, ignoring how your head goes light as you plaster a smile back on your face, “That’s what I meant. Tape.”
The corner of Wooyoung’s mouth lifts in a grin. “And what are you taping?”
You look around the desk that you’ve already cleaned twice, you can’t bullshit your way out of this. Instead you sigh, defeated, “Your mouth fucking shut.”
Wooyoung’s head turns to hide his laugh while Soobin’s eyes bounce back and forth between you. His lips scrunch like he’s figured something else out, and he taps one hand against the counter in farewell. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Never, please,” you shout in his direction as he turns on his heel, heading for the front doors again.
The jingle announcing his departure feels louder than usual. Your jaw clenches before you run both hands through your hair, pushing a long, heavy breath through your lips. Wooyoung is still present, hand resting on the strap of his gym bag, looking amused as fuck.
“Oh, what?” you huff, irritated. “Is it annoy-me day? Is everyone gathering here just to bother me?”
His smirk grows. “You ducked.”
You push your shoulders back. “I did not duck.”
“You fucking ducked,” Wooyoung repeats, his laughter following. “You hid from me, you ducked. Why’d you duck, Virgin? Don’t wanna see me?”
“I dropped the tape!” your pitch raises, picking up the tape dispenser again. It’s a bullshit lie and you both know it, but it just makes Wooyoung laugh harder. “Oh, fuck right off. Go fucking run, you asshole.”
He’s still laughing as he turns away, he gives you a little wave over his shoulder, too. When he’s out of earshot you turn around, groaning, running your hands over your face like a child who’s about to throw a goddamn tantrum. Great. Now you have to get a new fucking job, far away enough that nobody will recognize you.
What’s worse is that you still have to do your job, the actual shit that’s left for your shift. Why is he here so fucking late anyway? He usually comes at least an hour before close, not thirty minutes. Your eyes betray you, eyes following him to the treadmills, watching as he puts his headphones on, starts the machine. You internally groan again knowing that you have to go over there, wipe down the machines, re-rack the weights on the Smith machines that are in perfect eye view from the treadmills. You feel sick.
Don’t wanna see me? The jab lingers, even if it wasn’t really a jab. You do want to see him, you want to tell him about Yunho, you want to tell him about Jihyo. You want to hear what he thinks about it, if he agrees that it’s right for you. Your stomach twists when you realize you care more than you should about his goddamn opinion.
You also want to know if you still want him. If he’d still reject you, with Yunho no longer an obstacle.
Your cheeks heat up as you grab your cleaning supplies and head toward the machines. It’s muscle memory at this point, you try to let yourself breathe with the music playing from the speakers, the air conditioning doesn’t help dry the sweat forming at the base of your spine, nor does it cool you off. You swear you can feel him, his eyes on you, his presence is enough to distract you, to make you clean the same machine twice.
“Was this one extra sweaty or something?”
You yelp, jumping back a step. With all the mirrors in this fucking building, you should have seen him coming. His gray tank is drenched in sweat, a sheen laying over his bronzy, golden skin. His dark hair is pulled back, the strands hanging in the front heavy and full of moisture, his face glimmering.
“Yes,” you answer quickly, turning away from him to the next machine. He pulls his bag farther over his shoulder, following you. You glance behind, coming to a stop, and he stops when you stop. “Do you need something?”
His head tilts, like he’s thinking on it. But instead his bottom lip folds over as he shakes his head, shrugging. “I’ll be in the car, but don’t take too long. Gas is expensive.”
“Huh?” You verbalize your confusion. He’ll be in the car? Don't take too long? Yunho is supposed to be taking you home. To your home. His idea. His plan.
Wooyoung doesn’t answer, instead he leaves the gym, and lets you put the pieces together yourself. You groan out in frustration after you hear the jingle over the front doors, nerves prickling at your scalp. How can you comfortably be around the person who’s slept with every single person on campus, but rejected you?
Circumstances aside, that night was fucking humiliating. You haven’t been able to sit in the feeling since another can of worms was opened the moment you walked through the door to your apartment. Wooyoung rejected you. You told him you wanted him, and he said no.
You take longer re-racking weights, cleaning mirrors, making sure the desk was organized for the opener tomorrow. Knowing he’s waiting just outside the doors makes your body move even slower, like if you made him wait long enough, he might leave. Then you don’t need to face the aftermath at all. Even if there’s things you want to say, things you want to ask, just to hear what he might respond. Like your body is split in two, you tug on the door handle after locking up the gym a third time, wishing your key would break in the door or something just to delay the inevitable further.
He's there, in his blacked out sports car, engine running, LED lights brighter than the stage of a fucking rave. It feels like you’re walking to your demise, heartbeat picking up in your chest, moisture forming on your palms.
At least the passenger side door is unlocked this time, opening as soon as you tug on the handle. He doesn’t give you a chance to speak, snapping as soon as you unfold in the passenger seat, “Were you in there trying to move machines by yourself or something? What the fuck took you so long?”
“I’m sorry!” you immediately blurt, barely looking at him as you clip your seatbelt on. “I had to clean. Plus, I thought Yunho was picking me up.”
“Don’t apologize,” he mutters, pulling the gear into reverse. “I hate it when you apologize, it’s like you’re speaking another language or something.”
You can smell the sweat on him, not a bad scent; it’s salty, human. Him. “Whatever,” you look out the window, not seeing anything as you pull out onto the main road. “Why are you taking me instead of Yunho?”
“He asked me,” Wooyoung responds casually. Your jaw clenches, lips scrunching, nails picking at pilled fabric on your jeans. Yunho asked him.
A minute goes by, and the silence feels awkward. You don’t think there’s ever been awkwardness between you and Wooyoung from the day you met. It makes you feel fucking weird, your stomach flipping, your body fidgeting with each second that goes by.
“So,” he breaks it, and it takes you by surprise. When you look at him, his head is leaning towards you. “Since when do you like girls?”
Your cheeks heat up, heart beating even faster in your chest now. “How do you know?” you ask, the first words that come to mind.
“You were making out with a girl at the Penny,” he says like it’s obvious. “Everyone that was at the Penny knows.”
“You were there?” you ask again, facing him now, brows furrowed. “I didn’t even see you.”
“I didn’t stay long,” he brushes you off. “Answer.”
“Always,” you shrug, trying to feign casualty.
He pushes a breath through his lips like he’s choosing his next words carefully, or deciding whether or not he wants to say them. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Yunho aren’t exclusive anymore?”
Fuck. Your cheeks heat again, gut swirling with too many emotions to pinpoint which one makes your skin erupt with pins and needles. “I–” you start, then cut yourself off. Why does he fucking know so much? “I was going to.”
“When?” he presses further, looking at you from his periphery. “You didn’t really seem eager to let me know at the Penny.”
“I didn’t know you were there,” you defend yourself, but why the fuck are you even defending yourself? What is there to defend? “Why do I owe you an explanation?”
“You don’t,” he answers with an attitude, short and clipped. “I just wanted to know.”
Your eyes narrow, like you might see through his wall of ebony hair, straight into his mind. “Why did you want me to tell you, then?”
“Because you’ve come to me with all your other bullshit relationship problems,” he lifts his hand off the gearstick to shoot an open faced palm in your direction. “Excuse me for assuming that might be another one.”
You sigh, or try to, it comes out as a short breath of irritation. Your arms cross. “Why did you agree to take me home if you were just gonna be an asshole?”
“I’m not being an asshole!” his pitch rises, sounding defensive. “Are you really not gonna tell me what happened?”
“Say you want to know,” you turn towards him, a smile playing on your lips. “Ask me to tell you, and I will.”
His laugh is full of pointed disbelief, “I’m not saying that shit.”
“Say it,” you order him again. “Then I’ll tell you every single nasty detail I know you’d love to fucking hear, pervert.”
His lips tighten, and there’s at least ten seconds of him fighting himself before he says plainly, “Fine. Tell me everything.” Then his voice gets smaller, uncertain as he adds, “I want to hear it.”
“You didn’t ask, but I’ll let it slide,” you say, before starting the story when Yunho picked you up a few mornings ago to fix your car. You tell him that you learned how to jump a car, that you blabbed about wanting to kiss him, that Yunho was the one to suggest making your relationship non-exclusive. You tell him about the party, attempting to flirt with Jihyo, all the way up to dancing with her.
“…she brought me into a coat closet,” you’re talking animatedly with your hands, eyes focused, mouth moving a mile a minute.
“Wait,” he pauses, shaking his head. “She brought you into a closet to have gay sex?”
You blink at him before it clicks together, and then you’re both laughing. You shake your head after a minute of laughter, jumping back into the story, “Wait– wait. Okay, so she’s really dominant usually, right? Like, always, that’s just Jihyo. But I challenged it, challenged her, and it worked.”
“See?” His brows raise as he pulls onto your street. “I told you. You don’t get fucked, you fuck.”
“And you were correct, because I did fuck. I had her up against the fucking door, Wooyoung, oh my god– she was grinding against my thigh…” He quirks a brow. “And then I went down on her. Me. And it was liberating, like every single sound she made, every look on her face was like, getting me off. I felt like… I felt like–”
He parks in a spot, sits back in his seat, and looks at you like he might finish your sentence for you. And he might have, your ears are too busy ringing to hear anything, all the fucking color draining from your face.
Use me. Let me hear you. Complimenting how she looked. You felt like Wooyoung.
“Oh my god,” you whisper, throwing a palm over your mouth as realization hits. You feel cold. The AC isn’t even on. Wooyoung loses his fucking mind. His laughter is loud, raw as he smacks his hands against his steering wheel. You cover your face with both hands, sliding into the seat, groaning out loud. You can’t believe this. This can’t actually be real.
Wooyoung stops laughing just to choke on his words, “You– you copied me. You copied me!”
You rip your hands away from your face, “I did not fucking copy you!”
“God, should I call you my mini-me now? Fuck calling you Virgin, I’ll start calling you fucking twin,” he’s laughing as he says it, running his hands through his hair, sinking into the chair like this is the best thing he’s ever heard in his life.
“I hate you,” you snap, unclipping your seatbelt.
“No you don’t,” he’s still grinning wide. “You need me so you can steal all my moves, clearly. Do you want another lesson? Should we get in the backseat for when Yunho takes you to pick up your car from the shop?”
You don’t answer, your entire body hot, feeling naked. Exposed, humiliated. This is fucking humiliating.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he stops, holding a hand up. It takes him three whole seconds before he starts laughing again. “You’re my fucking mini-me, I can’t believe it, Virgin. Who woulda thought?”
Your jaw clenches as you reach for the door handle. “You’re an asshole, and I’m leaving.”
“Wait!” he shouts. “Wait, I’m sorry. I’m serious, I’m sorry. How did the rest of it go?” He snorts again, then forces his face into seriousness. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop, for real, twin.”
“Oh my god,” you bark out. “Oh my fucking god, I hate you. I actually fucking hate you.”
“Okay, but seriously, how did the rest of it go?” he turns toward you again, brows high. “Did you make her cum?” Reluctantly, you nod. His head tilts, his tone playful as he asks, “Did she make you…?”
You shake your head no. He turns away from you to hide his laugh. You scowl, “I didn’t ask for anything back. She offered, but I said no.”
“Fair, twin,” he turns back to say, and you launch yourself across the car, slapping him on the arm.
“I wasn’t copying you!” you shout, slapping him again. “I wasn’t, that’s just how it went.”
“I think it’s cute,” Wooyoung shrugs, his expression still reading playful. “That night stuck with you.”
“Nothing about you has ever stuck with me nor will it ever stick with me,” you snap, lying through your teeth, “I don’t even remember that night.” His brows raise. “Okay, that was a lie, but I meant all the other stuff.”
He giggles again, but trails off, shaking his head, releasing a breath that sounds like relief. “I’m glad you had a good time. Did you learn something?”
You nod before you say, “Yeah, I did. I don’t know, everything feels different now. Like, I feel different now. I understand you a little more, I think.”
His brows furrow, “Me?”
“You, asshole,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips. “With casual sex and stuff. It’s kinda fun.”
“Be careful,” he holds up a finger between you. “Next thing you know, you’ll have chlamydia.”
You snort, deflating into the seat with laughter all over again. Then you shrug, turning your head toward him, “I think more people on our campus have had chlamydia than we know of.”
He looks at you like he wants to say no shit. “You think?”
“Shut up,” you look through the windshield at your apartment, all the lights on. You turn your head to him again, “Are you coming up?”
His brows scrunch, “Hell no.”
“Why not?”
“Because I see all of those people seven days a week. I need a day off.”
Your lips scrunch to one side. “Do you want your hoodie back?” He thins his eyes at you, just as a smirk starts to form on your lips. You grab the door handle, “Come and get it then, bitch.”
Wooyoung reluctantly drags himself out of his car just to hear you giggle your way up the lawn. He sighs as he closes the door, locking it by pressing his thumb onto the handle. He doesn’t have a reason to go upstairs, he doesn’t really care about getting his hoodie back. Is it weird that he hopes you didn’t wash it?
His dick feels twenty times bigger. He can’t believe you used his own moves on someone else. What does that mean? Other than the fact that you obviously enjoyed that night with him… it has to mean something more than that, right? He doesn’t know what he wants it to mean. All he knows is that he likes it, his chest hasn’t felt this light in a few days, and he wants it to feel lighter. He wants all that dark, depressing shit hanging over his head gone.
If that means being around you, he’ll take it. He doesn’t know what he wants that to mean, either.
He can feel the amusement radiating off of you as he follows you up to your apartment. The small laughs disguised as breaths with every step you take, he doesn’t comment on it, but he can hear it. You’re bright as you open up the door, and Wooyoung quickly realizes he’s been to your apartment twice. Once to fuck Yunjin, and another to rip into you, which ended in him rejecting you. He’s rejected you twice now, after he’s had you on his face.
What the fuck is happening to him?
You squeal your greetings, throwing your purse onto a little table next to your front door before skipping into your apartment. Yunjin sits over San’s lap, Mingi and Yunho are cuddled up together, Jongho sits on the other side, looking and probably feeling wildly out of place. Two couples, and Jongho. Wooyoung almost snorts at the sight.
His amusement leaves his face when you bend down to kiss Yunho. He closes the front door behind him, watching as Mingi pouts from beside him, “I thought I had custody tonight.”
You laugh, “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want a kiss, too? Would that make you feel better?”
Mingi’s grin is wide, and he nods before you even get the question out. You bend down to press a peck on his lips, and Wooyoung’s stomach does a flip. Who the fuck are you right now?
Yunjin whines from across the couch, “If you’re gonna kiss him, then you have to kiss me.”
You laugh even harder before skipping over to Yunjin, bending down to press a peck to her lips, too. And like fucking clockwork, San pouts, “Well, now I just feel left out.”
You kiss him, too. Yunjin watches with a smile like she couldn’t force herself to care if she tried.
Jongho leans over the back of the couch, glancing at Wooyoung, “Should we go before this turns into an orgy?”
Wooyoung quickly realizes he hasn’t moved an inch. He’s still standing there, completely still, face warped into shocked confusion. How much can a person truly change in just a few days? Who the fuck are you? And why did he miss all of the fucking changing?
“Oh, fuck,” you hiss, skipping around the back of the couch, holding your hair as you search the floor. You make your way toward him, still searching when Wooyoung sees it, his hoodie, crumpled in a ball two fucking feet away from the front door. “Yes! I knew I didn’t move it.”
You pick it up, and hand it to him with the widest grin he’s ever seen. His face still hasn’t changed as he grabs the ball from your hands automatically, blinking at you like he doesn’t know who the hell the person in front of him is. You pout, “Sorry it was on the floor. It was evidence.”
“Evidence?” he asks, but he doesn’t recognize his own voice. Or you. Or any of this.
You just laugh again before turning around, “I’m gonna go change, then we can watch a movie. Wait– did you guys start something without me?”
Everyone’s rattling off excuses for the TV being on, something playing, while you skip back into your bedroom with a frustrated groan. Without you in the room, he looks at everyone, and everyone looks at him.
“What the fuck did I miss?” Wooyoung asks, suddenly feeling like his consciousness slammed into his own body again. He shakes his head as he makes his way to the couch, sitting right beside Jongho. He pulls his keys and his phone from his pocket, throwing them on the coffee table full of liquor, other drinks and snacks. He didn’t plan on staying, but he needs to know if there’s more he’s missed. He needs to be able to see the full puzzle again.
“Did we decide if we’re throwing on Tuesday?” San asks from beneath Yunjin. She’s sprawled out sideways, knees over his lap, her feet almost touching Mingi. Mingi seems to be aware of it, with how he’s turned into Yunho who has one arm stretched across the back of the couch, almost holding Mingi close to him.
Wooyoung snorts. “There’s no competition. If they’re throwing Tuesday, they’ll have bodies in that house.”
Yunho suggests, “Why don’t we throw Monday, then?”
You come out of your bedroom still tugging a tee over your head, and you don’t shut the door behind you. Wooyoung can see the mess from where he sits, he can even see the white hair from one of your Gojo figures. You don’t seem to mind.
“What’s Monday?” you ask, crawling over the back of the couch, sitting between him and Yunho.
“We might throw,” Wooyoung answers. “Jungwon’s frat is throwing Tuesday.”
“Jungwon?” You quirk a brow. “The hot one that tried to fuck me in one of the fuck rooms?”
Everyone except Wooyoung’s head turns toward you and asks, “What?”
You grin. “He brought me to the basement, that’s where people have sex, right?”
Then all eyes land on Wooyoung. He nods in confirmation.
Yunjin asks, “When the hell was this?”
“The night you brought me out to get over Junie– I mean Yeonjun, woah,” you correct yourself, throwing your hands in front of you like you needed to recenter yourself. “Freudian slip.”
Jongho’s brows tie together, “I don’t think that’s what a Freudian slip is.”
You smack your teeth. “I’m not a psychologist, Jongho.”
Wooyoung looks away to hide his laugh. It’s a small snort, but fuck, you’re funny.
You laugh, leaning over to smack his arm, “Don’t laugh at me. I’m a journalist, I don’t know that psychology shit.”
“Why are you hitting me so much tonight?” He grabs for his bicep that doesn’t hurt at all. “Are you abusing me for calling you twin?”
You gasp, eyes narrowing. “Don’t even bring that up right now.”
Yunho’s brows furrow, but his smile is amused, “Twin?”
You groan. Wooyoung can’t help the budding laughter, “It’s funny, actually–”
“It’s not funny at all!” you immediately argue. “Shut up, motherfucker.”
Yeah, he’s glad he stayed. “My bad, twin.”
You launch yourself at him again, and he’s laughing hard enough that the raincloud that’s been following him for days is finally nowhere in sight. His brain is blank, his chest is empty, his body feels weightless.
He doesn’t know whether he should thank you, or blame you for causing it in the first place.
Hongjoong is your neighbor, and settling in feels easier than it should because of him. He becomes part of your routine without you noticing when it started.
And when everything else feels off, he’s the only constant you can rely on.
Pairing: neighbour!Hongjoong x fem!Reader
Tropes: Strangers to Something More, Neighbor Romance, Slow Burn, Domestic Intimacy, Psychological Thriller Elements.
Genre: Angst.
Warnings: suggestive content, obsessive behavior, manipulation, non-consensual elements, panic, workplace harassment. Full detailed trigger warnings (spoilers included) are in the comments if you’d like more information.
Word Count: 14.4k
a/n: please please please don’t read this expecting comfort. this is not a comfort fic.
i don’t condone the behavior portrayed in this story. it is a fictional interpretation, and does not reflect kim hongjoong as a real person in any way.
please take care of yourself while reading, especially if any of the warnings apply to you.
also: tumblr’s block limit forced me to condense the formatting, so the spacing isn’t how it was originally meant to be and it looks a bit… kind of ugly now lol. not ideal, but i hope you still enjoy it 🖤
this one’s for you, @skelejor. I kept it a little mild compared to your request (I’m not very good at going too heavy haha), but I really hope it still does it justice. <3
masterlist
The key sticks before it turns. Just for a second. Enough to make you press a little harder, metal catching somewhere inside the lock like it doesn’t want to give. Then it gives all at once, and the door opens inward with a reluctant sound.
The apartment waits. Not empty. Not welcoming. Just there.
You don’t step fully inside at first. You leave the door open behind you, propped with one of the smaller boxes, the hallway light spilling in across the floor in a pale strip. The air is still. Too still. It doesn’t shift when you move. Doesn’t react. The floor creaks under your weight. A soft, low sound that feels specific.
A reset. That’s what this is.
You turn back toward the hallway, stepping around the door to grab the next box and nearly walk straight into someone. You jerk back, breath catching sharp in your throat.
He’s right there. Close enough that if you hadn’t stopped when you did, you would’ve hit him.
And yeah. He’s… a lot.
Sharp jawline. Dark eyes. Hair that looks like it fell into place without trying. The kind of face that makes you immediately aware of how you must look right now.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, one hand lifting instinctively before dropping again. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
His voice is easy. Gentle. The kind that smooths things over without effort.
“It’s okay,” you say, a small, breathy laugh slipping out. “I didn’t hear you.”
That’s the strange part. You didn’t hear him at all. No footsteps. No shift in the hallway. Nothing.
He returns the smile, just a little. It’s soft. Unassuming. It reaches his eyes without trying too hard. It makes something in your chest loosen before you even realize it was tight.
“You just moved in,” he says.
You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Today.”
“I’m right next door.” He gestures loosely over his shoulder. “Hongjoong.”
You tell him your name. It comes out easy. Natural. Like this is normal. Like this place could be normal.
His gaze flicks briefly past you, into the apartment. Not intrusive. Just taking in the half-unpacked boxes, the way the light doesn’t quite reach the corners. Then back to you.
“You’ll want to keep the window closed at night.”
It lands lightly. Like advice. Like something small.
You tilt your head. “The window?”
“The draft carries everything.”
There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough to make you feel like you missed something.
“Oh,” you say, nodding. “Good to know.”
He hums softly, like that’s enough.
You shift your weight, about to turn for the next box, when he reaches out and takes it first. Smooth. Easy. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Here,” he says. “I’ve got it.”
“Oh—you don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” he replies, already stepping past you.
Not pushy. Just confident. He carries the box inside, setting it down near the wall without making a sound. You follow him in without thinking.
“The floors might creak a bit at first,” he says, glancing back with a small smile. “Takes a few days to settle.”
You glance down instinctively, like you might catch it shifting under you.
“Good to know,” you repeat, softer this time.
He nods again. There’s no awkward silence. No pressure to keep talking. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t stretch the moment past what it is. He just fits. At the door, he pauses, one hand resting lightly against the frame.
“If you need anything,” he says, “I’m home most nights.”
Simple. Easy.
You nod. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
He smiles again. Brief. Warm. Then steps back into the hallway. And just like that, the apartment feels different. Quieter. Not in sound. In presence.
You don’t think too hard about it. You turn back to the boxes instead. The slow work of filling the space, placing things where they belong, trying to make it feel like yours.
Without realizing it, you already know which door you’d knock on first if something went wrong.
Hours pass without you noticing. The light shifts. The hallway dims. At some point, the door closes behind you without you really deciding to close it.
The apartment never quite warms. Even with everything inside, even with your things unpacked and placed, the space feels resistant. Not empty. Paused. You tell yourself that’s better. Paused means untouched.
By the sixth night, you almost believe it.
Almost.
The first time you hear it, you’re still awake. A low sound, somewhere behind the wall. Easy to ignore if you don’t focus on it. You do anyway. Just for a second. Then it fades, folds into the building’s usual noise. Pipes. Wood settling. Something older than you. You let it be that. It has to be that.
The next night, it returns. Around the same time. Not identical. Never identical. But close enough that your attention finds it before you do. You don’t sit up. You stay still, eyes closed, listening without meaning to. It comes and goes. Stops without warning. You miss the exact moment it disappears.
After that, it stops being an interruption. It becomes part of the apartment. Late night. Half sleep. That in-between space where your thoughts are too slow to stop it.
Sometimes it drags again. Sometimes something lighter sits underneath it. A soft, uneven tap that never becomes a rhythm. You don’t track it. You don’t let yourself track it. But you start expecting it anyway. Like the hallway light flickering before it dies. Like pipes humming before water runs too hot.
It folds into routine before you can name it as anything else. Then one night, it doesn’t come. You notice late. Not as a thought. Just a gap where something usually is. Your body registers it before your mind does. A faint, unsettled tension you can’t place.
The next night, it returns. Same as before. As if it never stopped. You don’t question it. Old building. Thin walls. People living their own lives on the other side of things that have nothing to do with you.
It makes sense. It always makes sense. Still, your shoulders don’t fully drop anymore. Sleep comes lighter now. Easier to break. Harder to sink into.
And during the day, when the apartment is quiet again, you notice the silence a little too sharply. Like it belongs to something else. Not absence. Waiting.
A week later, you go out. It’s spontaneous. You’re in a crowded bar with music that settles deep in your ribs and laughter that feels a little unfamiliar in your throat. You drink more than you planned to. You talk to people you won’t remember.
For a few hours, it’s easy. By the time you leave, the air outside is cooler, quieter. The walk back feels longer than usual, your steps slightly uneven but steady enough. Familiar streets. Familiar turns.
Nothing follows you. Nothing feels wrong.
You fumble with your keys when you reach your door, the alcohol still warm under your skin, your balance just slightly off. The key turns easier this time. You don’t notice that. The door opens. You step inside, and something shifts under your foot. You look down automatically, expecting one of the flattened boxes you haven’t thrown out yet.
It’s not. It’s a coaster.
You bend, slower now, the faint buzz thinning out as something colder slips in. Your fingers come away slightly damp when you pick it up. The logo is smudged, softened at the edges. You recognize it instantly. It’s from the bar.
For a second, you just stare at it. Then a small, breathy laugh escapes you, more reflex than anything else. You shake your head, already moving past it, already placing it on the counter like it belongs there now. It makes sense. It must’ve stuck to your bag. You didn’t notice. You dropped it when you came in. That happens.
It doesn’t happen again right away. That helps. Enough that you let it go. Enough that you stop replaying it, stop trying to remember exactly how the coaster felt in your hand, whether it was wetter than it should’ve been, heavier.
You move on. And for a while, it almost works. Still, the apartment feels off. Not in a way you can point to. Not in a way you can explain if someone asked. It’s only when the air turns heavier than it should, when the room feels just a little too still, that you walk over and try the window again.
It doesn’t budge. You frown, fingers tightening slightly around the latch as you push, then pull, then try again with more force than necessary. Nothing. It’s not stuck the way old things get stuck. It doesn’t creak, doesn’t resist and give. It just doesn’t move. Like it was never meant to.
You let out a quiet breath, stepping back, wiping your hands against your jeans like that’ll fix something.
“Shit,” you murmur to yourself.
It’s fine. It has to be. Still, your gaze lingers on it a second too long. Then you reach for your phone and call him.
Hongjoong doesn’t take long. The knock is soft. Measured. You’re already at the door when it comes, like you’ve been waiting for him without realizing. When you open it, he’s there.
“Hey,” Hongjoong says easily, a small smile already tugging at his mouth like this is nothing. Like this is normal.
You lean slightly against the doorframe without thinking about it.
“Hi. Sorry— I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“You’re not,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No politeness layered over reluctance. Just simple certainty. “What’s wrong?”
You step back, opening the door wider.
“The window,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “I can’t get it open. I think it’s… stuck? But not in a normal way.”
He hums softly, stepping inside as you move aside.
“Let me see.”
The door closes behind him with a quiet click. It doesn’t feel strange. It should. But it doesn’t. He crosses the apartment like he already knows the distance, like he’s walked it before in a different version of this moment. His movements are unhurried, precise without being rigid.
You follow a step behind, watching him more than the window. He’s easy to look at. You’ve noticed that before. But it settles differently now. He reaches the window, testing the latch once, then again.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s not just stuck.”
You shift your weight. “That’s what I thought.”
He glances back at you briefly, just a flicker of a smile.
“You’ve been trying to force it, haven’t you?”
You huff a small laugh, a little embarrassed. “Maybe.”
“Don’t,” he says lightly, turning back to it. “You’ll make it worse.”
You step closer without realizing you are.
“Good to know.”
He adjusts his grip, pressing at a slightly different angle, testing the frame instead of the latch this time.
“Old buildings do this,” he adds. “Things shift. Expand. Sometimes they get… stubborn.”
“Stubborn,” you repeat under your breath, watching his hands.
He glances at you again, closer now. “Like people.”
You blink, caught off guard just enough to smile. “Are you calling me stubborn?”
“Just observant,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
It’s not flirting. Not really. But it lingers in the same space.
“Here,” he says softly, shifting just enough to make room for you instead of stepping back. “Try now.”
You reach past him, your hand overlapping his for a second on the frame before you realize it. You pull the window. It doesn’t open. But it gives. Just slightly.
“Oh,” you breathe, surprised.
“Again,” he says, quieter now.
You do. This time it shifts a little more, a faint crack of movement breaking the seal that held it in place. Air slips through. Cold. Thin. Real. You let out a small laugh, relief loosening something in your chest.
“Okay. That’s— that’s better.”
“It just needed the right pressure,” he says.
His voice is closer now. You turn your head without thinking. You’re standing too close. Close enough that you notice the way his gaze drops to your lips before returning to your eyes.
“Thanks,” you say, softer than you meant to.
“It’s nothing.”
But he doesn’t move. Not immediately. Your fingers are still resting lightly against the window frame. His hand is still there too, not touching yours anymore, but close enough that it would take almost nothing.
The air shifts again. Not from the window. From something else. You don’t know why that makes your chest tighten. Then he steps back. Space returns. Air returns. You exhale without realizing you were holding it.
“Try the lock again later,” he adds lightly, like nothing shifted, like everything is exactly where it should be. “Same idea.”
You nod. “Yeah. I will.”
He glances around briefly, not searching, not lingering. Just aware. Then back to you.
“You settling in okay?”
The question lands gently. You nod.
You’re halfway out the door one evening, shoes on, keys already in your hand, when your phone lights up.
Something came up. Rain check?
You stare at it for a second longer than you should, thumb hovering over the screen before you type back something easy.
Yeah, of course.
You slip your shoes off. Set your keys back where they were. It’s fine.
Then it happens again. A different friend this time. Same apology. Same vague excuse. You start checking your phone more often than you mean to. Messages sitting there, unanswered longer than they should. Conversations that stall out mid-thought, like the other person just lost interest halfway through.
A date that never confirms. Another that does, and then doesn’t even show up.
You try to adjust. Suggest different days, different places, make yourself more available, more flexible, like maybe you’re the one slightly out of sync with everything else. But it keeps slipping. Always just out of reach.
It’s frustrating, mostly. Annoying in a way that sticks under your skin. And then, slowly, something quieter settles underneath it. A kind of loneliness you don’t really want to name.
By the third time you’re left staring at your phone in the same week, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come, you give up. Not dramatically. You stop trying for the night. The laundry basket has been sitting in the corner of your room all day anyway. You grab it, more out of restlessness than necessity, and head downstairs.
The laundry room is warm when you push the door open. Thick with the scent of detergent and fabric softener, machines humming steadily along the walls. Comforting, in a dull, predictable way.
He’s there. Hongjoong glances up when you walk in, like he caught the shift in the air before the door even opened, like he’s been half-aware of you this whole time. He’s leaning back against one of the machines, sleeves pushed up, a small pile of neatly folded clothes resting beside him.
“I was starting to think you’d vanished,” he says, easy, light, almost playful.
You adjust the basket on your hip, suddenly more aware of yourself than you were a second ago. Of your clothes. Your hair. The quiet.
“Yeah, well… I’ve been kind of out of it.”
It comes out a little sharper than you mean it to. You move past him, crouching to pull open one of the empty machines, giving yourself something to focus on that isn’t the way his attention follows you.
His smile doesn’t disappear, but it pauses. Just for a second. Like something in him recalibrates. You notice it immediately. Your gaze flicks up, then away. An apology you don’t say out loud landing in the space between you instead.
A second passes. His voice shifts, softer now. Less playful.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re different today.”
You glance back at him for a second, then away again.
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly. “Just… I had a long day.”
It doesn’t sound convincing even to you. You start loading your clothes in, slower than you need to.
“I thought you did laundry on Sundays,” he says after a moment, easing back into casual again. He’s gentler this time, like he’s testing the ground.
A small huff leaves you, half laugh, half sigh.
“I usually do.” A pause. “Plans fell through.”
It comes out lighter than it feels. You toss a shirt in, a little sharper than necessary, your fingers lingering on the fabric before letting go.
“It’s been happening a lot, actually,” you add, before you can stop yourself.
The words sit there for a second. You don’t look at him. You don’t mean to make it a thing. But it is now. You straighten slowly, brushing your hands together, leaning back against the machine like you’re done.
“My plans keep getting canceled,” you continue, quieter, the frustration slipping through despite you trying to smooth it over. “Or people just stop replying, or they say they will and then don’t.” You shake your head, a soft breath leaving you. “It’s weird.”
The machines hum. Water shifts behind metal. You glance at him then, expecting something easy. A joke. Agreement. Something light enough to carry it away. But he’s watching you. Not casually. Not distracted. Focused. Like he’s actually listening. It catches you off guard in a way that makes your breath slow just a little.
“I don’t know,” you murmur, softer now. “Maybe it’s just bad timing.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He pushes himself off the machine, the movement unhurried, closing the distance between you just enough to feel it. Not close enough to crowd you.
“Or maybe,” he says, voice calm, steady, “you keep making space for people who don’t know what to do with it.”
Your breath catches slightly. That lands deeper than you expect.
“That’s a little—” you start, a faint smile tugging at your mouth, “harsh.”
He tilts his head just slightly, studying you in a way that feels almost curious.
“Is it wrong?”
The question hangs there, quieter than the rest. You don’t answer right away. Because you’re not sure. You look away first, a small breath slipping out.
“Maybe not.”
When you look back, he’s closer than he was before. Not by much. Just enough.
“People don’t deserve you,” he says. No hesitation. No softness to dilute it.
The words settle into you, heavier than they should be, like they’ve found something already waiting for them. Your fingers curl slightly against your palm. You let out a slow breath, your shoulders easing without meaning them to.
“That’s a little dramatic,” you murmur, but there’s no weight behind it now.
He doesn’t smile.
“Not really.”
And something about the way he says it makes it easier to believe than it should. You glance down, then back up again, caught for a second in the way he’s still looking at you. It’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it’s the opposite.
“You always say things like that?” you ask lightly, a small hint of teasing slipping in before you can stop it.
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“Only when I mean them.”
Your stomach tightens. Not unpleasant. Just new. You turn slightly, reaching for the machine, pressing the button a second too late just to have something to do. It clicks on, the low rumble filling the space between you. When you look back, he hasn’t moved away. If anything, he’s settled there more comfortably, like standing near you is the most natural place for him to be.
“Besides,” he adds, quieter now, “if people keep walking away…” His gaze flicks briefly to your lips, then back up so quickly you almost miss it. “That sounds like their loss.”
The air shifts. Subtle but real. You exhale softly, something loosening in your chest, something else tightening underneath it.
“Maybe,” you say.
And this time, it doesn’t feel like you’re just agreeing to end the conversation. It feels like you’re stepping into something. When the machine starts its cycle, the sound fills the room, grounding, steady. But you don’t move away. And neither does he. And for a moment, standing there with him, you don’t feel quite as alone.
Morning comes too fast. It always does now. Thin. Incomplete. Like sleep never fully settles before it’s taken away again.
You move through it on habit. Coffee. Half-cold. You leave it on the counter while you get ready, drifting through the apartment in small, automatic steps. Your body remembers where things are even when your mind doesn’t quite follow.
You light a cigarette. The ashtray is by the window. You reach for it without looking, then pause. You frown, lifting it, turning it slightly in your hand. It’s clean.
You stare at it longer than you should. You remember last night. The cigarette burning low between your fingers. The soft tap of ash. The way you didn’t think about it. You don’t remember emptying it.
You set it back down, slower this time. Maybe you did. Maybe it was automatic. You’ve been tired. Distracted. It makes sense. It has to. You move on.
The next day, you’re halfway out the door, keys in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, when you realize you can’t find your jacket. Your favorite one. You check the chair. The hook. The couch. Your movements sharpen, quicker now, less patient. Nothing.
You stop in the middle of the room, breath catching slightly. You wore it. You remember wearing it. Taking it off.
“…Laundry,” you murmur, already turning away from the thought before it settles too deep. “It’s probably in the laundry.”
You don’t check. You grab something else and leave.
Your brush is gone three days later. You notice it in the middle of getting ready, hand reaching automatically for where it should be on the counter. Nothing. You blink, scanning the surface, moving a bottle aside, then another. Still nothing.
A quiet, creeping irritation replaces the confusion this time. You check the drawer. The floor. The edge of the sink like it might have slipped there somehow. It hasn’t. You stare at the empty space for a second longer than necessary. You end up using your fingers instead.
After that, it starts to blur. Not all at once. Never enough to stop everything.
Your cologne disappears between one morning and the next. You notice when your hand closes around empty air.
Your favorite mug is gone a week later. The one you always use. The one you instinctively grab without thinking. You open the cabinet. It’s not there. Weird. You pick a different one.
Some things take longer to register. A passport photo you kept on the fridge. Small. Easy to miss. You only notice because something feels wrong before you understand why. Your eyes land on the empty space.
You don’t remember taking it down. You don’t remember why you would. Your stomach turns slightly. You look away.
It gets more personal after that.
Your underwear drawer feels off. You don’t count them. You don’t line them up and check. You just know. There’s something missing. The black lace thong. The expensive one you bought last month. The one you wore on that date.
You distinctly remember peeling it off when you got home, still a little damp, and dropping it into the hamper. You remember that clearly. You don’t remember what you did with it after. You stand there with the drawer half open, fingers resting lightly against the wood. Then you push it closed.
A few days later your vibrator is gone. You notice when you’re half-asleep one night, hand sliding lazily into the drawer like muscle memory. Your fingers meet empty space where the sleek black toy should be.
You sit up, suddenly wide awake, face burning even though you’re completely alone. You tear through the drawer, then the one below it, then under the bed almost desperate. Nothing.
Did I move it? Did I throw it away by accident?
You blame the move again. The boxes. The chaos. The fact that you’ve been so distracted lately. Yeah. That has to be it.
You don’t sleep much that night. But it keeps happening. Your bra from the day before. Gone.
Your lipstick. The one you always keep in your bag. Gone.
Your exfoliant. Gone.
Small things. Intimate things. Things no one else would notice. Things no one else would want.
Your laptop stays where it is. Your headphones. Your keys. Your wallet. All untouched. It would be easier if those were gone. Easier to name. But it isn’t that. It’s this. Selective. Careful. Close.
You stop thinking about it. Not because you decided to. It just feels pointless. There’s always an explanation if you don’t look too closely. Laundry. Forgetfulness. Being distracted. Being tired. You’ve been all of those things. It fits. It has to. Until it doesn’t.
You’re standing in your bedroom when something in your chest finally settles into a shape you can’t control anymore. You’re not losing things. You’re not misplacing them. You’re not forgetting. Someone is taking them.
The thought lands clean. Your skin prickles. You glance toward the door without meaning to. It’s closed. Locked. You remember locking it. You always lock it. Your throat tightens. If you didn’t lose them… If you didn’t forget… Then someone has been inside.
The apartment feels different again. Occupied. That’s the word that settles, whether you want it to or not.
You don’t leave as much after that. Not all at once. Just less. You come back earlier. Stay out shorter. Keep track of time in a way you didn’t before. Always aware of the door. The lock. The space you’re leaving behind. You tell yourself it’s precaution. Temporary. Until you figure it out. You don’t.
Days pass. Then more. Your world narrows quietly. Fewer messages. Plans that never quite settle into something real. Conversations that fade before they take hold. It’s easier not to reach out. Easier not to explain something you can’t prove, can’t fully say out loud without hearing how it sounds. So you don’t. You stay in more. And somehow, Hongjoong becomes part of that. Not in a way you notice at first. Just there, consistent in a way nothing else is.
The first time, it’s coincidence. You step into the hallway one morning and he’s there, locking his door, like he’s always belonged to the space.
“Good morning,” he says, easy. “How’s it going?”
You stop. You answer. Because it feels normal to. Because he feels normal.
The second time, you wonder if it’s a pattern. The third, you’re paying attention.
You start leaving your apartment a few minutes earlier. Just in case. You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just timing. Sometimes you catch him at the elevator. Sometimes by the stairs. Once, in the lobby, already holding the door open like he knew you were right behind him.
“Perfect timing,” he says, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
And something in your chest lifts. Light. Unexpected. You start noticing the quiet ways he fits. The way he always slows his pace just enough to match yours without making it obvious. The way he listens, like whatever you’re saying matters, even when it doesn’t.
You tell him small things at first. Work. Being tired. The kind of details you don’t usually bother sharing. He takes them like they’re worth keeping. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t drift. You find yourself looking for him. Not consciously. But you linger a second longer in the hallway. Take your time locking the door. Check the elevator twice before taking the stairs.
Once, your sink starts leaking. It’s minor. You could’ve called maintenance. You don’t. You knock on his door instead. You tell yourself it’s convenience. He’s closer. That’s all. He opens the door like he wasn’t doing anything else. Like you didn’t interrupt something.
“Everything okay?” he asks, softer this time.
You explain. He listens. Then he steps aside without hesitation.
“Show me.”
It takes him less than five minutes to fix it. You stay longer anyway. Leaning against the counter. Talking about nothing. He doesn’t rush you out. Doesn’t make it feel like time is passing at all. It becomes easier. To knock. To ask. To stay.
And through all of it, he never pushes. Never asks for more than what you give. Never makes you feel like you owe him anything for the way he shows up. He’s just there. Steady. Uncomplicated.
You don’t question it. You don’t question him. Because when everything else feels slightly off, he doesn’t. And without realizing it, you start to rely on that. You start to want it.
You don’t know what wakes you. Not a sound. Something thinner than that. The absence of something you didn’t realize you’d gotten used to.
Your eyes open into the dark, heavy with sleep, but the feeling comes immediately anyway. Wrong. Not imagined. Just present in a way the room wasn’t a second ago. You don’t move at first. Your gaze drifts toward the corner of the room where the shadows sit thicker, where your chair should be.
For a moment it doesn’t look empty. It doesn’t look clear either. Inhabited.
Your heart stutters once. You blink. It doesn’t change. Your hand moves before you decide, groping for the lamp. Your fingers knock against the base once, twice, before finding the switch. Light snaps on. The room settles instantly. Nothing there. Just your chair. Your clothes draped over it. Exactly where you left them.
Your breath returns in uneven pieces, but it doesn’t fully settle. You keep looking anyway, like if you stare long enough something might re-form out of the space. Nothing does. Only then do you notice the cold. Not normal cold. Something sharper. Localized, like it doesn’t belong to the room.
You sit up slowly, feet meeting the floor. The air feels thinner the closer you get to awareness. You stand and walk toward the living room.
That’s when you see it. The window. It’s open. Not wide. Just a small gap in the frame letting in a thin line of air that moves like it already knows the room.
You stare at it. You’re sure you closed it. You remember closing it. You reach it too quickly, fingers gripping the frame. The glass is colder than it should be. You push it shut. It gives easily. Too easily. The latch clicks into place.
You don’t move for a second after that, hand still on the frame, eyes fixed on the glass as if it might show you something other than your own reflection. Nothing changes.
You step back slowly. Force your shoulders down. Your breath follows a moment later, but not all the way. The cold lingers longer than it should, as if it’s deciding whether it has permission to stay.
You return to bed, but your eyes keep drifting to the corner of the room. Nothing is there. Still nothing. Yet the room doesn’t feel empty anymore. Eventually, you lie down. You don’t turn the light off. Sleep comes late and shallow, and when it does, it doesn’t feel like rest.
The next day, you decide you need something certain. Something you can verify without memory getting in the way. Something small. A paperclip.
You place it carefully over the top of the door frame, balanced just enough that if the door moves, it will fall. You memorize it before leaving. The angle. The weight. The exact placement.
When you come back, it’s still there. Relief hits too fast. Too clean. You almost exhale a laugh. You check it again anyway before closing the door. You lock it.
The next day, it’s still there. The day after, still there.
The tension loosens slowly, not disappearing, just receding enough to make you believe it might have been nothing. Maybe stress. A new place. A new rhythm you haven’t adjusted to yet. You let that thought stay.
So you start going out again. Coffee before work. Same café. Same seat by the window. You stop checking the glass constantly, though your attention still drifts there more than it should.
You sit. You breathe. You stay. It almost feels normal.
At work, faces blur. Names half-stick, half-slip. Conversations that don’t quite land anywhere. Except him. He doesn’t. He passes behind you too closely. Closer than necessary. Once, his hand brushes the back of your chair. Then again on another day. Never enough to name, never enough to confront.
He asked you out once. You said no. After that, he stopped looking at you directly, except when he does, briefly, like he forgot to stop. When he speaks, it’s clipped. Controlled.
“Did you finish that?” “Send it again.” “You missed something.”
Nothing you can point to. Nothing you can report.
In the break room, you reach for the same mug at the same time. His hand doesn’t move. Yours does. You step back and laugh lightly, covering it. He takes it anyway.
“Thought you didn’t like sharing,” he says.
You don’t remember telling him that.
Later, he stands behind you at your desk for longer than necessary. Not touching. Not close enough to accuse. But close enough that you feel him there. You don’t turn around until he leaves.
You see him looking at you afterward. Not curious. Not interested. Something flat you can’t settle into meaning. You look away first. It would be easier if there was something clear. Something you could hold and name. But there isn’t. Just small things that don’t sit right long enough to become real.
So you let it settle on him anyway. It makes sense. It’s clean. Explainable. Still, you don’t say most of it out loud. Not to anyone. Not even to Hongjoong.
The takeout containers sit open on the coffee table, half-forgotten between you. You told yourself it was just a thank you. Takeout for fixing the sink. The light. The door. Again. You don’t linger on that thought. You lift your beer instead, nudging his foot lightly with yours.
“You’re getting a little too comfortable here.”
He shifts, letting his shoulder brush yours again. It keeps happening. Never quite accidental.
“Yeah?” he says, glancing at you. “You complaining?”
“Maybe.” A small smile tugs at your mouth. “Depends how useful you plan on being.”
His gaze drops to your lips for a second too long before sliding back up. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You keep talking like that, I might think you want me around.”
Your grip tightens on the bottle. You look away first.
“Free labor is hard to find.”
“Mm.” A quiet huff leaves him, softer now. “Right.”
You stand before the moment can stretch any further, lifting your empty bottle.
“Want another?”
When you look at him again, he’s already watching you. Not the bottle. Not the fridge behind you. You.
“…yeah,” he says, voice lower than before.
The kitchen light spills cold across your hands as you open the fridge. You grab two beers, shifting them in one hand, and then you see it. His things, placed neatly near the edge. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Cigarettes.
You pause, fingertips hovering just above the pack, like touching it might mean something.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” you call out.
Behind you, fabric shifts. Slow. “Sometimes.”
You lean your hip against the counter, still looking at it. “…that’s funny.”
A small pause.
“Why?”
You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t moved much, but his attention has. It’s sharper now. Settled. “Same ones I buy.”
Silence. Not empty. Not light. Then, softer—
“Huh.” A faint smile ghosts his voice. “Guess we’ve got good taste.”
Something warm curls low in your chest. You don’t question it. You don’t want to. He studies you for a second. Something unreadable flickers there, gone just as quickly.
“Take one.”
You hesitate just enough to feel it. Then pull one free.
“You sure?”
He leans back, but not far. Never far. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Trying to quit anyway.”
It sounds offhand. Casual. But he doesn’t look away.
“Thanks.”
When you drop onto the couch again, you tuck one leg under you. The cigarette rests between your lips, unlit. You hand him the beer, avoiding his eyes for just a second too long. He takes it. Doesn’t drink. Instead, his gaze drops to your mouth.
“Hold on.”
He’s already leaning in, lighter flicking open in his hand. The flame blooms between you, but he doesn’t hand it to you. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, his hand lifts, cupping the flame, pulling himself deep into your space. Close enough that the warmth of him reaches you before anything else.
“Stay still,” he murmurs.
You do. You lean in slightly, the cigarette catching as you inhale, slow. The flame flickers between you, but it’s not what you feel. It’s him. His hand. Steady. Close enough that your fingers could slip into his if you wanted to. His face. Near. Too near. His eyes, focused on your mouth now.
You pull back slowly, exhaling smoke. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you. Your knee presses against his thigh. You don’t pull back. He doesn’t either.
“…thanks,” you repeat, quieter now.
He hums, almost absent.
You take another drag, then hold it out. He takes it from you, fingers brushing yours, slower this time. Intentional enough to notice. He leans back, but his leg stays against yours, solid. Grounding. Like he’s making sure you’re still there. Like he needs you to be. You glance at him, catching your lip between your teeth before you can stop yourself.
“Do you always accept dinner invitations like this?” you ask.
His mouth tilts, but his eyes stay glued to your eyes.
“Like what?”
You shrug, looking down at the cigarette between his fingers. “Last minute. No warning. Questionable motives.”
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, amused.
“I don’t usually get invited… Not like this.”
You look back at him, surprised despite yourself. Something in your chest pulls tight. Without thinking, you reach for his free hand. Your fingers wrap around his. He lets you. Then turns his hand and holds yours back, thumb slowly stroking your skin. It surprises you as much as it surprises him.
“…what’s ‘like this’?” you ask, softer.
For a second he doesn’t answer. His grip tightens. Just once. Then he exhales, slow, like something heavier almost slipped out with it, and tips his head back against the couch. He doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t look at you either.
“Like you actually want me here.”
It’s quieter than anything he’s said before. Your chest aches at his honesty in a way you don’t recognize fast enough. You don’t let go of his hand. You don’t think you could. He’s still looking away, throat exposed slightly with the tilt of his head, lashes low, like he’s given you something he didn’t mean to.
And for a moment, you just watch him. The way his fingers still hold yours, even now. The way he keeps just enough distance everywhere else. The way he doesn’t look at you, like that might be the line he won’t cross unless you ask him to.
Something shifts. Not sudden. Not loud. But certain. It’s not just that you like having him here. It’s that you’ve been finding reasons to make sure he is.
You shift closer on the couch until your thigh presses fully against his. Slowly, you lean in and rest your head on his shoulder, your temple brushing his jaw. You can feel how warm he is. You can hear the way his breathing changes. He doesn’t pull away.
Your thumb moves against his hand before you can think better of it. Small. Careful. He notices. His fingers tighten again, just slightly this time. For a long moment neither of you moves. The air feels thick, charged with everything you’re both dying to do but won’t. Not yet.
The cigarette burns quietly between you. Neither of you reaches for it anymore.
Your eyes rise, without meaning to. His mouth is close. Too close. You could—
The thought slips in fast. Uninvited. What it would feel like to close the distance. To tilt your head just slightly. To press your lips to his and see if he’d—
You stop. Your fingers tighten faintly around his hand, like that alone is enough to ground you back into yourself. You don’t move. You don’t dare. Because if you do, if you lean in even a fraction, you’re not sure he’d stop you. And that thought? That’s worse.
So you stay exactly where you are, cheek against his shoulder, breath steadying slowly as if nothing happened at all. As if your heart didn’t just trip over something it won’t be able to forget now.
A new gift is waiting when you get back from work the next day. You almost miss it. You step inside, closing the door behind you, your gaze dropping automatically. A napkin. Folded. Placed neatly on the floor.
Your breath stutters. You don’t move at first. Then you crouch slowly, fingers hovering before you touch it. Like it might react. It doesn’t. It’s just paper. Light. Harmless.
There’s a faint stain along the edge. Pale. Smudged. Your lipstick. Or your drink. You unfold it. This time, there’s a message. The handwriting is clean. Measured.
“You ordered the iced vanilla latte again. You always bite the straw when you’re anxious.”
Your chest tightens so fast it almost hurts. You stare at the words. Your brain scrambles, who saw you? who was close enough? who was watching? You were alone. You checked. Weren’t you? Your grip tightens around the paper. A sound slips out of you, quiet, uneven. It doesn’t sound like you believe it.
The next day, it happens again. A wrapper. Smoothed flat.
“You dropped this at the crosswalk. I don’t like when you litter.”
Your stomach twists this time. Not confusion. Recognition. You don’t throw it away immediately. You stand there. Reading it again. Trying to place the voice. That coworker flashes in your mind. The way he watches. The way he doesn’t smile anymore. The way he said your name that one time, too familiar.
A week later. A dried petal. Your fingers shake when you touch it. “These looked better before you took them home.” Your fingers shake when you touch it. Because you remember. You picked those up on your way back. No one was there.
Your subway ticket. Perfectly flattened. “You almost missed the 7:42 ride. I was happy you made it.” Happy. The word sits wrong. Too personal. Too close.
A couple of days later. A straw. Straightened. Placed inside a small envelope. “Stop hanging out with those idiots after work. They’re the reason you destroy things with your teeth. I hate seeing you like this.” Your throat tightens. You didn’t tell anyone that.
Your coworker again. His voice. His face. You try to attach it to him. Force it to fit. But something doesn’t line up. He doesn’t feel careful enough.
The next day. A cigarette butt. Cleaned. Sealed. “You shouldn’t smoke. It makes your lips taste bad and your hands shake. If you stayed home like you’re supposed to, you wouldn’t need these.” Your hand jerks. You drop it this time. It hits the floor with a soft sound that feels too loud. Too final. Like something snapping.
The tone never changes. No anger. No urgency. No threat. Just observation. Correction. Adjustment. Like someone is watching something slightly out of place and guiding it back where it belongs.
Your chest feels tight more often now. Your movements smaller. Quieter. You stop staying out as long. Stop talking as much. Stop laughing as loud. You don’t notice it happening. Not at first. Because every time you step outside, every time you do something that belongs to you, it comes back. Flattened. Folded. Seen.
It becomes habit. Open the door. Look up. Relief. Look down. Fear. You don’t even think about it anymore. Your body does it for you, like breathing, like blinking, like checking your reflection without meaning to.
The bar across the street is louder than it should be for a weekday. Music low enough to talk over, loud enough that you have to lean into Hongjoong to do it.
You didn’t plan to stay long. Just a drink. Maybe two. Something to shake the feeling out of your chest. Hongjoong sits beside you, one hand wrapped loosely around the neck of his beer, the other resting against the bar. His gaze already on you before you say anything.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says, leaning in just enough for you to hear him. Not accusing. Just noticing.
You huff lightly, eyes dropping to your drink. “There’s this guy at work,” you start, more direct than you meant to be.
His fingers still around the bottle. Not moving. “What about him?” he asks.
You roll your shoulders, trying to keep it casual.
“He asked me out. I said no.” A small pause. “He’s been weird since.”
Hongjoong’s expression shifts. Subtle. But it’s there.
“Weird how?”
You hesitate. Not because you don’t know, but because suddenly it feels smaller. Harder to explain out loud.
“He barely talks to me unless he has to,” you say. “And when he does, it’s like—” you frown, searching for the right words, “like I did something wrong. Like he thinks I owe him something.”
His jaw tightens. You see it this time. Clearer.
“What’s his name?” he asks. Too quick.
You glance at him, a flicker of something crossing your face.
“What?”
He exhales, like he hears it too, how that sounded.
“I just—” he shakes his head slightly, adjusting his grip on the bottle. “If he’s making you uncomfortable, you shouldn’t have to deal with that.”
“I’m not filing a report,” you say, a little sharper than before. “I just—” you huff softly. “I just wanted to know what you’d do.”
He goes quiet for a second.
“I think,” he says more carefully now, “you shouldn’t be around people like that.”
“It’s work,” you point out, softer. “I can’t really avoid him.”
“You could,” he says.
Then he stops. Like he hears himself. A small pause. His gaze drops briefly to the bar, jaw flexing once.
“…Sorry,” he mutters, quieter now. “That wasn’t—” he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”
That’s new. You blink at him. He lets out a small breath, almost a self-conscious huff.
“I just don’t like the idea of someone making you feel like that,” he adds, more honest now. Less controlled. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Something in your chest softens. It’s not sharp anymore. It’s real.
“I can handle it,” you say, gentler this time. Not defensive. Reassuring.
“I know,” he says quickly. Too quickly. Then, softer, “I know you can.” A beat. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
There’s no edge in it now. Just something quiet. Steady. Almost unsure. You study him for a second. The tension is still there, but it’s different. Not pushing. Not closing in. You don’t think about it when you move. Your hand comes up, cupping his jaw lightly, turning his face toward you.
“Hey.”
His eyes lift to yours immediately. The shift is instant. Whatever was sitting in his chest loosens at the contact alone.
“It’s okay,” you say, softer now, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Really.”
For a second, he just looks at you. Then his eyes close. Slowly. His head tilts, just slightly, pressing into your palm. Not demanding. Not taking. Just letting himself have it. You feel his breath against your skin. Warmer now. Steadier. Your thumb brushes once over his cheekbone without thinking. Small. Careful. Something in your chest pulls tighter. You don’t move your hand away. Not yet.
“It’s just a guy at work,” you murmur. “That’s it.”
His hand comes up, resting lightly over your wrist. Not holding you in place. Just staying there. When he opens his eyes again, they’re softer. But there’s something deeper sitting underneath now. Quieter. Darker. Not at you. Past you. You pull your hand back. Slowly. He lets you. Just as slow.
You both lean back into your seats like nothing happened. Like the air didn’t shift. Like his breath didn’t linger against your skin. You take a sip of your drink. Cold. Bitter. Grounding. Beside you, Hongjoong picks his up again.
“Next time he tries something,” he says, voice light again, almost teasing, “you tell me.”
It sounds easy. It isn’t. You nod anyway.
“I will.”
The music fills the space between you again. And just like that, it passes.
The music is low. Sunlight spills through the open windows, warm against the floor. It’s the kind of morning that stretches slow and easy. You move through it without thinking much, bare feet against the tiles, one hand trailing along the wall as you pass the front door on your way to the kitchen.
That’s when you notice it. Something out of place. Small. White against the wood. You stop. There’s a polaroid on the floor, angled slightly like it had been pushed under the door and left there.
Your chest tightens, as you crouch down to pick it up. The paper is smooth between your fingers. You turn it over slowly, and everything in you goes cold.
It’s you. Mid-step, caught in motion. Crossing the street near your building, your head turned slightly to the side like you’d heard something. Your bag slipping down your shoulder. Your expression unguarded in a way that makes your stomach twist.
You remember this. Yesterday. Late morning. You’d been thinking about something stupid, checking your phone, not paying attention to anything around you.
The angle is wrong for coincidence. Too close. Too clear. Whoever took it wasn’t across the street. They were near you. Watching you.
Your grip tightens without you realizing, the edges of the polaroid bending under your fingers. There’s nothing written on it. No message. No name. Just you. A broken sound leaves your throat as you crush it in your hand, too fast, like getting rid of it will undo it. It doesn’t.
You’re already moving before you think, crossing into the kitchen, your other hand digging into the drawer for your lighter. It slips once. Your fingers aren’t steady. You try again. The flame sparks to life. For a second, you just stare at it, the small, controlled burn of it, and then you press it to the corner of the photo.
The reaction is immediate. The glossy surface darkens, curls inward, the image warping as the heat eats through it. Your face distorts first, the features melting into something unrecognizable, something wrong.
You don’t let yourself hesitate. You drop it into the sink before the heat can reach your skin. The fire spreads fast, licking across the paper, turning it black, then brittle, then nothing. You grip the edge of the counter, knuckles whitening, eyes locked on it while you turn into ash in seconds.
When the flame finally dies, all that’s left are curled, charred fragments. You don’t move. Your apartment is still quiet. The music still playing, soft and distant like it belongs to a different place.
The windows are still open. The air still warm. But it doesn’t feel like yours anymore. Because someone stood outside your door. Slid that under. Close enough to touch the space you live in. And you didn’t hear a thing.
A week later, you almost don’t look. Your routine carries you forward automatically, your body already loosening before your mind catches up. Key in hand. Your door in front of you. You pause. Look up. It’s still there. The paperclip.
For a second, your chest softens. Then tightens. Something is wrong. You don’t move at first. You just stare at it, breath catching higher in your chest than it should.
It’s not where you left it. Not exactly. The angle is off. Barely. So small it shouldn’t matter, except you know it does because you memorized it, because you looked at it too long the first time. Now it leans differently. Not fallen. Not disturbed. Placed.
Your stomach drops. It didn’t fall. Someone caught it. Someone noticed.
Your hand rises slowly, almost against your will, and pulls it free. The metal is colder than it should be. They saw it. They knew what it meant. They put it back. Your thoughts rush ahead of you. You can’t go in. You can’t stay here. You can’t—
Your body moves before the rest of you agrees. His door. That’s where it lands. Not logic. Not thought. Just direction. Your steps are too fast. Too loud. His door feels further than it should, like the hallway has stretched, but you don’t stop. You reach it and knock. Once. Twice. Too sharp. Too urgent.
For a moment, nothing. Then movement inside. A pause.
“Who is it?”
Cold. Flat. Not the voice you know. It cuts through you, sharp enough that your breath stutters. You freeze.
“It’s— it’s me.”
Your voice comes out wrong. Small. Thinner than it should be.
“Hey— hey, okay. Give me a second, angel.”
Soft. Warm. Familiar. Like nothing happened. The shift is so immediate it makes your stomach twist. You hear the lock turn. The door opens just enough. The chain still in place, holding it there, a narrow gap between you and him.
Hongjoong looks at you. His gaze moves over your face, your shoulders, your hands. Quick, precise, taking everything in. You don’t realize how hard you’re shaking until you see it reflected in the way his expression tightens.
“Hey…” His voice drops, all the way down. “What’s wrong?”
You try to speak. It sticks.
“I—” Your voice shakes. “I didn’t know where else to go.” Your breath stutters. “I think… I think someone’s been watching me.”
His expression doesn’t change dramatically. That’s the thing. It tightens instead. Controlled. Focused.
“Get inside. C’mon.”
You step inside. The door shuts behind you with a soft click that feels louder than it should. His apartment is warm. Quiet. Steady in a way yours hasn’t felt in weeks.
“Sit,” he murmurs, gentler now.
You do. Your hands stay clasped in your lap, fingers picking at each other, something small and repetitive to hold onto. He doesn’t sit next to you. Not yet. He takes the chair across from you instead, elbows resting on his knees, leaning forward slightly. Watching. Not just looking. Taking you in.
“When did it start?” he asks.
His voice is steady. Even. You latch onto it without thinking.
“A while ago,” you say, breath catching on the words. “I thought I was just being forgetful at first, but… things started going missing. Small things. And then—”
You swallow.
“There were notes.”
His brows pull together, just slightly.
“Notes.”
You nod, faster now, words starting to slip out without control.
“Things I’d done. Places I’d been. Stuff I dropped— they knew, Hongjoong. Like they were there when it happened.”
Your hands tighten in your lap. “I think someone’s been inside my apartment.”
Silence. Not disbelief. Calculation. His gaze drags over you again, slower this time. Thinking.
“Okay…” he murmurs. Then, sharper, “who’s been around you?”
You blink. “What?”
“Your place,” he clarifies, tone tightening just enough to catch. “Who’s been there. Recently.”
You hesitate. And that’s enough.
“That coworker,” he says, more focused now. “The one you told me about. The one who keeps hovering around you— what’s his name?”
Your stomach drops. “I don’t know if it’s him,” you say quickly. “I mean, I— I don’t think so, I just—”
“Does he know where you live?” he presses, leaning forward now, tension threading into his shoulders. “Has he ever followed you? Stayed too close? Said anything that didn’t sit right?”
Your breath stutters.
“I don’t know,” you repeat, quieter this time. “I didn’t— I didn’t think about it like that.”
He exhales, short, frustrated, dragging a hand through his hair. “Of course you didn’t,” he mutters, low.
Not at you. But it lands anyway.
“I didn’t want to make it into something bigger than it was,” you say quickly, voice thinning. “I thought if I just ignored it, it would stop but it didn’t and I don’t—” Your breath catches. “I don’t feel safe there anymore.”
That’s the moment. He moves. Not abruptly. Not overwhelming. But closer. The couch dips beside you, his presence settling in like something steady, something certain.
“Sweetheart…” His voice drops immediately, softer now. Anchoring. “Okay. No— no, come here.”
His hand finds your back, slow enough that you could pull away. You don’t. Your breathing breaks before you can stop it, quiet at first, then sharper, your chest hitching against itself.
He doesn’t hesitate. His arm comes around you, firm, careful, pulling you in just enough to hold you together. His hand moves against your arm in slow, grounding strokes.
You shake your head against him, fingers curling into his shirt, needing something solid.
“I don’t feel okay,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says, just as soft. “You don’t have to.”
That makes something inside you loosen. You lean into him fully then, your forehead brushing his shoulder, your body giving in to the weight of it. His hand slides slightly higher along your arm, thumb pressing in slow, deliberate passes, like he’s mapping where you’re tense.
“You’ve been dealing with this on your own this whole time?” he asks quietly.
There’s something under it now. Not just concern. Something tighter. You nod against him.
“I didn’t want to sound crazy,” you admit, voice small, breaking at the edges. “I thought maybe I was just— making it worse in my head but it doesn’t feel like that, it doesn’t feel like it’s just me—”
“It’s not,” he cuts in, low and certain. No hesitation. No doubt.
His arm tightens, just slightly.
“You don’t imagine things like that,” he adds, quieter now. “Not like this.”
Your breath stutters, something in your chest loosening at the certainty.
“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper. “I don’t know if I should go back there, or call someone, or just— I don’t know, I feel like I’m missing something and it’s right there and I just—”
Your voice cracks. He doesn’t rush you. Just holds you there. Steady. Thinking.
“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs after a moment, voice low, controlled again. “I’ll handle it.”
It slips out clean. Like it’s already his. His hand stills briefly against your arm before resuming, slower now.
“Whoever it is,” he adds, quieter, something colder threading underneath, “they don’t get to keep doing this to you.”
His head dips slightly, almost without thinking, and his lips brush against your hair. Soft. Lingering. For a second, it feels like nothing more than comfort. Something gentle. Grounding. You let yourself lean into it. There’s a quiet pause there. Subtle. Easy to miss. Then his hand resumes its slow movement along your arm, steady as before.
Your body softens against him without you realizing it. For the first time in months, you don’t feel alone in it. You pull back slightly after a moment, just enough to look at him. You’re close. Closer than you’ve ever been.
His hand is still on your arm, but it’s not just resting there anymore. His fingers have tightened, just enough that you feel the pressure, like he doesn’t want you to move too far away.
His thumb drags slowly along your sleeve. Not absentminded. Measured. His eyes don’t leave yours. There’s something different there now. Not softer. Something deeper. Fixed. Like he’s looking at something he’s already decided is his.
Your breath catches again, but not for the same reason.
It happens before you can think about it. He leans in. The first touch is warm. Careful. Like he’s afraid you might vanish. His lips are softer than you expected, and something inside you just gives.
You’ve both been waiting for this. You can feel it in the way he breathes against you, in the way you lean into him without thinking. You don’t pull away. You don’t want to. You kiss him back, desperate for the solid warmth of him, for something real in the middle of all this chaos.
Your hand slides up into his hair, fingers curling gently at first. For a few seconds it stays soft. Almost sweet. But Hongjoong’s hunger wins. The kiss deepens fast. His tongue slips into your mouth, slow but greedy, tasting you like he’s been starving for this. A low sound rumbles in his chest as he pulls you closer, his hand sliding down to your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to make your breath hitch.
You tug lightly at his hair when he kisses you harder, and he groans softly into your mouth, the sound sending heat rushing through you. You’re panting against his lips, breathing each other in.
He presses you back into the couch with his body. His thigh presses between yours, hips rolling forward so you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. Your fingers tighten, harsher this time, in his hair. You kiss him deeper, chasing that heat, letting yourself drown in it for just a moment longer.
He holds you tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. For a moment, it feels perfect. Like everything else can wait. Then reality starts creeping back in.
You turn your head slightly, trying to catch your breath. “Joong— wait—”
He doesn’t stop. His mouth follows yours instantly, chasing the space you tried to create. He turns the kiss messier, wetter, more desperate. His hand slides up under the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your bare skin, gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. He sucks on your bottom lip, then bites it. Not hard, but enough to make you flinch.
“I just—” you try again, voice shaky, pushing weakly at his chest. “I think we should—”
He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, almost punishing. His hips press harder between your legs, grinding slow against you, letting you feel how painfully hard he is. Like he can’t stop himself even if he tried.
“Shh,” he breathes against your mouth, barely pulling back. His voice is hoarse, trembling with restraint and something darker. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
It should soothe you. It doesn’t. You grip his bicep tightly, nails digging in as you try to push him back. He groans against your lips, low and pleased, like the pain only excites him more.
“Joong, please—”
The words barely leave your mouth before he moves to your neck. His tongue drags a slow, wet stripe up your skin, then he presses his face there, breathing you in deeply.
“Fuck… you smell so good,” he whispers against your throat, voice hoarse and trembling with something unhinged.
Your eyes squeeze shut. Your whole body tenses. You grab a handful of his hair and try to pull him away, but he moans louder at the pull, the sound vibrating against your neck. Then he bites down gently, sucking on the sensitive skin.
A small, helpless cry escapes you. He doesn’t seem to hear it. He keeps kissing and licking your neck while his hand travels higher, cupping your breast fully. He squeezes it hard, letting out a desperate, broken moan like finally touching you there is driving him insane.
“You’re always like this when you’re overwhelmed,” he says softly, almost to himself, lips still brushing your neck. “You just need to calm down.”
That finally snaps something in you.
You push both hands against his shoulders with real force. “Hongjoong— stop!”
He doesn’t listen right away. For two long, suffocating seconds his mouth stays on your neck, sucking greedily, while his hand gives your breast one last hard, possessive squeeze. He looks like he doesn’t know how to let go. Like stopping is something his body has to learn.
Then he suddenly yanks both hands away and sits back on his calves, still positioned between your legs. His breathing is uneven. His lips wet and slightly swollen. His eyes are wrong. Too dark, too steady, like something sharp is being forced back behind them.
“I’m sorry— I just—” you say quickly. “I just—this is a lot. I can’t— not like this, I can’t—”
Something sharp flickers across his face. Gone almost instantly.
“I know,” he says, voice rougher than before. “I know.”
He exhales through his nose, then drags a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to reset something in himself.
“I went too fast,” he admits after a beat, quieter now. “That’s on me.” His voice softens, almost self-deprecating. “You’re just… hard to stay away from.”
His shoulders drop slightly as he leans back, giving you space without you asking for it. Too careful. Too precise.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he adds. “I just—” A pause, jaw tightening. “I got ahead of myself. I promise it won’t happen again.”
His gaze stays on you, but softer now. Watching, not pressing.
“I like you,” he says finally, like it slips out before he can polish it into something safer. “More than I should, probably.”
That lands differently. He seems to realize it too, because his mouth tightens faintly.
“I don’t want to ruin this before it even starts.”
Silence settles between you, thick but no longer chaotic. You push yourself up into a sitting position, still breathing too fast, still trying to rebuild your edges.
“I just… I need a second,” you say quietly. “I think I should go home. Clear my head.”
You shift like you’re going to stand. His hand catches your wrist immediately. Not hard. But certain.
“Wait.”
The word is softer than everything before it. His thumb moves once against your pulse. Slow. Grounding.
“I don’t want you going back there tonight,” he says.
Your breath stutters. “It’s probably nothing. I was just overthinking—”
“Were you?”
That stops you. Not because it’s loud. Because it’s too calm. His eyes don’t leave your face.
“Things missing. Notes. Someone getting into your apartment,” he continues, voice steady now. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“I’m fine,” you insist, but it comes out weaker than you mean it to.
“You’re not,” he says simply. Not harsh. Just decided. The grip on your wrist loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go.
“You’re not going back there alone tonight.”
It doesn’t sound like an order. That’s what makes it hard to refuse. You shift your wrist carefully, not pulling away, just creating space.
“Hongjoong…” you say, quieter. “I didn’t say no to you. I said no to how you were doing it.”
A breath slips out of you, uneven.
“I was okay with this. You just… pushed past it.”
You don’t accuse him. But you don’t soften it either.
“I need to go home.”
A flicker crosses his expression. Quick. Controlled. Something sharper underneath. Then he lets out a small breath, like he’s choosing a different path entirely.
“Or you can stay here,” he says.
Too smooth now. Like he’s already decided that’s the reasonable option.
“You can sleep in my bed,” he continues. “I’ll take the couch. Lock the door, forget about everything for a night.”
His gaze holds yours steadily.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Your skin tightens at that.
“I don’t need—”
“I won’t touch you,” he interrupts, immediately softer. Adjusting. Correcting himself. “Not unless you want me to.” A beat. “I just want you safe.”
Safe. The word sits heavy between you. Almost comforting. Almost convincing. You ease your wrist back slowly. He lets you. Not a fight. Just release.
“Thank you,” you say, quieter. “Really. I just… I need to be alone for a bit.”
Silence. This time it’s different. Not heavy. Not warm. Measuring. Then—
“Okay.”
He lets go. Just like that. But the second you stand, he’s up too. Close again. Always close. Before you can step away, his hand lands on your shoulder and gently turns you back toward him. Not rough. Not forcing, just insistent. Like he assumes you’ll follow the direction.
“Angel,” he murmurs, softer now. Almost fond. “Look at me for a second.”
Your stomach tightens. He doesn’t pull you closer. He doesn’t need to. He’s already too near.
“I don’t like letting you leave like this,” he continues, thumb brushing slowly over your shoulder. “All tense. All stuck in that pretty head of yours.”
A small exhale, like he’s thinking aloud.
“Let me fix it a little.”
The words land warm. Wrongly warm. He leans in again. Not rushed. Not unsure. Like it’s something that has happened before, or something that should.
You turn your head at the last second. His lips catch your cheek instead. Warm. Unhurried. Lingering just a fraction too long. Your eyes close on instinct. You don’t move away. That realization comes after. It sits under your skin like something you didn’t consent to noticing.
“Hongjoong…” Your voice is quieter now, steadier in shape but not in feeling. “I meant it. I need space. Really.”
A beat. He pulls back just enough to look at you properly.
“Okay,” he says. Easy. Calm. “I hear you.”
It sounds like agreement. But nothing about him changes. You force a small smile anyway. Thin. Carefully made.
“Thank you.”
You turn. This time, he lets you. Almost. His hand slides down your shoulder blade, trailing along your spine in a way that feels like it should be nothing, until it reaches your ass. He squeezes hard, fingers digging in just enough that your balance shifts backward, your back pressing into his chest before you can stop it. The contact is immediate. Solid. Trapping.
A quiet sound leaves him, close to your ear. Not words. More like a groan.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs. “You don’t even realize what you do to me.”
His breath lingers against your skin. His hand moves to your hip. The pressure doesn’t increase. It doesn’t need to.
“You’re gonna have me thinking about you all night,” he adds softly.
You move. Not sharply. But decisively. You step forward just enough to break the contact, turning in the same motion until you’re facing him fully again.
“Hongjoong—” you start, sharper now.
Your pulse is loud in your ears. His expression is unchanged. That same smirk. Easy, amused, like none of this is real. Like this is just a game the two of you are playing.
“I’ll behave,” he adds lightly, almost amused now. “For tonight.”
Your fingers curl at your sides.
“That’s not—” you stop yourself, swallow. Reset. Your voice steadies, but your chest feels tight. “I’m serious. I need you to actually listen to me.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Gone just as fast.
“I am listening,” he says, soft again. “That’s why I’m letting you go.”
Letting. The word sits wrong in the air. You don’t respond. You turn back toward the door. This time, your movement is real. Your hand reaches the handle. But your breath doesn’t follow cleanly. It catches somewhere in your chest, tight and uneven, like your body is only now realizing what just happened.
“Hey,” he calls softly.
You freeze. Slowly, you turn your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder. He hasn’t moved. He’s still where you left him. Still watching you like he’s memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose.
“If anything feels off tonight,” he says, voice gentle again, “you call me. Yeah?” A pause. “I’ll be there before you even finish speaking.”
Your grip tightens on the handle. You manage a small nod. “Okay,” you murmur.
His gaze lingers. He nods once, like that settles something in him.
“I mean it,” he adds. “Leave your bedroom light on for me. I’ll know you’re okay if I can see it from my window.”
Your breath catches slightly. You don’t answer. A small smile tugs at his mouth.
“Sleep well, pretty.”
You open the door. Step out. You glance back once, and you regret it immediately. Because he’s still there. Watching. Then you leave. And only when the door shuts behind you, soft and final, do you let a tear finally slip down your cheek.
The hallway feels colder when you step into it, like the air shifted while you weren’t looking. You don’t run, even though you want to, you don’t. So you walk all the way to your door, key in, turn, and step inside.
The click of the lock lands too loud in the silence that follows, and you freeze immediately, listening. Nothing. No footsteps, no voices. Still, your shoulders don’t drop. Your hand stays on the door a second too long before you turn away.
The apartment looks exactly the same, familiar in a way that should calm you but doesn’t, because nothing about it feels right anymore. You already know you’re not alone here. You step further in slowly, carefully, like the floor might shift under your weight.
Your arms wrap around yourself without thinking, fingers pressing into your sleeves like you can hold something in place if you just grip hard enough. Your breath doesn’t settle. And then it hits you all at once, the memory snapping into place so clearly it turns your stomach.
Him. The way he looked at you. The way his hands held you like there had never been a question about whether you would stay or move away. Like your body was something he could keep. Your throat tightens immediately.
“He didn’t mean to,” you murmur quickly, the words rushing out before you can stop them. “He just—he got carried away—”
But your voice breaks before you finish, because even as you say it, something inside you rejects it. It didn’t feel like that. Not when you think about the way he didn’t stop. Not when you pulled back the first time. Not when you said his name like that. Like you were trying to pull yourself out of something you couldn’t control anymore.
Your hand comes up to your mouth, pressing there as if it can hold everything in.
“He was just—”
The sentence never completes. There isn’t a version of it that fits anymore. Your skin prickles, awareness crawling under it, because you can still feel him in ways you don’t want to name, not just what happened but what stayed after it. The pressure of his grip, the heat of him too close, the way your body didn’t react fast enough to stop it becoming what it became.
Your fingers tighten around your arms until it hurts. A thought slips in, heavy. You let it happen.
“No,” you whisper immediately, shaking your head once. “No, I didn’t—”
But you didn’t stop him right away. For a second, you froze. For a second, your body didn’t move at all.
“I did this,” you murmur, and it lands heavier than you expect.
Because you came here. You chose this. You left everything behind thinking you could start over somewhere quieter, somewhere safer. Your chest hurt. Because it followed you anyway. It always does. Everything does. Always at once.
Your thoughts start to spiral, overlapping, louder, faster. You’re running again. You never stay long enough to fix anything. You think changing the place will change you.
“I just needed space,” you whisper, and it already feels worn out as you say it.
Your breathing shifts, too shallow, too fast, before you notice it fully.
“I’m fine,” you try.
It comes out wrong. The air doesn’t reach where it should. Your lungs don’t listen. Air goes in, barely comes out. Again. Shallow. Too fast.
You lean back until your shoulder hits the wall, harder than you mean to. It grounds you for half a second. When you close your eyes, it gets worse. The apartment presses in. You open them again quickly. Nothing has changed. That’s worse.
“I can’t—” you start, but it stops there.
Your breath catches and doesn’t complete. Your hand presses into your ribs, forcing it through. In. Out. In. It falters.
Your vision blurs slightly at the edges. Everything feels too close, too physical. Your hands move without thinking, dragging over your arms, your sides, like you can wipe it off. Like it’s something physical. It doesn’t go away. Your stomach turns. You push off the wall too fast, your steps uneven as you move. Somewhere, anywhere…
The bathroom. You don’t think. You just go. The light flicks on too bright. Too harsh. Your hands are already pulling at your clothes, clumsy and urgent, like they’re in the way of something you need to fix now. Fabric sticks for a second. You yank harder. Gone.
You turn the shower on without checking the temperature. Water hits your skin too cold. You flinch but don’t step away. You step in. The shock pins you there, sharp and immediate, and your inhale breaks. It’s freezing. Good.
Your hands move instantly, scrubbing at your arms, your waist, your skin like it’s something you can remove if you press hard enough, like memory has weight that water might wash away. Before him. Before that second. Before you didn’t move fast enough to stop it.
Your breath shakes as water runs down your face, your neck, your chest, and you don’t know anymore if the wetness is only from the shower.
“I’m okay,” you whisper, and it breaks.
And under the water, your body burning with cold and memory and something you can’t name, you don’t know if you’re trying to convince yourself or erase yourself.
The doorman greets Hongjoong like always. A nod, brief enough to disappear the moment it happens.
“Evening,” Hongjoong answers without slowing, keys already turning between his fingers.
The elevator takes him up in silence. He leans back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, letting the day fall off him in layers.
Work had been loud again, people speaking in problems that weren’t really problems, asking for answers they already knew they wouldn’t like. It stays behind when he gets off the elevator. It always does.
Upstairs is different. Upstairs, things are the way he left them.
The doors slide open. The hallway stretches out dim and still, and his gaze finds your door the way it always does, automatic, almost absent. Closed. Good.
He passes his own without a pause. Yours, however, he stops at. The key slides in. Familiar resistance, familiar release.
He lifts his hand on instinct, two fingers hovering in the small gap between door and frame, already expecting the paperclip to give him that quiet confirmation it always does when the door opens. It doesn’t fall. His fingers close on nothing.
That pause lasts a fraction longer than it should. Not concern, not yet. Just a faint shift in attention, like something slightly out of rhythm. Then he pushes the door open anyway and steps inside, closing it behind him with the same ease he always does.
The apartment greets him in silence. Dark. Still. Untouched. It should feel normal. It does feel normal. He moves through it without hesitation, not bothering with lights, already knowing where everything is supposed to be.
He walks straight to your bedroom, already palming himself through his pants, the other hand working his belt open like he always does. The familiar hunger settles low in his stomach, already half-hard at the thought of burying his face in your pillow and finally breathing you in again.
Except when he reaches your room, something in him slows. Not fully. Not enough to stop. Just enough to register that the air feels wrong before his mind gives it a shape.
The bed is empty. Not messy. Not slept in. Not touched. Stripped bare in a way that feels deliberate, almost clinical, like someone erased a surface instead of living in it. His hand presses into the mattress anyway, as if contact might correct what he is seeing. There is nothing. No warmth. No fabric. No trace of you.
A sound leaves him before he can stop it, small and disbelieving.
“No…” It should be a thought. It comes out broken instead. “No… no, no — that’s not—”
He straightens too fast, belt still loose, breath already tightening in his chest as he crosses the room and yanks the closet open hard enough for the door to slam against the wall. Empty. Completely fucking empty. Only naked hangers left behind like bones.
The bathroom is the same. Worse, somehow. He nearly slips on the tile with how fast he moves. The counter is wiped clean. Toothbrush gone. All your products gone. Every little thing he used to touch, smell, memorize. Erased. Gone. Like you were never here.
You left.
His hands curl against the sink, knuckles whitening as he leans over it. His reflection catches him in the mirror and for a moment he just stares at it like it belongs to someone else. The eyes are too open. Too fixed.
“You were fine,” he says under his breath, but it doesn’t sound like reassurance. It sounds like confusion trying to become logic. “You were getting better.”
The words don’t settle. They multiply instead. Because this doesn’t match anything he understands. People don’t leave like this when things are improving. When things are being corrected. When they’re finally starting to make sense. You don’t run when someone is fixing you.
“You were almost right,” he adds, quieter, like it should explain something.
It doesn’t. His gaze darts again, scanning the apartment as if you might still be there, as if this is some mistake in perception rather than absence itself. Something in him tightens.
“You don’t just disappear.”
Silence answers him. Thick. Final. His hand curls against the sink, knuckles whitening.
“You don’t leave me.”
That lands differently. He feels it settle, not as anger first, but as structure. As fact trying to form itself. Because he had been careful. He had been present without being seen. Close without being intrusive. He had fixed what needed fixing. Quietly. Consistently. The little things that made your life unstable, interrupted, inconvenient.
He even made sure no one could hurt you. The cancellations. The delays. The people who stopped showing up when they weren’t supposed to. That wasn’t random. That was precision. That was protection.
“I was helping you,” he says, but now it’s firmer, like he’s correcting something outside himself. “I was fixing it.”
The mirror cracks under his fist before he decides to hit it. The sound is sharp enough to cut through the room. Glass fractures outward, spilling into the sink, across the counter. Blood follows a second later, warm and immediate, but he doesn’t look at it. He only looks at what’s left of the reflection.
Still wrong. Still not enough. Because you’re not here. And that is the only variable that doesn’t resolve.
His hand hits the wall next, leaving a smear that doesn’t belong in a place like this. His breathing is no longer steady. It’s uneven now, edged, like something inside him is trying to move too fast for the shape of his body.
You’re not gone. Not really. You couldn’t be. You don’t have anyone. Not anymore. He made sure of that.
He starts tearing through the apartment like a storm. Drawers ripped out and thrown. What little furniture remains gets kicked over, searching not for you exactly but for proof that you were still supposed to be here. But everything answers the same way. Empty. Clean. Final.
And underneath it, something begins to settle in him, slow and inevitable, not grief yet, not loss, but the first shape of refusal. Because if you left, then something is wrong. And if something is wrong, then it can still be fixed.
A month later, the elevator ride feels longer than usual. Or maybe shorter. He doesn’t check. He doesn’t need to.
His body already knows where it’s going. The doors slide open. The hallway unfolds in front of him exactly as it always has, unchanged, untouched, obedient to time in a way you weren’t.
And then, your door. Open. The sight hits him like a quiet release. Something coiled for weeks finally loosens in his chest. Of course. You tried to leave. You panicked. It didn’t work. It never does.
He slows his steps, not out of hesitation, but restraint. This matters. This is where everything corrects itself, where you step back into the version of your life that makes sense. Where you come back to him.
He’s close enough now to hear movement inside. Soft. Clumsy. Cardboard brushing against walls. A breathless little laugh. His pulse quickens with something almost like hope.
You’re there. You’re actually—
A figure appears in the doorway. He stops. It’s subtle. Almost nothing. Just a fraction too still, a fraction too quiet, like something inside him misfires and corrects itself in the same breath.
The girl shifts the box in her arms, pushing the door wider with her hip. Hair slipping forward as she exhales a small laugh, distracted, unguarded.
Not you. The thought arrives cleanly. For a second, something hollows out. A space where expectation had been sitting too long without permission. Then it closes. Because it’s not you. But it is something. Something present. Something usable.
He watches her struggle with the box, the way her fingers slip, the way she adjusts her weight like she hasn’t learned the rhythm of the place yet. Soft. Unfinished. Easy to interrupt without resistance. Perfect.
His steps resume, smooth and natural. He reaches her before she can adjust her grip, steadying the box with both hands. Their fingers brush. She startles, then looks up at him with immediate relief, her expression opening without resistance.
“Thank you,” she says with a smile, trusting him instantly in that effortless, careless way people do when they think they’re safe.
He nods, calm and reassuring. “Of course.”
Inside his head, the new plan is already forming.
“You’ll want to keep the windows closed at night,” he tells her gently, voice low and helpful.
She blinks, adjusting the box against her hip. “Why?”
He looks at her then. At the imbalance. The distraction. The small, correctable things already revealing themselves without her knowing. This time, when he smiles, there’s no flicker of anything unfinished. Only intent.
“The draft carries everything,” he says softly, like it’s a simple fact, like it’s for her own good.
She laughs a little, thinking he’s being friendly. Sweet, even. For a moment, she looks at him like she’s grateful. Like she’s safe. Like she has any idea what just stepped into her life. He’s seen that look before. He knows exactly what comes after it. The questions. The habits. The small, necessary changes. The way they settle. The way they stop fighting it. They always do.
He smiles wider. He adjusts his grip on the box, steadying it for her before she even realizes it’s slipping. A small correction. The first of many.
This time, he’ll take his time with it. This time, he’ll get it right.
I would love to read more enemies to lovers with yunho, a lot of his stories that I have seen are mostly friends to lovers
I want some disliking or bad first impression from both parts angst and then a pretty happy ending lol
So if this ever inspires you to start something I would love to read it
Also like, grown up stuff (I’m not into academic rivals thing for example lol but that’s just me)
omg thank you for this ask 🫶 i always love writing yunho, but he intimidates me a little, so i hope i did a good job here. also, sorry if it’s not super sweet fluff, but yunho would definitely be like this. it still has a happy ending!! i just… when i write angst, i get carried away, and since i’m stubborn and don’t forgive easily, my brain had zero space for fluff (also lowkey i love it when my men beg). but yes, enemies-to-lovers, angst turned happiness... all of that is here, so i hope you enjoy it!!
Blame Game - Yunho x Reader
You thought coming home would be simple until Hongjoong drags you out for drinks and introduces you to Yunho, and suddenly nothing feels steady anymore.
Pairing: Yunho x fem!Reader
Tropes: Enemies to Lovers. “Bad Decisions, Good Intentions” Slow Burn. Morally Grey!Yunho. Emotional Armor. Flawed, Selfish Characters. Push/Pull Dynamics.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort.
Warnings: angst, harsh first impressions, verbal friction, snark, teasing, stubbornness, pride conflicts, emotional tension, anxiety, overthinking, frustration, irritation, temptation, desire, mild manipulation, third-party setups, moral grey areas, character flaws, romantic and sexual tension, emotional vulnerability, intimate/close physical contact, personal space tension, angst-to-happy-end progression
Word Count: 6.4k
masterlist
Coming back feels stranger than you expected. Not wrong. Just slightly off. Like the city learned a new rhythm while you were gone, and your steps don’t land exactly where they used to.
The streets are familiar enough to be comforting, but there’s a thin layer of distance over everything. Storefronts you recognize but don’t remember entering. Corners you could navigate blindfolded, yet still double-check.
You’re not sad about it. That surprises you a little.
It’s more awareness than ache. Nostalgia without the dramatics. You notice things instead of mourning them. The way the air smells different at night. How the noise carries. How you feel present, but not anchored yet.
Hongjoong texts you two days after you arrive.
Drinks tonight? No pressure. Just catching up.
You stare at the message longer than necessary, thumb hovering.
You could say no. You’re still settling. Still unpacking more than boxes. But the invitation doesn’t tug at you, doesn’t ask for anything. It’s an open door, not a hand pulling you through.
You type back yes before you can overthink it.
The bar is warm in that lived-in way. Low lights. Scuffed tables. The kind of place that holds onto laughter even after people leave.
Familiar faces greet you easily, like you never really disappeared, just stepped out of frame for a while.
You slip into conversation without effort. You’re open. Curious. Letting yourself enjoy being here without scanning for exits. You listen more than you talk at first, clocking how people have changed. Who leans closer now. Who talks with their hands. Who still interrupts when they get excited.
And then you notice him.
Not because he’s introduced. Not because someone points him out. You notice him the way you notice a shift in temperature.
A laugh cuts through the hum of the room. Loud, unrestrained, contagious.
Heads turn without irritation. Chairs angle subtly in his direction. He leans over the table when he talks, all long limbs and easy confidence, dark hair falling into his eyes when he tips his head back to laugh, a smile that shows too much teeth and somehow gets away with it.
He’s not performing. That’s the thing. There’s no sense of effort, no awareness of being watched. He takes up space because space seems to offer itself to him.
People gravitate. You clock it instantly.
It’s mildly annoying.
You watch him a moment longer than necessary, curiosity sharpening into interest despite yourself. The way his shoulders shake when he laughs. The warmth in his expression when he listens. How his hands move, relaxed and sure, like they know exactly where they belong.
He reaches across the table without hesitation, stealing peanuts, nudging someone’s leg with his knee. Comfortable. Familiar. Liked.
He’s the kind of person rooms rearrange themselves for, you think, and file it away without judgment.
You absolutely do not linger on the fact that you get it.
Then Hongjoong says your name.
He pulls you into the circle with a hand at your shoulder, smiling, proud to have you there.
“You remember Yunho, right?”
You do.
He’s taller up close. Broader than you expected. All clean lines and quiet confidence, the kind that doesn’t ask for attention and gets it anyway. Intimidating in that effortless way that makes your pulse kick before you can tell it to relax.
Your smile comes easy. Wide. A little nervous. A little bright.
Yunho looks up.
The shift is immediate.
It’s subtle enough that someone else might miss it. Like a door being closed without a sound. His smile doesn’t vanish, it just cools. The warmth drains out of it, leaving something polite and distant behind. His posture stays open, but his eyes go unreadable.
“Hey,” he says, polite and flat in a way that feels practiced.
He stands and offers his hand.
You take it.
The handshake is textbook. Firm. Brief. No linger, no squeeze. Skin meeting skin and nothing else. An exchange so correct it might as well have come with a receipt.
You clock all of it in a second.
It doesn’t hurt. Not yet.
Confusion comes first. Clean, almost clinical. Your brain scrambles for explanations. Bad timing. Bad day. Maybe he’s just not great with people he doesn’t know.
You don’t take it personally. Not right away.
“Nice to meet you,” you say, still smiling, instinctively matching his tone.
“Yeah. You too.”
And that’s it.
Hongjoong moves on. Someone cracks a joke. Conversation swells again, filling the space between you like it always does. You slide back into the rhythm, laughing when appropriate, answering questions, letting yourself exist without forcing anything.
You don’t seek Yunho out. But you watch.
You notice how his laugh comes back full-force when Mingi says something ridiculous. How he leans in close to Hongjoong, listening intently. How he thanks the bartender with a grin, how he shifts to make room for someone squeezing past.
He’s generous with everyone. Except you.
It’s not overt. That’s what makes it strange. He doesn’t glare. Doesn’t ignore you outright. When you speak to the group, he listens. When you make a joke, he smiles.
Just never at you.
His eyes slide past. His attention redirects. Conversations curve around you instead of pulling you in.
You clock it all, neat and methodical.
Still, you don’t chase it. You don’t adjust your behavior or reach for his attention. If anything, you soften a little, refusing to harden around something you don’t yet understand.
You assume there’s a reason that has nothing to do with you.
But as the night stretches on, laughter layering over music and clinking glasses, one thing becomes clear.
Whatever it is, it’s intentional. And you notice everything.
Time doesn’t fix it. That’s what surprises you most.
Weeks turn into months, and instead of distance smoothing the edges, proximity sharpens them. You keep crossing paths with the same group, the same easy invitations looping back to you. Birthdays. Casual dinners. Game nights that stretch too late. Nothing forced. Nothing staged.
And Yunho is always there. Always loud. Always magnetic. Always at the center. And always different with you.
It becomes predictable in the worst way.
You’ll arrive a few minutes late, shrugging out of your jacket, and his laugh is already filling the room. You feel the familiar flicker as you clock where he is, how he’s positioned, who he’s leaning toward.
He notices you too. You know he does. But he never gives you the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
You try, at first.
Nothing big. Nothing that could be misconstrued.
You comment on the music playing, something light. He answers dryly, two words, with no invitation to continue.
You toss out a joke, dry and well-timed. Mingi snorts. Hongjoong laughs. Yunho plays with the table’s edge, face flat, eyes flicking away before they ever land on you.
You ask him a genuine question once. About work. About something he mentioned earlier.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s fine.”
That’s it.
No follow-up. No return question. The conversational door shuts firmly, like it was designed to.
You tell yourself not to read into it.
You pride yourself on reading people. It’s one of the things you trust about yourself. You notice tone shifts. Microexpressions. The way someone’s shoulders tense or relax. You’ve been warm. Open. Kind. You haven’t pushed. You haven’t demanded space that wasn’t offered.
You run through every interaction in your head, searching for the misstep.
There isn’t one.
And that’s what starts to get under your skin.
Because confusion is manageable. Mystery can be interesting. But impotence? Not knowing what to fix, or if there’s anything to fix at all?
That gnaws. It settles in your chest and refuses to leave.
The public settings make it worse.
At dinners, Yunho always ends up sitting across from you. Close enough that you can see the way his fingers drum against the table when he’s thinking. Close enough to catch the flicker of expressions that never quite make it to you.
He talks animatedly to everyone else. Leans in. Teases. Argues playfully.
With you, his gaze skims past like you’re furniture.
Even strangers get more warmth than you do. He lets it show, just enough, like you’re supposed to notice.
At game nights, the room fills with noise and competition. Yunho is loud, encouraging, a menace when he’s winning. He cheers for Mingi, groans dramatically when Hongjoong pulls ahead.
You win a round.
The room reacts. Someone whoops. Someone groans.
Yunho goes quiet.
Not sulking. Not angry. Just bored. He claps once, slow and polite, then turns his attention back to the board like nothing happened.
It’s subtle enough that no one else comments on it.
You notice anyway.
There are jokes that start in his direction and end just short of you. Laughter that swells and curves around, leaving a clean pocket of space where you stand. Not exclusion exactly. More like omission.
It doesn’t hurt all at once. It accumulates.
You start bracing without realizing it. You enter rooms already aware of where he is, already preparing for the familiar coolness. You stop trying to bridge the gap because every attempt feels like tossing a coin into a well and never hearing it land.
And the worst part?
You still find him fascinating.
You hate that you notice when his laugh changes. When he’s tired. When something clearly irritates him and he swallows it down. You hate that your attention keeps orbiting someone who refuses to meet it.
Something clicks the moment you stop trying.
It’s subtle. Internal. Like setting down a weight you’ve carried too long.
You don’t announce it. You just stop offering him a soft place to land. No gentle questions. No easy smiles angled his way. You don’t avoid him. You simply stop adjusting. Stop rounding your edges so he doesn’t cut himself.
You’re still yourself. Observant. Quick. Just sharper now.
You start meeting his distance with your own version of it. That’s when it turns. The banter sharpens into something charged. Something with intention behind it.
The next time you see him is in a gathering at Hongjoong’s place. Too many people for the size of the living room, conversations layered over one another, music low enough to pretend it’s background.
You’re on the arm of the couch, drink sweating into your palm. Yunho is across the room, leaning against the dining table. Close enough to hear. Far enough to ignore.
You manage it. For a while.
Someone is talking about your time away. A harmless story, told by someone else. Laughter. A few nods.
“It must’ve been nice,” Hongjoong says, casual. “Starting over.”
You shrug. “It was… clarifying.”
And of course, Yunho can’t resist butting in.
“Some people mistake distance for growth,” he says, eyes still on his glass. “But it’s just avoidance with better scenery.”
The room doesn’t go silent. It just thins. Like everyone leaned back at once.
You don’t look at him right away. You take a sip. Let it sit.
Then, evenly, “That’s an interesting take.”
Yunho glances up, finally meeting your eyes. Calm. Watchful.
“I’m just saying,” he adds, mild, “not everyone comes back improved.”
You smile. Not warm. Not sharp. Controlled.
“No,” you agree. “Some people stay exactly the same and call it stability.”
A flicker. Barely there.
Yunho’s jaw tightens for half a second before he smooths it out, shoulders easing like he’s practiced the motion.
“Didn’t realize you felt that strongly,” he says. “You didn’t strike me as sentimental.”
“I’m not,” you reply. “I just notice patterns.”
He straightens, turning more fully toward you now. The air between you shifts.
“Patterns can be misleading,” he says. “Especially when you’re only seeing part of the picture.”
You tilt your head.
“True. Though it helps when someone keeps repeating the same behavior.”
A pause.
You see it then. The smallest crack. His eyes drop, just for a second. His mouth presses thin. He exhales through his nose like he’s steadying something.
Then the mask slides back on.
“You seem very invested in what I think,” he says lightly.
You don’t hesitate.
“I’m not. I just don’t like being talked around.”
Mingi shifts uncomfortably. Someone laughs too loudly at a joke that wasn’t told.
Yunho’s smile returns, sharper now. Defensive.
“Maybe you’re projecting.”
That lands closer than he means.
Your voice stays level.
“Maybe you should stop aiming if you don’t like where it hits.”
That one does it.
He flinches. Not dramatically. A blink too slow. A breath that catches before he schools it. His hand tightens around his glass, knuckles whitening before he loosens his grip.
When he looks at you again, he’s composed. Polite. Distant.
“Excuse me,” he says, and steps away, disappearing into the kitchen like nothing happened.
The room exhales.
Someone starts a new conversation. Someone else turns the music up a notch.
You stay where you are. Heart steady. Spine straight.
It feels like a win. Small, but earned.
You give it a minute before you move.
Long enough for the room to reset. Long enough for the tension to sink back into music and glass clinks and overlapping voices, like it never existed.
Then you stand.
“Drinks,” you say, already collecting empty glasses. Casual. Easy. Controlled.
You head for the kitchen.
You don’t see him at first. You hear him. A voice angled low, careful. That’s what makes you stop.
Yunho is by the window, half-hidden by the doorway, leaning against the sill like he belongs there. His posture is loose in a way you’ve never seen directed at you. His attention is fixed on someone you don’t recognize.
A girl stands in front of him, shoulders slightly drawn in, fingers twisted into the cuff of her sleeve like she’s not sure where to put herself.
And he is different.
Not guarded. Not sharp.
He leans closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice. He waits when she falters. Lets the silence breathe instead of cutting through it.
She says something small. Something that sounds like an apology.
Yunho smiles.
Not the polite one. Not the defensive one. The real one.
“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”
The words hit you like a slap.
Harder than anything he’s said to you all night. Harder than the cold looks, the clipped replies, the careful distance.
He hands her a drink, deliberate, careful not to touch. His focus stays on her, steady and warm, like she’s the only person in the room.
So he knows how to be careful.
You don’t wait to see what else he offers her.
You turn away, glasses still empty, jaw tight, chest burning, and head back to the living room.
Mingi clocks it instantly. His expression shifts, softer, concerned. He pats the space beside him without a word. No questions. No commentary. Just an opening.
You sit. He slips an arm around your shoulders, solid and grounding. Not possessive. Not flirty. Just there.
The room keeps going. Laughter swells. Someone raises their voice over the music. Life moves on like nothing cracked open in the kitchen.
But you don’t let it go.
Because it is not sadness sitting in your chest. It is heat.
Anger, sharp and bright and deeply unamused.
What is his fucking problem?
You don’t need to be adored. You don’t need to be special. That was never the point. But this? This deliberate softness for everyone else, this pointed distance only for you?
That makes your blood boil.
You’ve been trying. Being polite. Being warm. Giving him patience he never earned. Offering kindness by default, because that’s who you are.
And he treats you like you’re not even there.
Like you’re something to be managed. Avoided. Cut around.
It’s intentional. You know it is. And that’s what makes it unbearable.
You don’t deserve this. You shouldn’t have to shrink or edit yourself just to exist in the same room as him.
And the worst part is how much it gets under your skin. How furious you are that it does.
Because it shouldn’t matter.
And yet here you are, jaw clenched, pulse sharp, already bracing for the next time he decides to remind you exactly where he’s decided you don’t belong.
Your fights are never loud. They’re precise. Measured. Almost intimate in how contained they are.
Yunho doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lose control. His words are carefully chosen, his tone calm even when it’s sharp. Occasionally, he lets something a little mean slip through. Not enough to call him out. Just enough to sting.
You meet him there every time.
You keep your tone light. Your smile easy. And when you cut, you cut clean. You don’t insult him. You just refuse to bend around his presence anymore.
Neither of you is trying to win.
You’re not proving anything. You’re not seeking validation. You’re just reacting instinctively to how he makes your skin prickle. Like standing too close to a live wire.
And choosing, every time, not to step away.
Rooms feel different when you’re together now. Taut. Charged. Conversations stumble when the two of you start in on each other. Mingi and Hongjoong share looks across tables, across rooms, the same unspoken thought passing between them: This is bad.
Because it’s no longer indifference. It’s attention sharpened into focus.
And underneath it all, the questions keep circling you, relentless.
You don’t know why he disliked you from the start.
You don’t know why you catch him watching you when he thinks you’re distracted. Why his gaze lingers when you laugh with someone else. Why he always seems to end up in the same spaces you occupy, like gravity is a shared inconvenience.
You hate that you notice these things. Hate that even now, even irritated, even bristling, part of you stays alert around him. Not drawn. Just aware.
You hate that part of you prefers this to being ignored.
So you stop.
Not dramatically. Not with a declaration or a final sharp exchange. You simply withdraw.
No more sparring. No more precision cuts wrapped in politeness. No more meeting him where he stands.
You decide he doesn’t exist.
When he speaks, you don’t turn. When he makes a pointed remark meant just for you, you let out a soft, dismissive laugh, like it barely registered, and continue the conversation you were already having. If he says your name, you act like it belongs to someone else.
No hellos. No goodbyes. No fights.
Nothing.
You omit him.
It’s quieter this way. Cleaner. And if there’s a flicker of satisfaction in watching his carefully maintained composure falter when he realizes you’re no longer engaging, you ignore that too.
You tell yourself it’s not punishment. It’s self-preservation.
But somewhere between the sarcastic laughs and the deliberate turns of your back, you feel it shift. The air changes again. Not charged this time.
Empty.
And whatever this is now, whatever you’ve just taken away from him, you can tell by the way his attention sharpens, by the way his restraint starts to look strained, that it won’t last.
The night everything snaps feels ordinary right up until it isn’t.
It’s a bar this time. Loud enough that conversations blur together. Dim enough that everyone looks a little kinder around the edges. A celebration for something vague. A birthday. A promotion. An excuse.
You’re two drinks in. Warm, loose, unguarded in a way you haven’t been around this group in a while.
You’re laughing with someone else, easy and unselfconscious. Your shoulders stay loose, your head tipping back without you thinking about how it looks.
That’s when you spot him moving in your periphery.
Yunho, angling closer.
You don’t tense. You don’t brace. You just think, of course. A flicker of irritation sparks and settles. He definitely has a talent for finding the exact moment you forget he exists and deciding that won’t do.
Does he really hate you that much? That he can’t let you have five uninterrupted minutes? For someone who acts like you’re an inconvenience, he tracks you with impressive dedication.
You don’t look at him once.
He notices.
He drifts closer under the pretense of space tightening, stands just near enough to be heard without interrupting. Waits for a lull that never quite comes.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
It’s not soft. Not sharp either. Just dry. Controlled. Like he’s already braced for the answer.
You don’t turn.
You smile at something the person beside you says, laugh again, and keep the conversation rolling as if no one spoke at all.
For a second, Yunho stands there. Still. Watching you like he’s recalibrating.
Then he exhales through his nose and steps away.
You catch the movement in your periphery. See him fold into another cluster near the bar. He says something low. Someone laughs. He lifts his glass, nods along. Looks fine. Looks normal.
You let yourself ease back into the moment.
A few minutes later, the space behind you goes wrong.
Heat presses into your back. Too close. Broad and unmistakable. A presence settles there like it’s always had permission, warmth bleeding through the thin space between bodies. The scent of him reaches you and your stomach tightens, recognition landing before logic ever gets a say.
You stiffen.
The girl you’re talking to trails off mid-sentence. Her smile falters, eyes flicking past you, then back. Concern settles in, quiet but unmistakable. She knows this dynamic. Everyone does.
You still don’t turn.
You could make a scene. You could step away. You do neither.
His hand closes around your arm. Too firm.
Not violent. Not cruel. Just decisive. A grip that doesn’t ask. A pull that assumes compliance.
The conversation around you fractures. Someone shifts uncomfortably. Someone looks down at their drink. No one intervenes. The room decides, collectively, to pretend this isn’t happening.
He pulls.
You stumble, half a step off balance as he steers you out of the noise and into the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms. The music dulls behind you. Your arm throbs where his fingers dug in, not badly, but enough to register. Enough to matter.
“Don’t touch me like that.”
Your voice cuts clean through the moment. Sharp. Immediate. No hesitation.
Yunho freezes. Like the words physically stop him.
His hand opens instantly. Drops away like it burned him. He steps back, palms lifting slightly, eyes wide with something that isn’t anger.
It’s realization.
Horror, almost.
“I—” He swallows. Shakes his head once, like he’s trying to reset his own body. “I’m sorry.”
The silence stretches. Heavy. Pressurized.
You steady yourself, rolling your shoulder once, grounding back into your body. Your heart is pounding now, adrenaline rushing in late.
You look at him.
This is the first time you see it. The crack in the control. The way his chest rises too fast. The way he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore, gaze dropping to the floor, then flicking back up, afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away too long.
He doesn’t reach for you again. Doesn’t crowd your space. He stays exactly where he is, like he’s drawn an invisible line on the floor and forbids himself to cross it. Like stepping closer would be a failure he doesn’t trust himself to survive.
“I shouldn’t have,” he says, quieter now. Stripped of bite. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The words sit between you, fragile.
You believe him.
That’s the problem.
Because this isn’t arrogance or entitlement. This is something messier. Something that slipped for half a second and scared him enough that he’s been paying for it ever since.
The hallway feels too narrow all at once. Too close. The walls seem nearer than they were a moment ago. Your arm still aches faintly, a reminder you can’t quite shake.
You don’t soften. Not yet.
“Are you talking about my arm or my sanity?” you say calmly. Not accusing. Just factual. “Because you've been an asshole for months.”
He flinches. Not visibly. Something in his chest pulls sharp and quick, like your words landed exactly where he keeps things locked away.
His jaw locks. His breath stutters, then evens out again.
For the first time since you met him, Yunho looks exposed.
And you realize this wasn’t about pulling you away. It was about not being able to stand where you were.
The silence presses in, thick and heavy, not dramatic but insistent. It crowds your ribs. Makes every inhale feel calculated.
Yunho drags a hand through his hair, fingers catching, tugging a little too hard. He turns away from you, pacing once, then back again like the hallway is a cage he suddenly can’t stand.
His voice comes out wrong.
Flat. Defensive.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
You don’t interrupt him. You stay where you are, close enough to feel the heat of him, far enough that neither of you can reach without meaning to.
“I didn’t ask them to choose you.” His jaw tightens. “Didn’t ask them to decide I needed… this.”
He laughs once, sharp and humorless, the sound bouncing off the walls and coming back too loud.
“And I didn’t ask to want you.”
That one lands crooked in the air between you.
You frown, confused. “Them…?”
“Yes, them,” he says sharply, voice tight. “Hongjoong and Mingi tried to set us up,” he admits, eyes fixed on the wall instead of you. “Before you even got back. They thought I needed… someone. Thought I was stuck. Or lonely. Or whatever version of me they decided needed fixing.”
You blink. Processing. The connection isn’t immediate. You feel a tickle of confusion, like a puzzle missing a piece.
“So you decided to prove them wrong by being cruel,” you say, not biting. Just connecting the dots.
His mouth twists.
“I felt cornered,” he says. “Managed. Like I was a project.”
He laughs again, softer this time. Self-aware. Bitter.
“So I decided I wouldn’t play along. I chose distance instead of being honest. Chose being cold instead of admitting I was scared.”
He finally looks at you.
“I didn’t want to meet you,” he says. “I resented the idea of you. And then you showed up and—” He cuts himself off, swallows. “You were exactly what I didn’t want to want.”
The truth of it sits heavy between you. Rewrites every moment. Every sharp word. Every withheld glance. Every moment you felt him and didn’t understand why.
Something in your chest loosens. Not relief. Clarity.
It was never you.
The anger doesn’t disappear. It sharpens. Refocuses.
You step closer. Just one step. Enough that he has to look at you.
Your chest tightens, but your voice stays even. “Then why did you keep punishing me for it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Keeps talking instead, like stopping would let everything collapse.
“You make me lose control,” he says, eyes snapping to yours. Too intense. Too honest. The space between you feels suddenly fragile. “You make me feel seen when I don’t want to be. When I’m not ready to be.” His chest rises hard. He looks furious with himself. “And I hated you for that.”
“You could’ve just said that instead of freezing me out,” you reply quietly.
His chest rises hard again. He looks furious with himself. The words echo. Sit there. Ugly and bare.
Then the fight drains out of him.
His shoulders slump. His gaze drops to the floor. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, worn thin around the edges.
“I hate that I treated you the way I did.”
Something in him gives.
He exhales long and shaky, like his lungs finally remembered how to empty.
“You made it very clear how you felt about me,” you say, voice steady. “You spent months making me feel this way, and now you don’t get to unload it all just because you finally ran out of ways to avoid it. The damage is done, and you shouldn’t be surprised it stuck.”
That’s what breaks him.
His face folds just slightly, like the words found the exact place he’d been avoiding.
“You’re right,” he says immediately. No defense. No justification. “You’re right. I was wrong.”
He presses his lips together, nodding to himself, like he needs to hear it out loud.
“I don’t lose focus,” he says, almost to the wall. “I don’t spiral. I don’t let people get under my skin.”
His eyes flick back to you.
“Except you,” he says, breath catching. “And that’s the problem. That’s always been the problem.”
A short, bitter laugh slips out of him before he can stop it. His hands clench at his sides. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t step closer. The restraint is visible now. Intentional.
“I couldn’t stand how close you got without even trying. How I stopped thinking straight when you were in the room. I’d tell myself it was nothing, that I had control, and then you’d look at me and I’d lose it. Every time.”
He swallows.
“So I kept you at a distance. On purpose. I told myself if I never crossed the line, if I never let it start, it would end. That you’d get tired of me. That you’d hate me. And I could survive that.”
He swallows.
“And the fights…” he exhales through his nose, like he hates admitting it. “I hated them. Every one. But they gave me an excuse. A way to talk to you without admitting why I wanted to. I could argue. Push back. Pretend it was irritation instead of interest.”
His jaw tightens.
“It was easier to be sharp than honest. Easier to clash with you than risk wanting you out loud.”
His voice dips. Not broken. Just strained.
“I didn’t want to admit Mingi and Hongjoong were right. That they saw it before I did. That they knew I’d fall and I wouldn’t be able to stop it. Because admitting that meant admitting I wanted you. And that scared me more than being the bad guy.”
He steps closer without realizing it, then catches himself and stills.
“I know this is selfish,” he says, faster now. “I know I don’t get to say this after everything I did. But I panicked. I chose distance because it felt safer than wanting you this much. And now I’m standing here realizing I might’ve already lost you, and I don’t know how to live with that.”
His eyes don’t leave yours.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just need you to know I didn’t push you away because you didn’t matter. I did it because you mattered too much.”
He doesn’t look away when he keeps going. That feels important.
“You’re smart,” he says quietly, like it costs him something. “Not loud about it. You clock everything. You think three steps ahead and still pretend you’re just reacting. That drove me insane.”
A breath. Another.
“You’re funny in that dry way that sneaks up on people. You never try to be the center of the room, and somehow you still end up shaping it. You’re good at things without making a show of it. Games. Conversations. Reading people.”
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. It doesn’t last.
“And you’re kind,” he adds. “Not performative. Not strategic. You kept trying with me even when I gave you nothing back. You were polite. Patient. You gave me grace I didn’t earn.”
His jaw tightens.
“Every time you did that, it made it worse. Because it meant I couldn’t tell myself you were shallow, or careless, or just passing time. You were choosing to be decent. Choosing to keep the door open.”
He swallows hard.
“So I kept slamming it in your face. Because if I let myself want you, really want you, I wouldn’t be able to stop. I knew that. I knew exactly how badly I’d lose control if I stood too close, if I let it turn into something real.”
His voice drops.
“And then you stopped.”
That’s where it cracks.
“You didn’t get colder. You didn’t get cruel. You just withdrew. You stopped trying. You stopped looking at me like I was worth the effort.”
His voice drops.
“Even the fights stopped.”
A beat.
“At least when we fought,” he admits, barely above a breath, “you were looking at me.”
The breath he lets out sounds wrecked.
“That felt like running full-speed into a wall I’d built myself. I thought distance would protect me. I didn’t realize I was the one who wouldn’t survive it.”
He looks at you then.
“I know I don’t deserve anything from you. I know this might be too late. But I need you to understand that none of this was because you weren’t enough.”
A pause. Bare. Unshielded.
“It was because you were everything I didn’t trust myself to handle.”
Then, softer still. Almost a surrender.
“If you walk away,” he says, “I’ll understand.”
The hallway hums. Music from the bar seeps through the walls, muffled and distant. Life going on inches away, completely unaware of how tight the air is here.
For the first time, Yunho isn’t sharp or distant or controlled.
He’s just a man standing in front of you, stripped down to the truth, waiting to see what you’ll do with it.
You tilt your head, letting a slow smile tug at the corner of your lips.
“Funny,” you murmur, lips twitching. “You made it impossible to like you… and I did anyway.”
He freezes. That one line lands like gravity. He sees it. Feels it. Realizes you’re not backing away. You’re leaning in, just not giving him the victory yet.
He doesn’t mean to move.
His body betrays him before his pride can catch up, a half-step forward like gravity shifted and pulled him in. His hands come up without permission, cupping your face with a fragility that makes your breath hitch.
They’re warm. Broad. Careful in a way that surprises you. Like he’s afraid even pressure might be too much. His thumbs settle just beneath your cheekbones, not urging, not claiming. Just there. Steady. Devout.
Too close. Too intimate. Too fast.
Your breath stutters anyway.
He leans in until your noses brush, foreheads nearly touching. You can feel it now. The want. Raw and unguarded. His breath trembles when it hits your mouth.
For a split second, you think he might kiss you.
For a split second, you almost let him.
Then you step back.
Not abrupt. Not cold. Just grounded.
The loss of you hits him immediately. His hands drop, empty, fingers curling like they don’t know what to do without you there.
He looks wrecked in a way you didn’t think was possible. Like he misread the moment and is already apologizing with his eyes.
“You’re not there yet,” you say gently.
It’s not a punishment. It’s a fact.
He swallows hard, nodding once. Accepting it without protest. His eyes shine but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t hide.
“Okay,” he breathes. Rough. Earnest. “Okay. Sorry.”
The breath he lets out next is sharp, uneven. Something finally gives in him, the last of that careful control slipping loose.
“Let me take you out,” he says quickly, like if he doesn’t say it now he’ll lose the nerve. “One real date. No group. No pressure. Just me doing this right.”
He pauses. Gathers himself.
“I’ll show up,” he adds. “I’ll listen. I’ll be better than I was.”
There’s no charm in it. No practiced confidence.
Just want.
“Please,” he says, quieter now. Open. Vulnerable in a way that presses right under your ribs. “Let me try.”
You study him for a moment.
The man who chose distance over honesty. Who learned the hard way that control is a lonely thing. Who is standing here now, asking instead of taking.
Your mouth curves, slow and knowing.
“Okay. But you’re going to have to work for it,” you say lightly, like it doesn’t matter, like it means nothing.
His nod is immediate.
No hesitation. No negotiation.
“I will,” he says. “Whatever it takes.”
For a second, you just look at him.
You hold his gaze a second longer, then reach up and smooth a single strand of hair from his forehead. A small touch. Intentional. The kind that lands deeper than anything reckless ever could.
He stills completely, breath catching like he doesn’t trust himself not to lean into it.
“Good,” you say simply.
Nothing else is needed.
You tilt your head toward the bar, a quiet question. Want to go back?
He nods, just as quiet, and steps aside, palm open in a subtle gesture. After you.
You walk first.
You don’t touch again.
But it’s different now.
You move in sync, close enough to feel him beside you like a low current under the skin. The tension hasn’t disappeared. It’s just changed shape.
No longer sharp. No longer bruising.
Electric.
At the bar, Yunho signals the bartender without looking away from you.
“I’m fine,” you say automatically, already reaching for your wallet.
He hesitates. Then gives you a look. Soft. Almost helpless.
Puppy eyes. Actual, sincere puppy eyes. Ridiculous in a way that should annoy you.
It doesn’t.
You exhale through your nose, rolling your eyes. “Of course you’d do that.”
He tilts his head, a little guilty, a little desperate.
You shake your head, lips pressing together, caught between fond and exasperated.
“I don’t even know why I let you get away with this.”
And still, you let him.
The drink slides toward you. You take it. Your fingers brush his when he nudges it closer, just barely.
He flinches like the contact meant something. It did.
You feel his attention as you take the first sip. Not watching your mouth. Watching you. Like he’s relearning how to be near you without armor. Like proximity is a privilege he doesn’t want to misuse.
When you glance back, your smile lingers half a second longer than it used to.
His ears go pink.
Across the table, Mingi pauses mid-sentence. Hongjoong follows his line of sight, then looks between the two of you.
They exchange a look.
Not smug. Not relieved.
Just deeply confused.
What the hell happened in that bathroom?
Yunho doesn’t notice.
He’s too busy standing beside you, shoulders loose for the first time all night. Like now that he’s been given permission to stay, he refuses to waste a second of it.
the best birthday party you've ever been to, even if you still don't know the birthday girl
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au series, part 12/?
🎤︎︎ 18+ | 8.6k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, yunho is an angel sent from heaven above, Park Jihyo | smut minors dni, closet lesbo sex, dirty talk, oral sex f!receiving, i dont think i have to tag anything else. i literally have been writing since 11 am and i want everyone to pick up on a Certain Thing so bad
“I’M NERVOUS. WHY ARE YOU not nervous? What if they start talking about Unscripted? How do I act normal? How do you act normal?”
You sigh, closing the car door behind you, thanking the driver one last time. Yunjin’s asked about thirty different versions of the same questions all the way to the Penny, and you don’t have any more answers for her.
“If you can’t answer, then don’t say anything.”
“But Sannie knows I’ve been listening,” she whines, head dipping backward as she follows behind you with a steady stride. “He’s gonna want to know my thoughts and feelings.”
“Then keep it vague,” you shrug. “Say what you think without saying too much. Just enough to keep him entertained.”
She smacks her teeth, heels scruffing against the pavement. “You’re a good liar, not me. Clearly.” You whip your head around to narrow your eyes at her. Shades covering her eyes, she grins, “Am I wrong?”
“No,” you huff. “But you’re either mad at me or you’re not. Don’t drag it out.”
She whines again, the vodka on her tongue already speaking for her, “I’m not mad at you, I’m sorry. It’s just fucking crazy and I’m scared I’m gonna slip up.”
You come to a full stop at the entrance, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re not gonna slip up because you’re my best friend and you love me and you’d hate yourself if you ruined my life.”
She nods. “Yes. Yes to all of that. You’re right.”
“Okay,” you nod, assured, then rip the front door to the Penny open.
Immediately you’re hit with the scents of grease and liquor, bright music pounding through the dimly lit bar. The small tables were put away again, replaced with taller ones, they premeditated the standing room needed tonight. And thank fucking god, because once again, the Lucky Penny is packed.
There’s streamers, balloons, a banner for whoever the fuck’s birthday it is. You think Jihyo invited all of you to get bodies into the bar, even if the Penny is usually packed on weekends anyway, they rarely have any issues getting people inside.
You and Yunjin decided to match again, different versions of the same outfit, long pants on your legs, heels on your feet. You have on a white, high-necked top while hers is low-cut and black, your jewelry even complimented one another. Your shades are on your head instead of over your eyes, she insists that you get at least one picture with them on.
You spent the second half of yesterday together, once again discussing the technicalities of Unscripted, how you’ve managed to keep a double life for so long. You answered all her questions, broke down stories, told her every little secret she wanted to know. By the end of it she came to the conclusion that even though you kept so much from her, it’s kinda cool that it’s you. She lives with a micro-celebrity. Her words.
It’s strange, liberating, in a way, that someone knows. Terrifying, but freeing that there’s a person who knows all of you, the secrets, the voice, the humor, all of it. Thank god it’s Yunjin.
“I see them,” Yunjin says from behind you, pointing towards the back of the bar. You follow her line of sight, spotting San, Yunho, Mingi, Jongho. “Should we get a drink first?”
“Should we get a drink and find the girls first?” you counter. “We’re here for someone’s birthday. Whose is it again?”
“Mina,” Yunjin reminds you. “Jihyo’s friend, I think they’ve been friends for a long time, I don't know. Let’s go to the bar.”
You follow behind her after she skirts in front of you, leaving her wrist for you to grab as she pulls you into the mob of people. You should be used to it by now, swimming through the horde of people gathered in layers around the bar, but getting pushed and shoved while you’re also pushing and shoving just to get a fucking drink is too aggravating to be considered regular.
Yunjin spots Sana and Momo before you do, tugging you forward until you’re in their line of sight, screams and squeals from the two making the crowd part to let you through. Your greetings were the same, shouted in squeals and pitched noises, side hugs and cheek-kisses like you haven’t seen each other in a month.
“You made it!” Sana beams, chocolate brown hair similar to Jen’s down, waved like she went to a salon for a fresh blowout. “Ji will be so happy, she put her whole soul into planning this.”
Your chest warms at another mention of her name, remembering your conversation with Yunho.
“Beer is free tonight,” Momo explains, her grin wide and excited. “We bought two kegs from the Penny. Miller, unforch.” You can’t help your smile, fully amused. She brings her gaze to you, “We should have gotten barrels of vodka and vermouth for you, Martini Girl.”
You shake your head, waving a hand, “I can pretend to be a frat boy for the night, don’t worry about me.”
“Just tell the bartender you’re here for Mina’s party and they’ll hook you up,” Sana adds. “Start chugging, though, two kegs will go quickly. There’s more people here than we thought would show.”
You and Yunjin take the advice quickly, switching spots with Sana and Momo to flag down the bartender, double-fisting to ensure you both end up catching a buzz. You didn’t drive since your car is in the shop, but you still want the twenty-dollar Uber to be worth it. Knowing Yunho, he’ll pay for the Uber ride home.
Wait— can you even assume you’re going home with Yunho anymore? Since you’re no longer exclusive, that means he… He could go home with someone else. You could go home with someone else. You don’t know what feeling is blooming in your chest, but it doesn’t feel right.
You find yourself beelining toward him, feet moving without a second thought, you don’t even tell Yunjin or the other two that you’re leaving. Your beer sways in the two glasses, toppling over the sides as you skip over shoes and slide between pockets of bodies, pushing yourself toward the tall table the four massive men stand at.
Your glasses hitting the table introduce your presence before anyone has noticed you snuck up. Yunho’s head snaps, mid-sentence, brows tied together before his face expands in a beaming smile. “There you are, sunshine.”
Relief washes over you at the sight. He bends down to press his lips to yours, a short peck, soft and sweet, he tastes like beer, like chapstick. Like Yunho.
“Double fisting?” he asks, teasing, eyeing up your two beers. “Planning to get fucked up?”
You snort, “Just ensuring I milk the kegs before they’re tapped.” You greet the rest of the table as Yunjin finally catches up, sliding between San and Jongho, setting her two draft glasses on the table, too.
“Damn,” Jongho says, gaze bouncing between your four glasses taking up half the table, including their own glasses. “Might as well have brought a pitcher over.”
“Can we do that?” Yunjin pops a chocolate brow over her shades. “Is that allowed?”
Mingi asks, “Why wouldn’t it be?”
You’re quick to jump in, “Because the beers are free and a pitcher feels…” Your lips scrunch, brows furrowing, “I don’t know. Feels mooch-y.”
San laughs, “And four beers isn’t?”
“Sana told us to get it before it’s gone!” Yunjin is laughing as she brings her beer up to her lips, taking a deep gulp.
Jongho is about to argue again but Yunho cuts him off, “You go get a pitcher.”
“Yeah,” Yunjin nods, glass hitting the table again. “You go get a pitcher, since you want one so bad.”
Your eyes are bouncing back and forth to each face, smile growing with each interaction, every comeback. Jongho scowls as he moves from the table, no doubt thinking about what a climb it will be to get back up to the bar. At least he brings his beer with him.
“So,” Yunho starts, leaning down to get close to your ear. His breath is hot against your skin, it makes you shiver. “See anyone yet?”
Your cheeks heat up, eyes widening at the question. You take a swig of your beer, hoping the chilled carbonation will cool you off a bit. “No,” you mutter softly, turning your head to face him. His hair is down, curly over his forehead, almost touching his lashes. “I came straight to you.”
His face flattens out, but there’s humor in his pretty eyes. “Boring.”
You smack your teeth with your lips and smack his arm with the back of your hand, a laugh falling out of your open mouth. “Not boring, Jeong Yunho.”
He giggles, goading you, “Come on, it’s your first night of freedom. Start shopping.”
Shopping. You push the memory out as your eyes travel over the crowd, loosing a heavy breath as absolutely fucking no one catches your attention. Not that no one here is attractive– but there’s no one who you’d want one night of really hot, intense fucking with.
You’re pouting as you glance back at Yunho. “I don’t think I’m gonna be good at this.”
“You don’t think so?” His brows sit high, a playful grin on his lips like he knows something you don’t. His chin dips in the direction you were just looking at, “Look again, baby.”
You turn, faces blending together, bodies moving as one until you see her. As if she’s beneath a fucking spotlight, her golden, tanned skin sparkles in the pockets of her cut-out, black mini dress. Her dark hair flows down her back, curled, shiny, so pretty. She looks so fucking sexy your heartbeat picks up in your chest.
You look back at Yunho, cheeks hot, the tips of your ears on fire, “Fuck.”
He laughs with his head tipped backward before he brings his beer up to his lips. “Told you,” he says with a little shrug. “You’ll be just fine. Go talk to her.”
“No!” you whisper, well, more like a whisper-yell. “I can’t go hit on her.”
“Why not?” he’s still smiling as he asks, amused by you. “Fine. Go tell her she did a great job with the party or something.”
“That’s so fucking corny,” you groan, shaking your head as you bring your beer back up to your lips again.
San cuts in from across the table, “What are you two whispering about over there?”
You’ve barely swallowed your gulp of beer before you’re blurting, “Nothing!” Your gaze lands on Yunjin, and her eyes narrow. “Fine,” your lips flatten. “Yunho wants me to go hit on Jihyo.”
The table falls into a confused silence. Mingi breaks it by asking, “You’re gay?”
“Aren’t you two together?” San adds on.
“Like, our Jihyo?” Yunjin adds on, and your head bobbles between the three of them, each question adding another layer of frustration.
All you can do is groan. A pitiful, droning groan, instinctively you bring your beer back up to your lips.
“We’re not exclusive anymore,” Yunho answers for you. “And she has her eye on your Jihyo, yes. Gay question isn’t mine to answer.”
“Mind you, you had all day yesterday to tell me about this,” Yunjin’s eyes are still narrowed at you.
Your cheeks are flaming, hiding beneath your glass of beer. “Baby steps?” you offer with a tiny shrug.
Yunjin sighs, “I’ll take it, I guess.”
The conversation moves on, but your head keeps turning involuntarily, taking small glances at her. She's in heels, her muscled calves flexing each time she moves her body, shifting her stance. Fuck, she looks hot. She always looks hot. She looks especially hot tonight.
When you look back at Yunho, he’s already looking at you. Then his brows raise as if he’s saying you gonna do it, or what? Your lips purse, heartbeat picking up again. You don’t think you’ve ever approached someone with the sole intention of flirting with them in your life.
This past month has been filled with so many firsts for you. What’s one more?
You pick up your beer and chug the rest of it down, it’s screaming all the way down your throat, the taste not wonderful but not unbearable either. It’s the bubbles, the carbonation, but you wipe your lips with the back of your hand, look at Yunho with a determined expression, and nod.
He grins, “That’s my girl.”
“Are you going?” San asks, thick, dark brows wiggling. “Should we give you a pep talk? Act like we’re sending you off to war?”
You try to scowl at him, but your lips curve at the corners. “Go fuck Jen in the bathroom or something.”
“Go fuck Jihyo in the bathroom or something,” he fires back automatically.
“Maybe I will, bitch,” it comes out of your mouth before you can think about it and your palm flies over your mouth, shocked that you just fucking said that. Maybe the Miller gave you a little more than just courage.
San howls with laughter. “Fuck yes, do it.”
Your cheeks are warm, and that definitely wasn’t a pep talk, but for some reason it feels like what you needed. You turn on your heel, breath pushing out of your circled lips shakily as you wipe your sweaty palm on your pant leg. Your other hand holds your other, full beer.
She’s mid-conversation as you approach her, and before speaking, interrupting, you lay your hand softly on her shoulder blade. “Just wanted to say hi.”
She just about fucking screams when she sees you. Forgetting her conversation completely, she throws her arms around you, yelling, “You came! You came! I’m so happy!”
You laugh into her arms, pretending you don’t care about her body pressed against yours, that you didn’t come over here with an ulterior motive. “Of course I did, you invited me.”
She keeps her hands on your shoulders as she pulls away, barely keeping space between you, she’s beaming, her cheeks flushed. You keep catching the gloss on her lips as she barrages you with questions, “How are you? Who are you here with? Is Jen here?”
You point behind you, and her eyes follow. “She’s here, we invited some of the guys we’re friends with.”
“Oh,” her brows furrow as she waves her manicured hand. “They’re already all looking over here.”
Your face drops, you turn your head and scowl in their direction, just to catch them all staring at you. When they catch your expression they all turn away, caught. Guilty. Fuckers.
“Isn’t the blonde one yours?” she asks, brows wiggling. “He’s hot. Tall.”
“He’s not mine,” you blurt, shaking your head. Fuck, this is harder than you thought it’d be. “We’re not exclusive, I’m– I’m fully single.”
“Oh,” she says like this is the most scandalous information she’s ever heard. “My girl who’s committed to being committed is in a non-exclusive relationship? Who are you?”
“I’m me,” you smile, eyes finding the floor for a millisecond. You shrug, “Just… different now. I guess.”
“I’m proud of you,” she nods, one arm that was holding onto your shoulder sliding down to pet your bicep. You physically have to stop yourself from shivering at the contact. She’s taller than you in her heels, looking down at you as she says it, her soft palm brushing your bare skin…
“Thank you,” you murmur, cheeks heating up again. “This place looks great– I– you look great.”
“Yeah?” She beams, taking a step back to look down at her own outfit. “I know it’s Mina’s birthday, but since I planned it I figured I have to look good, too.”
“You do,” you affirm her, looking at her outfit with her, nodding your head. You run a hand through your hair. Why is this so hard? How do you start flirting with a girl who’s your friend? How do you un-friend your friend? How do you even flirt?
Someone grabs at her wrist, a small girl, long, black hair, she’s beaming at her. You can only assume that’s Mina. “Ji! There’s someone I want you to meet!”
Jihyo nods toward her, and then the girl is tugging at her arm, and Jihyo shoots you an apologetic look. “I’ll find you later!”
“Don’t worry about it!” you wave your hand, feeling a pang of disappointment in your gut. Fuck. You absolutely fumbled that. Fuck.
You turn back to your friends with regret heavy in your eyes. You take another gulp of beer before deflating into the table, debating guzzling the pitcher Jongho brought back.
“How’d it go?” Yunho asks as soon as you’re back in ear shot. You scowl. His lips flatten. “Can you give me more than just a look?”
You pout. “I barely got to say anything before the birthday girl pulled her away. Damn, I didn’t even say happy birthday.”
“You have all night,” San assures you from across the table.
Mingi cooes, “Oh my god, baby’s first gay-crush.”
You don’t even have the time to roll your eyes before Jongho starts cracking up, “What the fuck did I miss?”
“A lot,” you gruff out, picking up your beer again.
Yunho lowers it before you can bring it up to your lips, “Pace yourself, sunshine. We literally have all night.”
“Damn, no Jihyo and now no beer?” you complain, but your words are playful. “So bossy.”
“You know bossy, and that wasn’t bossy,” he reminds you, voice sliding into that velvety cadence.
Your gut warms. “Don’t start with that or else I’ll really give up on Jihyo.”
His grin is bright, satisfied. “You’re funny tonight.”
“I’m always funny,” you quip, slightly offended.
“I don’t even know how to flirt with her,” you’re talking to the table now. “How do you flirt with a girl who’s your friend?”
Yunjin answers, “You do know she’s super gay, right? Like she fucks with dudes but not nearly as much as women? I don’t think you even have to try that hard, she probably saw you all cute and flustered while you were talking to her.”
If your cheeks get any hotter, you might overheat like a cell phone on a fucking beach. Your elbow lands on the table, palm hitting your forehead. “I’m not cut out for this life.”
The table responds by laughing. The conversation moves on, San talks about the gym, Yunho talks about the really good weed he bought from a guy in his public speaking class, Mingi talks about the girl he slept with last weekend, and Jongho tells him he slept with her the weekend before.
You don’t have anything to add except a joke here and there or laughing along with the table. You can feel the absence of one, you catch yourself scanning the room, looking for a familiar head of black hair and bronzy skin. You don’t see him. You let the thought pass.
Mingi pulls you back to the conversation by asking, “Did you guys listen to the new episode of Unscripted?”
Yunjin’s eyes lift to yours. Your expression doesn’t so much as flicker.
“I listened!” San beams. “I think every single person in this room listened. Who’s side are you guys on?”
Yunho, without missing a beat, answers, “Mister Tall and Dominant.”
Your expression cracks, a smile forcing its way through the mask. He didn’t tell his friends it’s you— well, that it’s him.
Yunjin nods, “Same.” She’s definitely speaking just to add something to the conversation, because you know she’s team Wooyoung.
“What?” San gawks at the table, “Are you shitting me? She’s obviously in love with Mister Piss-Me-Off.”
“No she’s not,” you find yourself arguing. Defensively, too.
San looks at you like you’re ridiculous. “Did you listen to the way she talked about him? It was word vomit, she’s obsessed.”
There’s warning in the hinge of Yunjin’s jaw. You shrug, “I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s that serious. Unscripted fucks a new person every week, let’s be honest with ourselves here.”
“That’s true,” Mingi adds. “Just another fling. Content for the pod.”
“I didn’t even listen,” Jongho reveals, “but everyone keeps fucking talking about it. Who cares who she fucks?”
“We do, apparently,” Yunho adds with a little laugh, picking up his beer again. You should buy him something. Or fuck him really, really good tomorrow.
Yunjin’s body is so tight you think she might explode. “Can we go to the bathroom?” she asks, keeping her voice light, but you can hear the panic lining her tone because you know her.
You nod, sliding from the table, meeting her on the other side before walking with her toward the bathroom. She waits until you’re out of earshot before exploding, “How did you do that? How do you do that? I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack!”
You snort, rolling your eyes, “You did fine, Jen. You’re fine.”
“Does Yunho know?”
“He thinks I submitted the story,” you explain, approaching the neon pink Girls Room sign. The line isn’t too long, you lower your voice as you walk towards the end of it. “He knows it’s about him, but he doesn’t think I’m… Her.”
“How the hell did he figure that out?”
You shrug, “Don’t know, but he came to the conclusion on his own. I just agreed.”
Yunjin sighs. “He’s so fucking smart, but he’s kinda stupid at the same time.”
You giggle. “I don’t think he’s stupid at all, he’s like, one thought process away from putting all the pieces together.”
She presses her back up against the wall, brows furrowed over her shades. “That doesn’t scare you?”
“It does,” you nod. “I don’t know… he’s kind. I trust him. He didn’t tell everyone else the story was about him, I think if he ended up figuring it out, he’d keep it to himself, too.”
Her head tilts. “You don’t think he’d be upset that you kept it from him?”
“I mean, do you think he has a right to?”
Her lips purse, shoulders shrugging. “Maybe.”
You think on it, taking the spot beside her, sighing as you back up against the wall. You turn your head to her, “Do you really think Jihyo saw my flustered-ness as cute?”
She wears a lazy grin as she turns her head to you. “I think you’re cute when you’re flustered, so there’s no way she didn’t.”
Your smile brightens, cheeks warming all over again. It’s too fucking early into the night to break the seal, but you do anyway because the sound of the sinks running makes your bladder feel heavier than it’s ever been.
On the way back to the table, you spot her again. She’s talking to someone else you don’t know, a guy, tall, buff. He’s kinda hot. Her body language is friendly but your stomach jumps in warning, your mind and your legs are in agreement as you part ways with Yunjin to purposely interrupt her conversation this time.
“I found you first,” you say, cutting off whatever this fuckass guy is saying.
Jihyo beams, “And thank god you did.”
The guy pouts, “Why’s it suddenly fuck me?”
Jihyo laughs, smooth and pretty, “Sorry, Johnny.” She introduces the two of you, and then turns her attention fully on you. “Those pants make your legs look so fucking long. Is your top backless?”
You do a little spin, and she whistles. Whistles. Your cheeks are fucking burning when you turn back to her, and you desperately wish you had your beer.
She reads your mind. “Where’s your drink?”
You look at her empty hands. “Where’s yours?”
Her lips tighten in a grin. “Touché, let’s go to the bar.”
She grabs your hand and electricity shoots up your spine, excitement, adrenaline. Is this working? Are you doing it? You can’t tell. Your eyes drop while following behind her, taking in her curves, the way her hips way with every hurried step. She cuts through the layers of people before the bar like she’s the human version of a sword, shoulders back as she tugs you all the way up to the front.
She doesn’t let go of your hand when she gets up to the bar. She swings her upper half over the deep oak, giving you a perfect view of the way her shiny hair glistens under the lighting, how her back arches, ass poking out. She calls over the bartender like he’s working for her.
She orders two shots and two beers. Your brow pops as you lean in almost over her shoulder, “Shots aren’t free, Ji. Just get beers.”
Her head tilts, a tiny smirk on her lips. “I can’t buy you a shot?”
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. “Oh. Yes, you can. Thank you.”
Her smile widens, a tiny laugh falling off her tongue. “You’re so cute.”
Coming from her, you think maybe you don’t want to be cute. Coming from Yunjin, sure, cute is fine, but coming from Jihyo? You want to be as sexy as you think she is. You chew on your bottom lip, your cheeks flame anyway.
The bartender brings your shots and she thanks him, yelling an ‘add it to my tab’ before she hands one to you. It’s clear, vodka, your throat is already burning before a drop has touched your tongue.
“Cheers to new beginnings,” she holds up her plastic shot glass to you. “New beginnings, a new mindset, and freedom that you didn’t have before.”
You tease, “We’re still celebrating my breakup?”
“No, baby,” she shakes her head, smirk still playing on her lips. “I told you that you’re not a passive girl. You’re out of the funk.”
Baby sounds different on her lips now. Heat curls as you clink your plastic shot glass with hers, and shoot the vodka back. You whistle as you slam it back on the bar, sipping the beer that was waiting for you, letting it wash the aftertaste off the back of your throat.
“Fuck, I drink vodka, and taking shots still fucking burns,” you’re wiping off your lips again as you turn back to her, she looks unbothered as ever. “How are you not cringing?”
She shrugs, “I’m older than you. More experience.”
“You’re older than me by one year, Ji,” you almost roll your eyes, smile bending your lips. “How much more experience can you have?”
“A lot,” she says coolly before sipping her beer. “Trust me.”
Are you still talking about vodka? You can’t tell. Heat blooms, and whether it's from her words, the liquor, both, you don’t care.
“Tell me about the guy,” she starts again, still leaning up against the bar. She's holding her glass with two hands, hair off her shoulders, chest on display. She's radiating the same comforting dominance she always has, the one that makes you want to obey without even realizing you’re doing it.
“Yunho?” you question. “The tall, blonde one?”
“The one you’re casually fucking,” she corrects, or points out, you don’t know.
Your legs cross as you lean up against the bar, too. “He’s sweet. He takes care of me.”
She hums, looking you up and down, and doesn’t do a damn thing to hide it. “Do you need to be taken care of?”
“Sometimes,” you answer, feeling the weight of her gaze. “Sometimes not.”
Her smile grows. “Good,” she leans forward a little more, closing some of the distance between you. “Is he taking care of you tonight?”
Your heartbeat picks up, mouth going dry. You sip your beer, and then shake your head. “N-no, he’s not.”
She looks like she’s won, satisfied as hell. “Do you want to dance with me?”
You’re nodding profusely, you don’t even say the word yes before she’s grabbing your hand again and tugging you toward the dance floor.
Wooyoung’s getting real sick of the Lucky Penny. He feels like he’s spending his entire fucking week in the step-above-shithole bar, but maybe he’s just allowing himself be angry at the Penny because the alternative is too damning. It’s been two days and it’s still eating him alive, the way you looked at him in his car, like you never want to speak to him again. He doesn’t know why that hurts the way it does.
He shouldn’t care, oh, he shouldn’t give a flying fuck. But he does, and he fucking hates it.
The way he came home to Yunho with fucking word vomit, getting the entire sequence of events off his chest because he felt guilty. He didn’t even do anything and he felt fucking guilty. The batting cage, the diner, he never should have done any of it knowing that you and Yunho are exclusive. He shouldn’t have let himself get to know you any better, and he sure as hell shouldn’t have let you know him.
But it’s so fucking hard to stop himself when he’s around you. Usually it’s his dick controlling him, and… and– and it still is. He just wants to fuck you. He’s gotten a taste of you, and he’s hungry for the rest.
He has to tell himself that with every pretty face that looks at him inside the Penny. Every wink, every longing stare, every fuckable face he sees he has to remind himself that the only reason you’re on his mind is because he’d rather fuck you.
He didn’t mean to be late tonight. Every outfit in his closet didn’t seem appropriate, and by the time he was on the fifth outfit he almost yelled out in frustration because when the fuck has he ever cared about his outfit? No one in the Penny is looking at his goddamn outfit. Every woman whose eyes land on him is thinking he’s sexy, or they’ve heard he’s great in bed and they’re wondering if it’s true, every woman is debating if they’ll have a chance to find out, tonight. And they won’t. None of them will fucking know because you’re suddenly a drug, a fucking poison he accidentally injected into his veins.
It’s disgusting. He needs to get drunk.
He approaches the bar, slams his card on the oak. The bartender tells him something about a keg, he orders whiskey on the fucking rocks. He’s not drinking draft Miller fucking Lite tonight.
“Oh no,” Sana approaches him, a glass of beer in one hand. She looks pretty, hair tied back, showing enough skin that usually would make Wooyoung want to find out what the rest looks like. “It’s gotten worse. What’s wrong with you?”
He takes a swig of whiskey, doesn’t cringe as it burns its way down. “Nothing,” he answers. Short, definitely not sweet.
“Should you be here with an attitude like that?” she asks, brows raised. “Drinking hard liquor, of all things?”
He gives her a blank stare. “I don’t have an attitude.”
“Let me ask you something, then,” she stands a little straighter. “If I asked you to fuck me in the bathroom right now, would you do it?”
“I just got here,” he answers, voice flat. “Can you ask me after I’ve made my rounds? Scouted the rest?”
She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Glad to find out the whore is still in there. For a second, I thought you were upset about a girl.”
He gives her a look, eyes hard, brows flat. His jaw clenches as he swallows down some more whiskey. “I’ll never be upset about a girl, Sana. You know that.”
She looks at him sideways like she doesn’t really believe him. “Whatever you have going on, you better fix it real quick. No one wants a miserable man drinking hard fucking liquor at a birthday party.”
She turns on her heel, miniskirt dancing on her hips as she disappears into the crowd. Something tight within his chest unwinds as her words sink in. She’s right. Anger isn’t a fucking party favor. He sighs, more so pushes whatever he can get out from his chest, hoping it’s all the frustration and confusion that’s bottled up inside him.
He rolls his shoulders before walking through the crowd, ignoring the eyes, saying hi here and there to those who say hi to him, he spots San before anyone else. He doesn’t know how he recognized him, he’s currently mauling Yunjin’s face off, standing beside a tall table filled with a half-filled pitcher of beer and eight tall glasses. Some empty, some full, some half-empty.
Mingi and Jongho are talking, clearly trying to ignore the way San’s basically having sex in the middle of the bar. He approaches the two, “Not watching the show?”
“That’s something only someone like you would enjoy,” Jongho grins, clasping Wooyoung’s hand.
Mingi does the same before adding, “Are you about to?”
“Not in the mood,” Wooyoung shrugs his shoulders. “Who else is here?”
Jongho points toward Yunho, who’s standing a foot behind Wooyoung. His brows furrow, “The fuck is he doing?”
“Go find out,” Mingi says, full of amusement.
Wooyoung’s brows furrow, but he walks up to Yunho anyway, curious. He’s facing the dance floor, Wooyoung follows his line of sight, squinting as he tries to find what the older man is looking at.
His stomach drops when he sees it. You’re… you’re kissing someone. You’re kissing a girl. You’re kissing the only fucking girl in that goddamn friend group that he hasn’t fucked. Yunho might have to pick his jaw up from the floor.
“You’re– you’re watching this?” Wooyoung’s voice is shakier than he wants it to be.
Yunho smiles. “I’m about to stop, it feels weird to watch. They just started making out.”
Wooyoung doesn’t understand. His mind is moving a mile a fucking minute. He asks, “You’re okay with that?”
Yunho finally looks at him, and he’s wearing a prideful smile. “Of course I’m okay with it.” Wooyoung blinks at him. Once, twice. Yunho laughs like he can’t help it. “We’re not exclusive anymore.”
Wooyoung’s jaw might be on the floor again. “Are you serious?”
Yunho nods, “Sorry it didn’t happen before she tried to kiss you.”
Wooyoung’s face drops, and so does his stomach. You told him?
He starts, guilt lining his tone, “Yun–”
“Don’t apologize,” Yunho shakes his head. “We’re cool.”
Wooyoung nods, and his eyes betray him as they lead out to the dance floor again. He doesn’t even fucking know her name, but your hands are on her cheeks, her hands on your waist, no– one hand is on your waist, the other is on your ass, squeezing it. You’re kissing her like you can’t get enough of her, like there isn’t a single part of you that’s second-guessing it, like you want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything.
He swallows. He can feel the whiskey at the bottom of his stomach, heavy, leaden. You’re– you’re kissing someone else. You’re kissing a fucking girl. You just ended exclusivity with Yunho and you’re kissing someone fucking else?
He turns, walking past Yunho, past Mingi, Jongho, past San and Yunjin who look like they don’t even need air to breathe anymore. He sets the half-full glass of whiskey on the table, and announces to anyone who can fucking hear him, “I’m leaving.”
Jongho calls from behind him, “You just fucking got here!”
Wooyoung ignores him, then ignores every other person who tries to get his attention before he leaves the Lucky Penny.
Jihyo kisses you differently than Yunho kisses you. Different from Wooyoung. From Yeonjun. She kisses you like she’s trying to prove something, no, like she wants you to prove something. Like there’s still a part of you shielded, a part of you that’s begging to be released, and she wants to be the one to pull it out of you. Where her hands go, you arch into her touch. When her tongue pries your lips open, you let her explore until it evokes a soft moan from the back of your throat. When your hands finally find her cheeks, when one drops to her waist, her soft sigh makes your brain short-circuit.
You made her make a noise. A sound. Of pleasure. You did that.
Your eyes open in surprise just to see her lips parted, her head tipped back, her spine bent toward you. The sight of someone else swimming in a haze of pleasure has never been so fucking beautiful. It’s sheer instinct to kiss her again, harder this time, your tongue pushing past her lips, your hands on her hips, needing more of her.
You’ve imagined this a thousand times, usually alone, in your bed, sometime around twilight. You’ve imagined her, her face blown out with pleasure, dark eyes heavy with arousal, and in each and every daydream, you’ve been the reason why. You didn’t think it could feel this good, even just from some fucking kissing, to make someone else feel good.
Her nails dig into the fabric of your pants, sinking into your skin beneath. You hiss into her mouth and she smiles into the kiss, “What is this, baby?”
“What?” you ask, brain cloudy, consumed with lust.
“Are we just gonna make out on the dance floor?” she asks, then her teeth grab onto your bottom lip, biting soft enough to tease. “Or do I get more of you?”
Her chest presses against yours, your brows furrow, jaw cracking open. “You– you want more?”
“Are you kidding me?” she asks with a little laugh, and even that makes your gut churn with heat. “Do you want more?”
“I–” you’re panting, breaths layered. “Yes– yeah, I want– yes.”
Her grin turns to a nasty smirk, “Come.”
She tugs on your hand, pulling you through the crowd, and your eyes drift over the heads to your left. He’s exactly where you left him, with Mingi, with Jongho, they’re laughing about something. Like he can feel your gaze, his head turns, meeting your eye. He smiles, and it’s so fucking full of warmth that it eases something inside you that you didn’t realize needed to be eased.
You’re smiling, too, as Jihyo tugs you through the crowd, turning a corner around the entrance to the bathrooms, tugging on the bronze door handle to what looks like a coat closet. Or a supply closet.
You don’t have time to decipher which, because as soon as she gets you inside the closet, she has you pinned to the door. Her lips are on yours again, sloppier, like her restraint is running thin, you hear the door lock before her hands push your hips into the door.
Your hands fly to her hair, fingers tangling at the nape of her neck, tugging ever so slightly. Her neck bends backward with a sharp sound, and you follow, attaching your lips again because even a fucking second without it is too long.
Her hands slide up your waist, cupping over your chest, squeezing your boobs through your bra. Your hips twitch, canting forward, the tips of your tongues still touching.
“This your first time?” she asks, panting. “With a girl?”
You nod, voice breathy and layered, “Yeah.” She smiles wide, her eyes flaring. You laugh a little, “What?”
“You should be happy it’s me,” she whispers, huskier now. Her hands slide down to your hips, one hand coming to the center to toy with the button to your pants.
“Yeah?” There’s cockiness in your tone, from a part of yourself that you haven’t cracked open yet. It’s dark in the closet, the light seeping through the bottom of the door lighting her face from below. “You wanna take care of me?”
“Do you need to be taken care of?” she asks again, head tilting. One of her fingers slips into the waistband of your pants, tugging them toward her.
You don’t. You want to show her that you don’t.
One hand slides around her waist, turning her swiftly until her back is pressed up against the door. She laughs, and it’s arrogant as hell, “You wanna take care of me?”
“I can take care of you,” you murmur, now the words feel less foreign on your tongue. You think of the sound she made earlier, the soft noise of pleasure you pulled from her. You want to hear it again.
The way her grin beams with pride only makes you kiss her harder, more confidence in your hands, pressing into the skin you can feel in the cutouts of her dress. She hooks a leg around you and you slot one leg between hers, pressing exactly where you know she needs it.
She gasps, her manicured nails finding your shoulders, her hips immediately grinding up against your pant leg. You dip your head under her jawline, leaving open-mouthed kisses down her neck as her hips work against your thigh.
One hand finds her ass as you murmur, “Yes.” She moans and a surge of heat boils through your blood, especially as her head dips back. It thuds against the door, giving you access to her neck. Your lips suck at the spot where her neck meets her chest, just above her collarbone.
She moans a little louder, mumbling a choked out ‘fuck’ as she works up a rhythm against your thigh. You can feel the heat, the wetness seeping through, you want to clench your thighs together. You want to feel it. You want to taste it.
Your hands slide up her waist, fingers settling over her chest, squeezing. She squeaks out another moan, one of her hands tugging at your roots, making you moan, too.
You tug at her straps, sliding them down her arms until she gets herself free. You reach behind her, two hands working the clasp of her bra until you pull it off of her, throwing it on the floor.
Fuck. “You’re so fucking sexy, Ji, oh my god.”
“Please,” she whimpers. Whimpers. You think you might have moaned again at the sound. “I wanna see you, too.”
You untie your top at the back of your neck, letting it fall over the front of your pants until it pools at your hips. You don’t give her a chance to compliment you back, kissing her again, and her hips pick back up the rhythm against your thigh, harder this time.
“Shit, Ji,” you choke out, grabbing at the hem of her dress, tugging it upward, watching how she drags her panty-clad cunt over your thigh. “Yes, use me, fuck.”
“Want you,” she mutters, thick with arousal. “Want more. Mouth, fingers, I don’t care.”
Her panties, thin, black and lacy, you slide your palm underneath the waistband, greeted with a thick wetness, so much fucking wetness that you gasp.
“Holy shit, you’re wet,” you marvel.
She giggles, throwing her head back against the door again. “All for you, baby. You wanna taste it?”
Keeping your eyes on her, you pull your hand from her panties, and bring your fingers to your mouth. Tangy sweet, her brows knit together at the sight of you shoving your fingers past your lips, tasting her, enjoying her.
“Sweet,” you tease, and her hips jerk at the word. You want more. You want to taste all the wetness that's built up for you.
Sinking down to your knees, she watches as you reach up for her panties, slowly dragging them down her toned, muscled legs. “Tell me…” you trail off, searching for the words. “Tell me if you like it. Okay?”
“You know what to do,” she assures you, nodding. “But I’ll tell you, baby.”
You throw her leg over her shoulder, fingers dancing over her soft skin, feeling the dips of her muscles as your lips press small kisses toward the apex of her thighs. Her breathing grows labored, her hips twitching toward you.
You finally look at her core, glistening even under the darkness of the closet. You curse under your breath at the sight, so fucking beautiful, you’re throbbing, your own hips twitching, trying to get some kind of friction in your pants.
Like a dog to a fucking bone, you bring your lips to her core, pressing one soft, steady kiss to her clit. She hisses, one hand flying to your hair and you welcome it as your tongue pokes out from between your lips, tasting her from bottom to top.
Her moan is soft, coated in relief. It gives you a little more confidence, massaging your tongue against her clit, her fingers tightening in your roots as a sharp, gasped moan tumbles off her tongue.
“Yes,” she moans out, hips twitching into your tongue. “Just like that.”
You look upward, taking in her tight brows, her parted, glossy lips. She’s enjoying this. She’s enjoying you.
One hand stays on her thigh over your shoulder, the other holds the skin just above her knee. You keep your tongue flat as she grinds herself against it, head tilting backward as she chokes out a heavy, “Fu–uck.”
Your brows tie together, a moan falling past your lips. You wrap your lips around her clit, sucking, and you feel her spine go rigid, you can hear her toes curl against the leather of her sole, the heel poking at your back. Her hips stutter, jaw clenched like she was too aware of the noise she’s making.
“Let me hear you,” you break away to say quickly, fast enough that you barely register that the words feel familiar. “Fuck whoever else hears.”
“Uh-huh,” she’s nodding as you dive back into her core again, tongue lapping at her folds, flicking at her clit in a steady rhythm.
“Holy shit,” she gasps out. “Fuck, fuck, keep doing that.”
You do, you will your head into stillness, a wall that she can fuck herself against. Her hips roll, using your head for purchase as she uses you, uses your face, your tongue.
You can feel it, the tremor in her legs, how her hips start to lose rhythm. You keep it instead, never faltering, watching as her mouth stretches wider, as her brows tie further together. She’s close.
Feeling, knowing she’s almost there is enough to keep your body a rock, you want to watch her come undone. Her moans heighten in pitch, breaking up in staccato until her breath gets caught in her chest, and then she starts to shake.
She cries out your name as she comes, fingers tightening in your hair like she might rip it out of your head, but you don’t fucking care. You eat her through it, letting her shake and convulse on your face, you lick up every last drop.
“Easy,” she finally says, breathing labored, letting go of your head. She collapses into the door, chest heaving as you sit back into your thighs, running a hand through your hair, too aware of the sweat gliding down your spine.
After a minute of just breathing, she starts to laugh. You blink at her before a smile curves your lips, and then you start laughing, too.
“I didn’t even know you liked girls,” she says, fixing her panties into place. “I’m learning so much about you tonight.”
The grin you give her is lazy, your head tilting, falling onto your shoulder. You wipe at your wet chin, “I’ve always liked girls, you’ve just always known me with a boyfriend.”
She’s shaking her head as she picks her bra up from the floor. “He’s a demon.” She’s clipping it behind her back as she asks, “Can I take care of you now?”
Your head tilts to the other side, thinking. You don’t really need more, you already got what you wanted, and the satisfaction of making her come on your face is enough. And it’s strange, different in a way you can’t pick apart, that you chose this, and you got it. And Jihyo’s still your friend.
Your grin is coy, “I don’t really know how to say no, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, or think I don’t want you or something. But I’m kinda good.”
Her brows raise as she crouches down into her calves, almost eye level with you in her heels. She smiles like she’s amused, “You’re kinda good?”
You laugh, grabbing for your straps, attempting to tie them around the back of your neck. “Not that I don’t… I don’t know. I’m tired.”
“I’m sure you are,” she drawls, amused. “You just ate pussy for the first time and did an incredible fucking job.”
Your cheeks warm. “You enjoyed it?”
“I came, did I not?” Her brows raise before she stands up again, moving around you to help you tie your top at the back of your neck again. She presses a kiss to the top of your head after finishing off the knot, “You’re like… I don’t know. Different than you were with the demon. I really am proud of you.”
You tilt your head backward to see her, and she’s just as beautiful upside down. “You think so?”
“In a good way,” she nods. “You’re more comfortable in your skin. Confident. It looks good on you.”
You beam, “Thanks, Ji.”
“Come on,” she stands up straight again, reaching for your hand. “I’m hosting, people are gonna start to notice I left to fuck one of my friends in a closet.”
You erupt into laughter as she pulls you up, shaking your head in disbelief. You can’t believe you just did that. You can, actually, because you chose to do it. You can’t wait to tell Yunho.
When you leave the closet again, everything feels brighter. It's almost as if the music is turned back on, or someone fucked with the dimness of the lighting, you aren’t sure. She keeps your fingers locked until you spot Yunho again, letting you go with a kiss to your cheek and a whispered ‘love you’ in your ear.
Your cheeks are warm again as you approach Yunho, “You’re lucky you made it, the Uber’s out front.”
You gasp, “You would have left me?”
Yunho beams. “No, silly. I would’ve sent Yunjin and San home, absolutely, but I would have stayed for you.”
“Good,” you lean into him as you sort through the mass of bodies, following behind Yunjin and San who were somehow still making out. They take a step, kiss, take a step, kiss. You look up at Yunho, “Has it been that way all night?”
“He owes me for it,” Yunho says nonchalantly. “That’s all I’m saying.”
You laugh, then you notice your purse over his shoulder, poking into your back. It warms you all over, you think this might have actually been the best day of your life. The most affirming day of your life. Almost as if you’re really one with Unscripted. You might be getting closer.
“Did you have fun?” he asks when you get outside, while San and Yunjin, then Mingi and Jongho pile into the minivan Uber.
You nod, “I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”
“I can’t wait to hear,” he says, letting you climb into the car first, then following behind you.
You think Yunjin might’ve sat on San’s lap the entire ride home. You think they might have done more in the backseat besides makeout, but you didn’t look. Ignorance is bliss.
You’re still in that state of bliss as you walk through the front door of his frat, climbing all the way up the stairs, and collapsing in Yunho’s bed as soon as it’s in sight.
Yunho closes the door behind him, “Oh, she tired you out, huh?”
“I think I tired her out,” you turn your head so you can see him, smirking at him.
He undresses himself quickly, yawning, back arching in a stretch as his pants pool at his ankles. You kick all your clothes off, too, your pants, your top.
When you climb into bed together, you lay on opposite sides, but neither of you feel the distance. And then you tell him everything, every detail, until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore.
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 11/?
🎤︎︎ 18+ | 5.8k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, yunho is actually the only man ever. i lied
“NO.”
She readjusts herself on the couch, knees pressed into the cushions, standing on them with her hands braced on the back. Taking a physical breath, tone relaying what she already knows, she says, “I’m gonna give you one more chance to be honest with me. Is it you?”
You’re frozen, standing before your now closed door, heart beating out of your fucking chest. You blink, swallowing once, twice. You can trust her. Can you? She seems angry. Is she angry?
In a whisper, you answer, “Yes.”
She covers her mouth with one hand, chocolate brows tying together above wide eyes. “Oh my god. You’re— do you have any idea what people are saying about you?” You nod, timid, body still tight. She rips her hand from her mouth while putting the pieces together, “How fucking long— I don’t even understand— you don’t sing.”
“I don’t sing,” you repeat, still whispering because you don’t trust your voice at any other volume.
Still holding onto the back of the couch, she lowers herself until she’s sitting on her calves, eyes still wide, jaw still slacked. She looks up at you and there’s a ghost of a frown on her lips, her voice shaky as she realizes, “You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie,” you’re quick to defend. “I just didn’t tell you.”
Your name falls from her lips coated in disappointment. “You deliberately kept it from me.”
Disappointment is worse than anger. “I kept it from everyone, Jen.”
“I’m not everyone!” she nearly whimpers, her voice cracking, strained. “This is a whole side of you I don’t know, this is— this is like a whole half of you that I know nothing about! Do you know how many episodes I listened to before I even recognized your voice?”
Your bottom lip quivers, jaw hinged tight. Her words are like an arrow through your fucking chest.
“I only realized because you told a story about me. I recognized my own story on my best friend’s secret fucking podcast,” she doesn’t move as she seethes, like she’s frozen in place, too. Your heart wrenches with guilt. “Don’t you think maybe you should have asked me, maybe run it past me that this exists before posting my story online?”
You’re nodding, fumbling over your words. “I’m sorry, that’s why it’s anonymous—”
“I don’t care!” she yells, standing up off the couch. “I know it’s me, and now I know it’s you.”
Panic surges through you with force. “Please— Jen, please don’t tell anyone.”
She stares at you, arms flat at her sides, face twisted in heartbreak. You almost open your mouth again, ready to beg, but she cuts it off by asking, “You don’t trust me, do you?”
You shake your head. “Of course I—”
Her voice raises again, “You didn’t trust me with your secret, and now you don’t trust me to keep it. You think I’d expose you after you created an entire double life based on fucking anonymity?”
A double life. Is that really what Unscripted is? A different half of you? Another person detached from yourself, your own personality? Is anything about her, you? Is anything about you, her?
You try a step forward. “I trust you, Jen. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice cracks again, shoulders slumping, face going round. This is so much fucking worse than anger. The sadness, the disappointment… She feels betrayed.
Your lips part, a strained, guilty noise forcing its way through. You can’t form any words, you don’t know what the fuck you could possibly say to make any of this better.
Words you’ve said too often lately, you find them inside you again, “I don’t know.”
Now, it just sounds pathetic. A sorry fucking excuse for lying to, for hurting your best friend, your roommate, your sister. But you don’t have a reason; you knew she wouldn’t judge you, you knew she wouldn’t tell anyone, and yet you still didn’t tell her. You don’t know why.
“You don’t know?” she repeats, like she didn’t hear you the first time. “You’ve spent months strategically hiding this from me, and you don’t know why?”
Your lips quiver, eyes stinging, chest growing tight. She sees it, but she holds her ground, “Were you ever going to tell me?”
You don’t trust your voice, so you shake your head. You could have gone your entire life without anyone knowing you’re the face behind the name, the voice behind the stories, the advice, the vulgarity. Tears fall.
She shakes her head like she can’t choose which words she wants to say first. She looks at the floor. “We live together, we share everything. You know everything about me.” She looks up again, nose twitching with what you’re sure is tears trapped in her chest, “You trusted hundreds— maybe thousands of people with personal, sensitive information I don’t know about you. How is that fair?”
“They don’t know who I am, Jen,” you blurt, your voice coated in a cry. You still haven’t moved from the door, there’s too much space between you, and it feels wider with each exchange.
“I do!” she finally shouts, pointing at her chest, a single tear falling down her cheek. “I know you and I fucking love you, what are you so scared of? That I’m not going to love you anymore because you make up stories on a podcast?”
“I don’t make them up,” your voice drops in defense. “They’re all true, at least a piece of them is, even if they didn’t happen to me.”
She laughs, but it’s hollow, you can hear the congestion in her sinuses. “That’s what you took from that? You think I’m calling you a liar?”
“No—”
“Do you even understand why I’m upset?” she shouts, patience thinning. “We’ve known each other for years! I thought I knew you down to the fucking bone, and you hid something this— this huge from me. This is huge, the episode you posted today, everyone is talking about it!”
“I know!” you shout back, taking another step forward. “I know they’re talking about it and I’m terrified! I didn’t mean for this to happen—”
“Who are they?” Her voice is suddenly calm again as she brings the heel of her palm up to her nose. “I know the tall one is Yunho, who’s the other one?”
You pause, heart dropping. You don’t want to tell her. You have no choice but to fucking tell her. You think your heart might fall out of your ass fully as you mumble, “Wooyoung.”
She blinks at you. “Wooyoung? Like, Jung Wooyoung? Black hair? Whore? The one I’ve slept with? That Jung Wooyoung?” Embarrassed, terrified of what her response will be, all you can do is nod. Her palms hit her forehead as she circles the coffee table, pacing. She stops again when she’s facing you, piecing it together, “So Tall is Yunho, PMO is Wooyoung. You asked Wooyoung for sex advice about Yunho because you had sex with Wooyoung.”
“No,” you answer with certainty. “I haven’t had sex with Wooyoung.”
“What?” Her hands find her forehead again. “You said you trust him, that he knows you or whatever. Fuck, I fucking knew something was weird with you two at the Penny. What the fuck did you do?”
You look down at his hoodie still on your body, you remember everything you said to him fifteen fucking minutes ago. What did you do? Too much. Too much to come back from.
Yunjin looks too, apparently. “Whose hoodie is that?” Your head snaps up, mouth going dry. “I recognize that fucking hoodie, he– what did you do?”
As if it’s instinct, you drop your shit at the small table beside the door and rip the fucking hoodie over your head, throwing it to the floor like it’s on fire. It feels criminal to be wearing it, like he’s in the room with you, sharing your defeat. She watches it fall to the floor then looks back at you, then to the hoodie again like she’s buffering, trying to put pieces that you still haven’t given her together.
“Why him?” she mutters from across the room. “Why does he know you? Why does he get to know things I don’t?”
“He doesn’t know about Unscripted,” you mutter just as quietly, chest rising and falling with every single nerve beneath your skin.
“We’ll circle back to Unscripted,” she’s quick to fire back. “Trust me. Right now, I want you to tell me why Jung Wooyoung knows things about you that I don’t.”
You hate the words that you swear you can taste now, “I don’t know.”
“Yes you do,” she argues, voice edged with frustration. “Tell me. Or is this something else you can’t trust me with?”
“I don’t fucking know!” your voice raises, strained because you fucking mean it. “I don’t tell him anything, I asked him for advice about Yeonjun and now he knows things about me. I don’t sit down and tell him my fucking secrets, he just— when he says things about me, they’re right.”
“It started with Yeonjun?” Her eyes widen, hands flying to her roots again. “What the fuck? How long has this– I don’t even know what the fuck to call it. When did you hook up?”
“The night you took me out to get over Yeonjun,” you answer without a second thought. “He found out– whatever, we hooked up in a random bedroom. We didn’t have sex, though.”
Her brows are knitted together. “Then what did you do?”
“I– he– did you listen to the episode about overstimulation?”
Her face drops. “That was him?”
You nod, bringing your hands up to rub at your face, the words falling from your lips like water now, “That was right before Yunho, and like, literally right before Yunho. And since Yunho, him and I have been weird until I asked him for advice at the Penny, now we’re normal again and he picked me up from work because my car died and then he took me to a batting cage and a diner and then I told him I want to kiss him–”
“What?” she interrupts you, blinking rapidly. “What? Tonight?”
Your voice heightens in pitch, “Like, maybe fifteen minutes ago?”
“What the fuck,” her palm covers her mouth again. “What the fuck?”
“I didn’t kiss him,” you whisper, cheeks heating all over again. “He said he couldn’t do that to Yunho.”
“Wooyoung said no,” she repeats like she can’t fucking believe it. You nod. “I can’t believe you were the one– since I’ve met you– what the fuck is going on?”
“Wooyoung!” you finally yell. “Ever since I met him my life has been derailed. He knows me, but the more he knows me the less I know me, like he can see through me, I- I can’t explain it.”
She gets quiet before she says your name, it sounds pitiful, like she feels bad for you. Your stomach fucking hurts.
“Come sit down,” she says calmly, pointing to the couch.
You blink at her, “Jen–”
“Sit down or I swear to god,” she cuts you off, voice stern. You jump into movement, feet carrying you toward the couch as she commands, “You’re telling me everything and you’re going to be honest.”
You’re nervous as you sit on the farthest cushion, knees pinned together, fingers curling into the plush beneath you. “What about Unscripted?”
“I didn’t forget about it,” she sits on the other side of the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest. “But my best friend who has always been in a committed relationship is acting really out of character right now and I need to know why.”
You run your fingers through your hair as you sink into the couch, your heart split in two. But you tell her, you tell her every single detail, from the night you met Wooyoung to the night you brought Yunho home to what happened before you walked through the door to your apartment.
“Do you remember the night you found out about Yeonjun? The basket?” she asks when you finally finish, as if she’s been sitting on the question. You nod. “I asked you if he saw you, if he made you feel special.”
“He didn’t, he never did, I know that–”
“He seems like he does,” she dips her chin. “Wooyoung.”
“Yunho sees me,” you argue. “Yunho is good to me. I’m fucked up for wanting Wooyoung like that.”
“No you’re not,” she quickly argues. “I mean, I don’t think you’re fucked up. It's instinct. You were together the whole night, it makes sense.”
Your voice goes quiet, “He was right, though.”
“Yes, and you didn’t kiss him,” her upper body moves like she’s telling you the obvious. “You didn’t act on the impulse.”
“Because he stopped me,” you laugh a little on the words. “If he had kissed me, I would have fucked him, Jen.” Yunjin stays quiet, thinking, chewing on her bottom lip. Your head dips backward, “Fuck, I should tell him, shouldn’t I?”
“Yunho?” She asks.
“Yes,” you sigh. “It’s not fair if he’s committed to me and that’s all it takes for me to jump some other guy’s bones.”
Yunjin snorts, “I don’t think this is just some other guy, babe, but I get what you’re saying.” Her lips scrunch to one side, “Do you even want to be committed to Yunho? Do you want to be committed to anyone right now?”
Your chest feels hollow. “I don’t know.” She nods like she was expecting that answer. “Isn’t that bad?” You lean forward a little. “I don’t– that’s not me.”
“Why can’t it be you?” She shrugs. “You’ve been in a relationship for almost all of your adult life, you don’t even know what it means to fuck around.”
“I don’t want to fuck around–”
“You sure?” she teases, a playful smile on her lips. “It sounds to me like you’re dying to fuck around, especially with Woo–”
“What’s he like?” you cut her off. Purposely. “In bed. Is it valid that everyone wants him?”
Her lips scrunch again, “Hate to break it to you, but yeah. Absolutely. Like, two-hundred percent–”
“Okay,” you cut her off again. “I get it.”
“This is all I wanted, by the way,” her voice is low again, serious.
Your brows tie together. “Huh?”
“With Yeonjun, when you finally let me in I felt like I understood you a little better. I love you, I want to know all of the things that make you, you.”
You frown, heart cracking in two all fucking over again. “I’m sorry, Jen.”
“And just to reassure you, I won’t tell anyone that you’re Unscripted,” she sits up a little, pushing herself up by the cushions. “But I will say that the more you say, the easier it is to connect you. How the fuck do you even sound like that? You barely sound like yourself.”
“I tweak it a little,” you grin. “Just a pinch, and it’s worked for me so far.” After another pause, your face rounds out as you say, “Thank you for keeping my secret. I’ll be more careful.”
“Sannie would lose his fucking mind if he knew,” she shakes her head, laughing a little. “Like, lose his fucking mind. Yunho, too. How do you keep a straight face?”
You shrug. “I do what I have to.”
“Scary,” her head tilts away from you. “You’re scary.”
“Prepared,” you correct her, holding up a finger. “If you’re gonna keep your identity a secret, you have to be prepared to defend that secret with your life.” Her eyes thin out, and your returning smile is coy. “My bad. I'm referring to everyone else now.”
The sun is fucking hot. Morning sun is different from evening sun, the air feels clearer, drier, the UV feels ripe, especially if there’s no breeze. There’s not a lick of wind brushing past you as you skip from your stairs into Yunho’s car, heart beating a mile a fucking minute, the sun stripping you as raw as you feel.
Yunjin knows, and she doesn’t hate you. Yunjin knows, and she still loves you. It should be enough to have you feeling on top of the world, relieved, light. But it’s not enough, and you don’t feel even the slightest bit relieved, because there’s more. You almost don’t believe that you have problems bigger than someone finding out you’re Unscripted, at one point you didn’t think it was possible.
You give him your cheek when you get into his car, but he doesn’t back from it, he doesn’t mind at all. He presses his lips softly into your skin, “Morning, sunshine.”
You can barely muster a smile. “Morning,” you mutter, giving him a one-over. Blonde hair pushed back, comfortable clothes on his body, that sliver of skin out to play like it always fucking is. Damn.
“Do you want to get coffee or something before we go?” he asks, already reversing his car out of the parking space right in front of your apartment.
You shake your head, hands sitting politely in your lap, “No, I’m okay. I had coffee already.”
“O-kay,” he hums, pulling out of your development, onto the main road. He looks at you from his peripherals as he asks, “Are you mad at me for not answering last night?”
“What?” you ask, abruptly. “No, oh my god, of course not.”
“Just checking,” he says casually, his head shaking a little. The silence you fall back into is palpable. You’re acting weird. You’re acting fucking guilty and you know it. You try to relax, stretching out your legs, your arms, you try to let your body deflate into his passenger seat. You think you might look like a drunk baby instead, trying to take up as much space as you can.
The drive seems infinitely longer than it usually is because you can’t get your head on straight. You’re paranoid, guilty, you know Yunho can feel that there’s something off but you can’t bring yourself to fucking speak.
Hey, just so you know, I wanted to kiss Wooyoung last night.
Before you do this favor for me, I want to tell you that I wanted to fuck your friend last night.
You shouldn’t have ever entered exclusivity with me because I’m a fucking mess.
You sigh. He feels it as he pulls into the parking lot of the gym, parking his car in the spot right next to your car. You think of last night, Wooyoung in this exact parking space, you screaming at him to unlock the door under a blanket of rain.
You never deserved Yunho to begin with.
“Can I ask you something?” Yunho asks, turning his key in the ignition, engine going dead. You nod, sitting up a little, heart knocking against your breastplate. “Did you submit a story to Unscripted?”
You blink. “What?”
He tugs on the handle of his door, climbing out of the driver’s seat. You do the same, keeping your eyes on him the entire time. He talks as he walks up to your car, popping the hood, “Her newest episode is going viral, and it just… sounds familiar.”
You lean your backside up against the passenger side door, “How does it sound familiar?”
He ducks to give you a flat stare around your car’s hood. “Mister Tall and Dominant? Asked him to be more dominant, and he did it as soon as she brought it up?”
You reach for ignorance, at least for a little while longer. “That could be anyone, Yunho. Why do you think it’s you?”
“Because the other guy is Wooyoung,” he says, bringing his attention back under the hood. You feel like your fucking world has been swept from under your feet. How does he know that? What does he know? How is the conclusion that you submitted something to Unscripted, and not that you’re fucking Unscripted?
“He–” you start, already stumbling over your words. “Are you crazy?”
“He told me you asked him for advice, sunshine,” he sing-songs from under your hood. “He told me about last night, too. The batting cages, the diner. Can you grab the bag from my backseat?”
You’re on autopilot as you grab what looks like a black toolbox– tool bag from his backseat, talking as you lay it over the side of your car, in reach for him to go through it. “What else did he tell you?”
Yunho looks up at you. “What else is there to say?”
“Nothing,” you answer immediately. “There’s nothing else. Do you know what’s wrong with my car?”
“Not yet,” he shakes his head, lips scrunching to one side. “I’m gonna try to jump it. Do you know how to jump a car?” You shake your head no, and he smacks his teeth. “We’re fixing that today.”
He digs into the toolbag, grabbing what looks like a power bank, two thick cables. He holds them up to you, “Red and black.” You nod, moving beside him so you can see what he sees. He points into the guts of your car, “That’s your battery.”
You lean forward a little, and he lowers his finger so you can see exactly what he’s pointing at. “Plus sign, red cable,” he explains, then hands the cable-clamp thingy to you. Your brows furrow. “Attach it,” he says like you’ve done this a million fucking times.
“I’m not gonna blow up my car, right?” you ask, holding the cable-clamp thing like it’s an explosive.
He laughs, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t let that happen, baby.”
You squeeze the clamp, attaching it where he showed you. You look up at him for reassurance, “Is that okay?”
“Perfect,” he says, then holds up the black clamp.
You pop a brow, “Negative?”
“Close,” his head tilts as he sticks the clamp somewhere else in the guts of your car. “Ground point, unpainted piece of metal or a part of the engine so you don’t blow your car up.”
Your lips make the shape before you say the word, “Oh.”
“Try to start it for me,” he says, and you nod, grabbing your keys from his car before slotting yourself in your own driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. The dash lights up, but the only sound your car makes is a big fat fucking click.
“One more time,” you hear him over the hood, so you try again. You’re going to hear the clicking in your fucking dreams tonight. You deflate, groaning as he gathers the cables back into his bag, closing the hood. “This is out of my area of expertise, I fear.”
Your top lip lifts, “But you’re Handy Manny.”
He throws the bag back in his backseat, “Sorry, sunshine. I’ll call a tow truck for you.”
You don’t answer because he’s already in fix-it-mode, his phone in his hand, pacing with the other hand on his hip up on the curb while you watch from your driver’s seat. It’s unbearably hot, but you’re too guilty to care. You just let him teach you how to jump a fucking car while you tried to kiss his friend last night.
You tilt your head, watching him. He turns, meeting your eye through the pocket between your windshield and your open door, eyes focused. It’s unbearable. You blurt, “I tried to kiss Wooyoung last night.”
He holds up a finger. Your jaw drops. He points to his ear and mouths I’m on the phone.
“Hi, yeah, I need a tow, please,” he looks up at the sky as he speaks, and you actually genuinely wish you could fucking disappear. You sink further into the seat, running your hands over your face, into your hair, knees spreading. You wish your brain wasn’t so fucking complicated. You wish you never tried to fuck Yeonjun in Wooyoung’s bedroom.
“Sorry, they’ll be here within the hour,” he says, sounding refreshed as he hangs over your open door, arms crossed over the top of it. “So, you tried to kiss Wooyoung?”
You lower your hands, face blank. “Yes, last night.”
“Hm,” his head tilts. “He left that part out.”
“He said no,” you’re immediately defending him, defending yourself through him. “I didn’t kiss him.”
“But you wanted to,” his brows furrow from above the door.
You look at your lap, guilty. “Yeah.”
“Okay,” he says simply.
Your head snaps upward, brows tied together. “Okay?”
He shrugs. “Do you want me to be mad at you?”
“Kinda,” you shrug, bewildered at the answer. “We’re exclusive and I tried to fuck your friend.”
His brows raise, “You said kiss.”
“I did say kiss,” your lips tighten. “I meant kiss.”
He watches you for a second, eyes dancing to the floorboard beneath you, your steering wheel, the pile of shit in your passenger seat. Finally, he asks, “Do you still want to be exclusive?”
You speak before you can think, “I like you, Yun–”
He grins. “Not what I asked.”
Your lips flatten. “I don’t know.”
He nods, “Okay.”
“Oh my god,” you gruff out, the heels of your palms finding your bare eyes. “Can you please say something else?”
He huffs a laugh, “What do you want me to say? We aren’t dating, we’re exclusively sleeping together.”
“I know,” you basically whine. “But what happens if we aren’t? I like you.”
“I like you, too,” he nods. “It’s not like I’m going to hate you forever if we aren’t exclusive, sunshine. Did you think I’d throw a fit? Call you a cheater?”
Even Unscripted is a fucking cheater. The tips of your ears run hot, “Yeah, kinda.”
He walks around the car door, bending down into his calves beside the floorboard. “I didn’t start this thinking we were gonna get married. You’ve had four boyfriends in total in your entire life. I like you, but I’m not the type to stop someone from doing what they want to do.”
“But you–” you argue. “You’re not hurt at all?”
His head tilts, exposing his teeth in a way that says well, maybe. “I wouldn’t say hurt, but I wouldn’t say I’m emotionless, either. Mingi will be excited.”
Your jaw drops, a punched laugh escaping you. “You’re thinking about Mingi right now?”
He grins, “I think about Mingi often.”
“Have you ever been exclusive with him?” Yunho makes a show of shaking his head no. You deflate into your seat again, “I don’t understand that. Sleeping with someone without having… attachments. The security that they’re into you.”
His brows furrow, “Isn’t sleeping with someone confirmation enough that they like you?”
“No,” you answer quickly. “I mean, like, they’ll wake up tomorrow and still like you.”
“Have sexual attraction and romantic attraction always gone hand-in-hand with you?” he asks, and it’s honest. You nod. His face flattens out. “Have you ever wanted to fuck someone just to fuck them?”
Your lips scrunch as you look up at the roof of your car, thinking. You’re shaking your head as you respond, “No.”
He pops a brow, “Really?”
“No!” you say through a laugh. “I mean it. You know I’ve only had sex with long-term boyfriends, you’re the only exception.”
“And I’m flattered, but you’ve never seen someone walking down the street and just wanted to bang ‘em? Didn’t even want to learn their name?”
“No,” you say with a little more certainty. “The romantic aspect… It's part of it for me. The attraction.”
“So you have to really like someone in order to fuck them?” he asks, clarifying. You nod. His brows furrow, “But you don’t have to date them in order to fuck them.”
“What?” you ask, brows tied together. “No–”
“So you wanted me to be your boyfriend,” he assumes, brows raising. “That night at the party when we kissed, you were thinking in your head, ‘I’m gonna make Yunho my boyfriend’.”
“Don’t talk about yourself in third person, it’s weird.” His head tilts, face flat. You release an aggravated sigh, “Fine, no, I wasn’t thinking that about you. I wanted to sleep with you.”
He grins, “So everything you just said was a lie, basically.”
“I’m confused!” you argue, poking a flip flop at his knee. “I don’t know what I do. I don’t know!”
He laughs, smacking your foot away from him. “Okay, think of someone you want to fuck. Someone who’s not Wooyoung.” Your hands hit your face so hard they clap. He’s laughing again as he reaches up for your hands, pulling them off your face as he sits on the floorboard of your car. “I’m serious, sunshine. Think of someone that you’ve never imagined yourself dating. Someone you’re really, really attracted to, and want just one solid night of really hot, intense fucking.”
Oh, your face is on fucking fire, but you think. You think hard. You think of every single man you’ve ever met, all the guys on campus, the ones that go to your gym, none of them have ever piqued your interest enough to want a solid night of really hot, intense fucking.
But there is someone you’ve wondered about. Someone who gets the back of your neck prickling with sweat whenever you’re around them.
The answer comes naturally, “Jihyo.”
His brows raise. He chokes on a laugh, “Jihyo? Park Jihyo? Friends with Momo, Sana….?”
You nod, “Yes, that Jihyo.”
He pops a brow, “Huh.”
“What?” you immediately press, sitting up a little. “What’s wrong with Jihyo?”
“Nothing,” he shakes his head quickly. “I just wasn’t expecting you to– I wasn’t expecting a woman.”
“Are you homophobic when you literally stick your dick up Mingi’s ass?”
His face goes flat again. “Did you seriously just ask me that?” You giggle. “Okay, Jihyo. Do you want to date Jihyo?”
Your head tilts, eyes dancing around your car again, “I’ve never thought about it.”
“Well, don’t start now,” he says like you’re fucking ridiculous. “Have you thought about fucking her?”
You finally meet his eye again, shrugging. “Once or twice.”
“So everything you just said was bullshit, basically,” he says like he’s caught you, a smirk playing on his lips like this is the most amusing thing he’s ever encountered.
You gasp. “No, it was not bullshit. I like Jihyo, she’s my friend.”
Yunho leans in like he’s telling you a secret, “Have you ever even kissed a girl?”
Your top lip lifts, “Yes, I've kissed Jen!”
“I mean, like, seriously,” he explains with his hands. “I really didn’t take you as fruity.”
“Maybe you have a shit gaydar,” you counter, arms crossing over your chest.
“We’re getting off topic,” he shakes his head. “Would you survive if you had sex with Jihyo tomorrow and she didn’t call you after? Didn’t ask you to be her girlfriend?”
You shrug, “I don’t know.”
“I didn’t ask you to be my girlfriend,” he counters.
“But we talked about exclusivity the next morning,” you fire back.
“But what if I didn’t bring it up? Would you have fucked me again?”
Your lips scrunch, cheeks heating up. “Yeah.” Yunho gives you a look like you’re trying to bullshit a bullshitter. You moan a noise of aggravation, “It’s different, Yunho. I knew you liked me before I slept with you.”
He shrugs, “Jihyo likes you.”
“Jihyo likes me as a friend,” you raise a finger between you.
He lowers it back down again, wrapping his palm around your finger. “Have you ever asked?” You barely get your no out before he’s sighing. “What are you scared of, sunshine?”
You’re tired of that question. And people asking you what you want. And any other fucking question that you don’t know the answer to.
“Being exclusive with someone doesn’t mean they won’t hurt you, baby.” He’s still holding your fingers as he says it, frowning. “And I know you know that already.”
First Wooyoung, and now Yunho? Your body sags, head drooping forward like the weight of his words sat directly on your back. Is this the aftermath? The mark Yeonjun left on your soul? You thought you were moving on, pushing forward, that Yunho was the very physical proof of your growth. It hurts to know it’s still not enough, that there’s embers left of the fire Yeonjun lit. But Yunho’s right. Wooyoung was fucking right, too, just like he always fucking is.
You look up again, eyes cloudy, face bent up in a frown. “How do I fix that?”
The smile he gives you is soft, comforting. “You don’t need to fix it, baby. I just wish you would live.”
You pout. “Does this mean we’re breaking up?”
His grin widens, a chuckle falling past his lips. “Is break-up the term to use here? Are you asking if we can still be friends? Still sleep together? What are you asking me, sunshine?”
You shrug, “I don’t know. What are my options?”
He runs two hands over his face, laughing into his palms. “Jesus Christ, you’re a piece of fucking work.”
“In a good way?”
He shakes his head before his palms find his lap. “Do you want to keep seeing me?”
“Of course I do,” you answer, that’s a no-brainer.
“Do you want to keep fucking me?”
You blink at him, slowly nodding before you quietly mumble, “Yes.”
“Do you still like me?”
You nod profusely, “Yes, I like you a lot.”
“Then why would we stop seeing each other?” he asks, his voice light. He reaches forward, moving a piece of hair out of your face. “We like each other, the sex is great, there’s no reason to stop.”
“But if you…” you start, then trail off. A little firmer, you ask, “But if you sleep with other people, are you still going to like me?”
His face softens. “Of course I will.”
You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “This is scary.”
“Then I’ll show you that it’s not,” he answers, reassurance lining his words.
Almost a whisper, coated in fucking anxiety, you ask, “Can you kiss me?”
Without a word, without a second of fucking debate he’s reaching forward, palms swallowing your cheeks like they always do as he presses his lips to yours. It’s soft, just a peck of a kiss before he splits your lips, reassuring you of every word he just said, letting you feel that he’s still here, he still wants you, even if you aren’t fully his.
He wants you to experience freedom. He wants you to be happy. He wants you to start living your life the way the raw, unshielded fucking part of you wants to live it. Everyone wants you to, apparently.
“Be careful,” he whispers into your mouth, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “If you keep going, the tow-truck guy is gonna catch us fucking in the backseat.”
Warnings: Fem! ReaderxMingi, Stalking (duh), Fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), choking, oral (fem rec.) DEAD DOVE!
Something in your gut tells you not to trust him, but your brain says otherwise.
wc: 4k
Click, click, click, you hear someone's heels on the pavement behind you. Of course, your shift lasted until the last bus ran and your car was in the shop, prompting you to walk home and, this time, opting to be rid of your headphones after feeling on edge all week. Turning your head, you see no one behind you. Weird, you think to yourself. Heading in the direction of your apartment, once again feeling as if you have eyes on you. This is so weird, so fucked up. “Why would someone be following me?” You think to yourself, only hearing about these things in movies or on the news.
Heart rate picks up, blood rushing through your ears as you begin to feel on edge. More thoughts flood your mind, such as "Should I even go home?" Or walk to the police department? That convenience store? No. Don’t subject some innocent cashier to a possible crime. Shaking the thoughts from your head, trying to rationalize that no way could anyone be following you, you stop at the convenience store anyway. Feeling particularly hungry, working late, and all.
Doors chime, alerting the cashier of your arrival. Seeing them almost asleep at the register, you give them a small apologetic smile, heading to the aisle that holds your favorite snacks.
What could pass as dinner but take little to no effort? You think, biting your lip in thought. Spotting something passable, you grab it, smiling as you turn to walk to the register. At least you tried. You bump into a strong chest, stumbling back as the stranger catches you.
“Woah there! Be careful,” he chuckles. You apologize quickly, looking up to his face to apologize more sincerely. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. You think to yourself, quickly shaking your head to rid yourself of the thought. “I–I’m so sorry, sir! I’ve been in my own head a lot lately.” You half bow, entirely embarrassed as a cute pink dusts your cheeks.
He laughs again, waving you off. “Don’t worry about it; it’s not often I bump into an attractive stranger.” He smiles at you, tilting his head. Is he flirting? “What’s your name, stranger?” He asks, and you give it as he nods. Little did you know, he already knew. “My name is Mingi.” He says, a big smile on his face as he sticks his tongue out to lick his lips, sticking his hand out. You accept, shaking it.
You chat for a bit, laughing and smiling together. He walks you to the register, paying for your things and exchanging numbers before bidding your goodbyes. “What are the odds he was stalking you? Nah,” you laugh to yourself, shaking your head at the ridiculous thought.
Finishing your walk home, your phone beeps as you get a text. Mingi’s name already brightening your screen. You smile, replying to his message.
<Mingi>: Arrive home okay? :)
<You>: Yes, I did! Worried about me already? ;)
<Mingi>: What if I am? ;)
<You>: You must already care for me a lot then! :P
<Mingi>: Of course I care! How could I not care for such a pretty lady? :)
Blushing at your phone, you type a quick response, something along the lines of “Haha, whatever,” bidding your goodbyes, seeing as it’s already two in the morning. As he says his goodbyes, he swipes to his camera roll, looking at all the pictures he took without you even noticing, and slips his hand under his waistband.
A few days later, you’re at work, and you hear your phone ping. Sliding it out of your pocket, you see it’s Mingi. Smiling instantly, you reply, pocketing the device again. The past few days have been spent getting to know each other to the point you consider him a friend. You guys share very similar interests; he calls you out on your hobbies without you having even told him. You’ve joked about him being in your walls, watching you, both laughing it off as some joke.
Later that night, you’re lounging around at home. Changed into sweats and a loose tee, forgoing a bra. You message him asking if he’s available to chat. Instantly, he calls you. Answering, his charming voice engulfs your speaker. “Hey, gorgeous,” he teases. You roll your eyes. “If only you could see me now, you’d change those words.” You laugh, brushing off his compliment. He hums, “Let me guess; loose tee and sweats?” he chuckles. Raising an eyebrow, you look around. “How’d you guess? Got cameras hidden in my place?” You joke, laughing. “Obviously! Just want to keep eyes on my favorite girl.” He joked, switching between the cameras he installed in your apartment. At least you thought he was kidding.
Starting to cook dinner, you throw things in a casserole dish and toss it in the oven. Starting the timer, you go to start laundry. Yapping away in your ear, laughing as he says something dumb once again. Walking past a blanket that you definitely never mentioned before that needed to be cleaned, he speaks up, saying, “Hey, don’t forget the throw on your couch!” He chirps, causing you to furrow your brows. That’s suspicious. “How did you know about that?” You ask him, extremely curious.
Sweat beads at the base of his neck. Shit. Did he give himself away? “Uh, you asked me not to let you forget when I first called!” He quickly spoke, “Yeah, that excuse should work,” he thought to himself.
Suspicion paints your face, suddenly very aware of your surroundings. You begin to search your apartment, looking for a camera as you respond, “Riiight, I guess I forgot.” You shake your head, grabbing the blanket. Could he actually be capable of something like that?
His heart rate picks up, scared shitless you’ll find out his little secret. He lets out a sigh of relief when he sees you plop on your bed, ending your hunt. You still have a guess as to what he could possibly be up to, but you’re too tired to fight the feeling in your gut….
A few months later, your suspicions partially subsided, still having thoughts lingering in the back of your mind. Another night, another phone call with your good friend Song Mingi. Things have gotten heavier lately, more romantic if you could call it that. Pet names are spoken to each other, and despite your judgement, being around him makes butterflies flutter in your tummy and heat rise to your cheeks. Why does he have to be so hot?!
“So honey, I was thinking… Why don’t I take you out to dinner? My treat, of course. I wanna take you on a date and show you what you deserve. Can I? Would you like to go on a date with me?” He asks. Picking at your fingernails and nervously biting your lip, you think about it hard. It couldn’t hurt, right?
“Okay, Mingi. One date. Show me how much of a gentleman you can be,” you giggle, a flirtatious tone hitting your voice. He’s hot, so are you, and you’re damn proud of it. A man like Mingi showing interest in you was definitely an ego boost. “Just tell me what time and day to be ready, and you’ve got yourself a date, Mr. Song.” You poke at him. “Tomorrow, 7 pm. Be ready, baby. See you then, darling. I gotta go now, goodnight.” He urged, hanging up the phone. You sit there, staring at your now blank screen, confused. That was weird. Shrugging it off, you plug your phone in and drift off to sleep.
The next day arrives, you pace around your apartment with nerves on fire. He never mentioned where he’d be taking you, not even giving you a hint as to what you should wear. Would it be weird to text and ask him? Heartbeat loud in your ears as the blood rushes through them. On Mingi’s side, he's watching you pace like a trapped rat, smiling widely. “Hmm, perfect little dove. So nervous for me…” He sighs, palming himself over his pants. He loves the sight of you right now, watching you search for anything and anything to do before it’s time for him to arrive at your apartment. He begins to wonder if he should spare you, deciding if he should text you the dressing attire for the evening or let you stew. He picks up his phone, opening your messages as a new text from you appears.
<You>: Hey, Ming. Just wondering, what should I wear tonight? You never said!
He smirks, biting his lip. How long should he make you suffer? Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour? So many choices to keep you waiting, how long to make you more desperate.
Deciding on just ‘fuck it ’, he texts you instantly. What could he say? He was obsessed with you.
<Mingi>: Hey! Sorry about that, just wear something simple and casual. Nothing too fancy! It was last minute, after all. :)
Seeing his text, you smile and breathe a sigh of relief. Perfect. Ripped black jeans and a simple tee paired with your black Vans are the way to go.
It’s 6:30 before there’s a knock at your door. You speed walk to it, waiting a few seconds to not seem so desperate. Remember, this guy could be our stalker. Opening the door, you’re greeted with his smiling face, glasses sitting on his nose, and your favorite flowers in his hand. He hands them off to you, uttering a quick compliment of, “God, you look sexy even in the simplest outfits,” He says as he kisses your cheek.
“Wow, Mingi. I’m surprised you remembered I even mentioned these!” You smile brightly, taking them from him and finding a vase. GOD, he loved that look on your face. He wondered if you’d look the same taking his- “Hello?? Earth to Mingi? You giggle, waving your hand in his face. You could stare at him too, with him standing here in his fitted jeans that hug his plush thighs nicely and a random band tee that you’ve never heard of.
“Sorry, honey. You just look so good tonight.” He blushes. You roll your eyes, pink dusting your cheeks once more. “Whatever you say, Mingi.” Turning to find a vase for the bouquet. Once you fill the glass with water, you set it on the counter. “Okay, I’m ready,” you say, following him out the door, being sure to lock it.
Fried food and sounds of balls hitting pins fill the air, a bowling alley stuck in the 90s is the place he decided to take you. “Bowling, huh?” you nudge Mingi, turning to tell the worker your shoe size. “Yeah, why not? Figured I should see how competitive you can be” He teased, grabbing his shoes. You walk to your designated lane, putting the probably twenty year old shoes on your feet securely before walking over and punching your names into the screen.
“You can go first, Min, wanna see how competitive you can be,” you laughed, throwing his words back in his face. He rolled his eyes at you playfully, grabbing a ball from the rack, and immediately landing a strike. You stand there, mouth agape, eyeing him suspiciously. “And you thought you had to worry about me?”
Night goes on, a small bit of playful bickering between the two of you as it comes down to him being the winner. “Nice game, doll.” He poked at your ribs, a small pout on your face. “Whatever, Mingi.I let you win!” you lied; he obviously knew you didn’t. “Let’s go eat, I’m starved!” Grabbing his hand, leading him back into the cool night air after returning the borrowed shoes.
You lead him to your favorite spot near your apartment, half-drunk milkshakes and finished burger plates litter the table. More giggles and jokes shared between the two of you. “No, I’m telling you, Mingi! I swear, I had a stalker for the better part of six months. I was terrified!” you opened up to him, gauging his reaction to the news. You were still slightly suspicious of him, after all.
“No way, that’s crazy! And they just stopped randomly one day?” he asked, sipping his shake. You nod, “Seems so! Maybe they got bored or something,” shrugging and swirling around the melted malt that sits in the glass. He reaches over and takes your hand, “I’m sure everything is okay now, doll. And as long as you’re with me, you’re safe.” You looked into his eyes, nodding as he rubbed soothing circles on the back of your hand. Heart stuttering at the gesture, momentarily forgetting any thoughts you had of him being the culprit. “Mingi, take me home…. Your home, please?” He nods, slamming a bunch of money on the table, and leads you out.
Arriving at his place, he turns and pins you to the back of his door. “Can I kiss you, doll? Please, can I?” Heart pounds in your ears, unable to speak. You nod, able to make out a simple “Yes, please.” He surges forward, cupping your face and smashing your lips together. A battle of tongue, teeth, and spit, your hands fisting his shirt to pull him impossibly closer. He bites your lower lip, pulling a gasp from your throat as he soothes the sting, moving to suck on your tongue. “So sexy, just for me…” He mutters lowly, right against your lips.
He moves his lips to your neck, licking a stripe up from your shoulder to behind your ear, blowing cool air over the wet skin, earning him a shudder from your trembling body. “Mingi, please,” you pant, sparkling eyes looking into his. “Please touch me,” you practically beg, heat shooting through his core.
“Fuck, okay,” he swears, throwing you over his shoulder and pausing at the two rooms across from each other. “First, I need to tell you. This one is the bathroom; the other one is off limits. Do not go in there.” You nod, noting it for later. “Okay, understood. Please just fuck me.”
He tosses you onto his red and black duvet, pulling your shoes off your feet and tossing them carelessly behind him. “Can I strip you, honey?” he asks, hands rubbing up and down your ribs soothingly. “Yes,” you nod as his hands reach the hem of your top, pulling it over your head. He sucks in a breath, biting his lip at the sight of your body. “Fuck,” he groans, moving his hands to your waistband, undoing the button and zipper before pulling the ripped fabric off your body.
“God, you’re so sexy. Did you plan on this happening?” he smirks, noticing the matching undergarments you have on. “N-no, nothing else was clean!” You whined, feeling his big hands on your plush thighs. Hands sliding up to tease where you need him most, holding your breath. “Mingi, don’t tease me, please.” He looks you up and down, licking his lip. “Baby, I think you’re lying. You just did laundry yesterday, remember? Should punish you for the fib?” He chuckles, snapping the band of your thong against your skin.
“No, please don’t!” you whimper, fingers gripping the fabric of his sheets. He clicks his tongue, pulling his shirt off. “You sure, doll? I bet you’d look so pretty with tears streaming down your face.” He already knows you do, and maybe he has gotten off on it before. His fingers pull your thong down your legs, frustratingly slow. Fingers sliding back up your legs, back to your thighs to return to his teasing. Fingers sliding up and down your slit now, collecting the wetness. “So wet f’ me, and I’ve barely touched you.” He mutters, yanking you to the edge of his bed by your ankles and kneeling before you.
“Been dying to taste you since we first met,” he said lowly, looking you right in your eyes as he licks a strip up the opening of your cunt. “M-Mingi…” you stutter out, reaching to grab his hair. He intercepted your hands, pinning them back to the mattress. “Keep ‘em there for me, okay, baby?” You nod, earning a pleased smile from the man. “Good girl,” he praised, kissing along your thighs before diving in once more.
He licks, sucks, and slurps you down, two fingers pummeling inside you and hitting your sweet spot already. White knuckling the duvet, back arching as you gasp his name, begging to touch him. “Mingi, please! Let me touch you!” you fussed as he kept pushing all the right buttons to send you over the edge. Tongue still inside you, he shakes his head no, a gasp ripping from your throat. Pulling away, deep voice spoken against your pussy, “No way baby, I love the way you writhe,” He chuckles, adding a third finger.
He’s practically making out with your pussy, tongue coming up to flick your clit, fingers beginning to do that “come here” motion against the spot you need him most. “Cum for me baby, need to feel you coat my tongue as I taste you.” He groaned against you again, the other hand palming his throbbing cock over his pants, threatening to rip right through the denim. Your hips having a mind of their own, humping his face as the coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter, “Y-yes, fuck yes! I’m cumming!”
The band snaps, cum coating his tongue and face as your legs shake, crying and whimpering out his name mixed with curses. A sadistic grin paints his face as he licks his lips and fingers clean. He kisses your thighs, helping you calm down. He rises to his feet, commanding tone as he grips your chin. “Look at me,” he growled. Peeling your eyes open, you stare into his eyes. Pupils blown wide, your eyes scan his body, spotting the erection threatening to break free.
Devious smile stretches, asking you if “you like what you see?” you nod, biting your lip. “Just wait until you see the real thing” you swallow hard as he takes his belt off, popping the button and pulling down the zipper. He pulls them down to his ankles, kicking them off. Cock straining against the fabric of his boxers, spotting a small wet spot. He pulls those down as well, slowly to tease you as his hard length springs free and up to his belly button.
Gasp caught in your throat, eyes bugging out, you ask him, “Min, will that even fit?” He laughs, Gods you’re so precious. He climbs on the bed, leaning over you to cup your face, words hitting your skin like shards of glass. “Baby, we’ll make it fit.” Sitting back on his haunches, he spreads your legs as he grabs his cock. Stroking it before slapping it against your pussy, head catching your clit as he slides it up and down to collect your wetness, “Fuck, you ready for me honey?” he asks, pushing your thighs to your chest. “Yes, Mingi- fuck. Please fuck me!” you cry, tears threatening to spill.
He nods, pressing the head of his cock to your entrance before pushing in. Tight walls squeezing the thick girth, his head is thrown back, and groaning. “Fuck, baby. So nice and warm, squeezing me so good. So perfect for me.” He leans down, placing his head in the crook of your neck, placing lazy kisses there. Your nails dig into his back, leaving crescent shaped marks. He picks up his pace, changing the angle so his head is slamming against your cervix. You scream, nails raking down his back and leaving angry red marks.
“M-Mingi! S-Slow down! Please!” You cry out, tears of pleasure streaming down your face now. Seeing you in this state, he licks them off your face and moans, “So pretty like this, so perfect for me,” lowly in your ear. His praise, his cock, his actions send you closer to the edge, pulling him closer. “Mingi, I’m so close,” you whine. He sits up, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he snaps his hips against yours, faster and harder, angling his hips once again to hit the spongey spot inside you. Bringing his thumb down to rub your clit, arching your back again. “Cum for me baby, doing so good for me. Best pussy I’ve had. Such a good girl listening to me,” he growled.
“Fuck, Mingi! I’m cumming! I’m cumming! Gods, help! It feels so weird this time,” you whimper, head thrown back. He has to bite his lip to hide the smirk, uttering the words, “That's okay, baby. Let go, cum for me.” Hips slam into yours thrice more before you’re cumming, pussy drenching his cock, abdomen, and thighs as you scream his name. Clawing at his chest and arms, sure to leave marks behind, proving what happened tonight.
“Holy shit, you’re so sexy. Fucking squirting on me like that. Such a perfect whore for me, aren’t you?” he moans, slamming into you faster, hips stuttering as he nears his high. “Fuck, where do you want it?”
“INSIDE! Please! Need to feel you fill me,” you moan, nerves feeling as if they’re on fire. Your words set him ablaze, ripping your body up and slamming his lips against yours as his balls draw tight and fill your pussy, flooding you with his seed as he paints your insides white. You groan into each other's mouths, sobbing his name into his mouth. Collapsing against each other onto the mattress, panting as you both try to catch your breath. “Shit, I think that’s the best lay I’ve ever had,” you giggle, snuggling into his chest.
He reaches his fingers down, thrusting his leaking seed back into your pussy. “I could say the same, doll.” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss you passionately. You pull back, smiling. “Sorry about the mess…” you trail off, blushing. “Don’t worry about it, baby.” Cuddling into him again until you both drift off to sleep, hearts beating as one.
A few hours later, you wake up with the urge to use the bathroom. Quietly slipping from his grasp, you slip on his shirt and head to the door. Now in the hallway, heading to the bathroom as you eye the door he told you not to enter. Curiosity brews in your belly, brain screaming at you not to peek. Ultimately, your gut wins. You hold your breath, listening for any movement from his room.
Once you feel the coast is clear, you turn the knob, entering the room. Met with a dozen screens, multiple cameras set and aimed at very specific angles. Why does this place look familiar? You wonder, brows furrowed. Then it hits you-
“Fuck, this is my place.” Anxiety fills your veins as your eyes dart across each screen. They’re aimed at your bed, shower, couch, kitchen- basically anywhere he could see you. Tears prick your eyes. You should’ve pressed him further. Should’ve called him out more. Why did he have to be so devastatingly attractive?!
You didn’t hear him creep behind you, his voice scaring you. “Didn’t I tell you not to fucking come in here?” he boomed, walking towards you. Backing into the wall, fear now running rampant. “Mingi, why?” you sniffle, tears slowly falling now as your eyes dart between him and the screens. “Why?” he laughs. “You really want to know?” He smiles evilly, one you used to think was kind of cute. “I can’t really explain it. I walked past you one night after work and became so infatuated; I had to know you.” he stepped closer, cupping your face. You close your eyes, so terrified. Fingers move to grip your chin. “Look at me when I talk to you, baby.”
You swallow down the lump in your throat, looking up at him. “I can’t explain why I didn't just come up to you. Introduce myself, I just had to do it this way. Getting into your apartment was so easy, too. Just had to tell the leasing office I was house-sitting for you and got locked out.” He laughed; he actually fucking laughed at that. “You’re mine now, baby, completely mine. You can’t escape me now.” Hand moves to your throat possessively. “There’s no escaping now.”
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 smut mdni, vampire blood used as an aphrodisiac so slightly dubcon but reader is also very excited so not really but tagging just in case, vampire matz! so everything that comes with vampires like predator/prey dynamics and a LOT OF FUN cliche vampire stuff, some brief backstory about vampires in this universe but not really, threesome, mean dom hongjoong and condescending dom hwa, orgasm control & denial, blood kink, biting kink, unprotected p in v, pull out method, matz kiss once, dirty talk, degradation, dumbification, that's all i'm saying now go and enjoy it for urself
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 wc 10k
⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a/n SURPRISE! @an-annyeoing-writer i am ur secret admirer <3 this is my instalment for my lovely deej aka @everyonewooeverywhere 's fic exchange event, and a fic i had a bunch of fun with!! i have to also cred @sangis-puppy for discussing this with me as i wrote LOL rev i hope u love it as much as i do i am obsessed with them..
It’s hard to remember why you decided to come here.
If it was a typical night out, it’d be different. Normally, you and your friends are dressed up in your cutest outfits with your cutest cherry lip gloss and headed to one of your regular clubs in the city. There’s a strip of many, lined with any vibe you could ever want; cocktails, hard liquor, anything. The music is decent enough, the drinks aren’t too expensive, and most importantly - it’s safe.
It’s a lot safer than what people typically call hot spots floating around these days, the places where vampires spend their time. Ever since the existence of vampires was confirmed to the general public, there’s been as much fear as there has been fixation, so the typical hanging out spots of vampires are regularly discussed and known. You’ve been warned to stay away from these places - the dark lighting, heavy bassline, threatening as much as alluring type of clubs - because it’s dangerous for humans, although plenty of thrill-seeking humans go there anyway.
You’ve always felt like it’s not such a black and white predator-prey dynamic, but that doesn’t mean you’re not standing outside of the nightclub with a tinge of anxiety in your chest. What if the stories are true? What if a vampire uses some sort of mythical power to lure you away from everything you’ve ever known, to compel you to let them feed on you and rid you of any purity you may still have lingering?
Still, you remind yourself that’s silly and you’re safe - you can spot them from a mile away, but not for what one may assume. They’re not walking around at night in centuries old clothing with pale skin and blood glistening fangs protruding over a swollen, heavy bottom lip - they’re just like humans, really, but they have a specific aura. There’s something about them, whether it be expensive designer clothing styled with the expertise of someone who’s spent thousands of years doing so or radiant skin that doesn’t quite look real; it’s something otherworldly that sets them aside from everyone else.
But more importantly, vampires simply aren’t as bothered with humans as you assumed them to be. A few vampires have strutted past you and your friends tonight as you wait outside in the queue, dressed in dark materials and nails long and sharp, but it seems the availability of blood banks and willing donors after the big announcement has left them pretty docile. They don’t snarl and growl like the legends say - in fact, they seem pretty damn uninterested.
The bouncer on the door even displays little pointy white teeth as she checks your IDs and raises an eyebrow at Jihyo who’s dyed her hair and looks a little different. Still, she shoots you a nod, arms crossing back over her strong chest and lets the three of you inside the club.
Well, it’s exactly what you imagined. Red lights drape the partygoers and inside of the club, and the interior is like a church, with stone pillars and arches overseeing everything. You have to teeter downstairs on unstable platform heels to the actual main part, tugging at the bottom of your dress like it’ll help the way it rides up with your movement.
The bass only gets louder when you enter the room with the dancefloor, crowds of people inhibiting your movements so you’re almost locked in the little space you have. Curiosity strikes you and you want to move through the crowd to walk around, check the other rooms now that you know it can’t be that bad, but your friends drag you off to the bar.
“Don’t tell me the cocktails are vampire-themed,” You quip, and Jihyo elbows you, scoffing.
“Get into the mood, please,” She waves a hand in your face, grin bright and hair swept into a perfect ponytail, “the music is good, the atmosphere is good, the place is packed and it’s only midnight. I told you Sana was onto something about this place!”
Sana chirps up from your other side, already leaning onto the bar, “I’ve come here a few times! It only gets better later, you know, we should stay as long as possible.”
It’s surprisingly not sticky like your regular places are when you lean on the bar next to her, and although there’s a lot of people at the bar the bartender doesn’t take a long time to get to you. Jihyo orders you three drinks, something sweet with the kick of too much alcohol, and the three of you take to the dancefloor with drinks in hand.
“Do vampires even drink?” Jihyo murmurs, staring at the drink in hand.
Sana hums, “The ones here do, from what I’ve seen.”
You swear there’s something else floating in there, glittery and tempting and unknown, but when you swirl your glass it disappears. Taking a swig, you know when it hits your tongue that it’s just your typical vodka and lemonade, but that doesn’t change the clenching in your gut that something just isn’t right, like something’s looming and you haven’t gotten the ability to see it yet.
Still, Jihyo was right - the club is beyond busy even though it’s early, and the song is slowly getting you moving in your spot. The dancefloor twinkles, entrancing as you all move to it, and within minutes you’re dancing with your girls, the uneasy feeling leaving your body as literally no one bothers you. It’s beginning to become apparent that this spot might be even better than your usual places; despite the dark, gloomy atmosphere outside and as you walk in it’s pretty inviting once you’re in there, and they’re playing classics that you haven’t heard in years.
A few drinks and a few songs later, you’re reasonably buzzed from the amount of vodka in your system and feeling even more free. Sana wobbles off to the bar again, a little too tipsy to walk in a straight line, and you and Jihyo take the time to look around the club.
The main part you’re stood in is pretty centre, so you get to look around and take everything in. A DJ at the front, pretty generic but she’s focused on the task at hand, crop top short enough to show a navel piercing that glints in the lights - she seems to peruse the dancefloor at who the attendees for tonight are.
What catches your attention is the sections beyond the area you’re in, the VIP booths that seem to be obscured by curtains, yet you can see shadows moving behind them, clearly occupied. You dare to wonder what’s going on behind there. Your vision tracks through it all until you land on an area right at the edge, just over from the bar but with the curtains open, where two men stand in the entryway. You feel a pair of eyes on you before you fully register who it is - the culprit is right there, in that end section, long hair falling over his forehead in black waves.
Two pairs of eyes are on you, to be exact, two dark pairs that you swear to god you’ve seen before. When you wrack your brain, you can’t recall despite the fact they seem so familiar, and the men are still staring at you - one shorter, one taller, clad in all sorts of black leather and tight, dark clothing that your thighs start to tremble. It’s like they work together, their eyes wracking your frame with a million promises that go unsaid, their minds working silently. The shorter man’s lips curve up when he sees you looking back at them.
Radiant skin, an otherworldly aura - you know exactly what they are, but you’d be damned if you didn’t say they look beautiful, so enticing that you feel some sort of gravitational pull towards them, a feeling strong and all consuming that makes you need.
They’re positioned on the side of the club, up towards the VIP booths that you examined but separate, like they booked an area all to themselves. While the entrance is covered in black-out curtains intended to save privacy, the two men have hooked the curtains to the side and you can see inside the booth. There’s a leather couch, an abundance of burgundy-coloured drinks, and rolled up notes that you can only imagine the purpose of.
Jihyo’s talking to you. You hadn’t realised, but you slowly fade back into reality, and she’s flailing, trying to get your attention. “What are you looking at?” She shrieks, spinning next to you to follow your line of sight. It doesn’t take long for Sana to join her too, three drinks in two hands, and the impressed hums they let out are nothing short of embarrassing. “Oh, I see. You should go over there.”
“Definitely,” Sana says, and you notice the men haven’t even acknowledged them - they’re staring right at you still, and the taller man’s eyes follow the straw in your drink as you lead it back to your lips. You wonder what’s got them so interested in you, considering the vampires’ flippant attitudes outside - these men look beyond insatiable in comparison. She laughs in disbelief, “oh, you’re going over there. Like, now.”
You side eye them, mumbling behind your glass in a way that you’re hoping the men can’t see, “They’re vampires.”
“Even more reason,” Jihyo shoves you, pushing you forward before you can retort. “We’ll see you when you’re done.”
It’s a bad idea. It’s such a bad idea, especially given everything you know, how vampires can hurt you and compel you to do things you’d never do normally. However, you just can’t seem to help yourself - you down the rest of your drink, sliding the empty glass onto the bar before you’re walking right over to where the men stand.
The shorter man is laughing before you even get there. You feel embarrassed for a moment, but the taller man cocks his head towards you in interest, as if he can’t believe you’ve made the first move - as if he can’t believe you’re brave enough to. You can’t believe it either, but you stand at the entrance to their section like you belong there with them.
“Mm, can we help you, love?” The taller man speaks, almost accusatory like they weren’t the ones staring at you. His voice is smooth, steady, just barely audible over the music. The shorter man has retreated to the table, arms stretched over the back of the sofa and legs stretched out in front of him, the picture of confidence. He swirls his drink in his glass as he watches you, a smirk pulling at his lips like he knows you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.
You flush, and the taller man reaches out to bring your attention back to him, pushing your hair behind your ear. Up close, he’s ethereal, shoulder length hair that falls in dark layers around his sculpted face. His lips are full and with a pronounced cupid’s bow, causing your eyes to linger just a second too long - he sees it, lips quirking with amusement.
The silence is causing you to hesitate, and you want to turn around and leave, abort the mission completely, but he speaks again. “I’m Seonghwa,” He says, and you think it’s a pretty name to match a pretty face. “That’s Hongjoong. He’s friendly, I promise.”
Hongjoong turns to you with a grin that looks more predatory than friendly, and Seonghwa ushers you over to the table. You don’t miss how he pulls the curtains down behind you once you walk in, obscuring the three of you from the rest of the club - are the rest of the booths full of vampires with their picks for the night? The idea doesn’t make you uneasy, rather exciting you; deep down, there’s something within you that is raving that you may be their pick.
The leather of the sofa is a little too hard when you fall down upon it, dress rolling up a little, and you’re not surprised to see Hongjoong is just as pretty up close too. His hair is messy, dark brown and long enough to almost obscure his pretty, feline eyes, and when he finally drops his smile his lips are pouty, almost cute if you didn’t know who he is - what he is. When he finally speaks, his voice is level, commanding, so strong you’re not sure you can find your own.
“Do you want a drink, sweetheart?”
“I..” You hesitate, glancing at the liquid. What exactly are they drinking? You were still a little tipsy from the pregame, and the drinks that the girls got you at the bar are going straight to your head now that you’re in the company of the two most attractive men you’ve ever met. It’s hard to formulate ideas and Seonghwa blinks, tilting his head again before he finally meets your gaze on the large pitcher in the middle of the table.
He bursts out laughing. “Oh,” He chortles, clapping his hands together. “Did you- sorry, did you think we were drinking blood? Honey, this is rum.”
“Well…” you start, “you’re- y’know.”
It’s Hongjoong’s turn to chuckle, sipping his drink again before he finally turns to you. Instead of letting his friend pour you a drink, he hands you his own glass and you leave a pretty lipgloss stain when you taste some. It’s nice, a little bitter for you but the men seem happy enough drinking it, and you’re honestly just pleased that it’s not human blood.
“What do you know about vampires?” Hongjoong asks, tone teasing, “I mean, surely not a lot. You approached two on your own in a nightclub and then you thought we were drinking blood in here. You seem pretty dumb, little thing.”
It’s said flippantly, but neither of them miss how a shiver runs down your spine - how could they? Hongjoong’s brow lilts in intrigue and Seonghwa takes a sip of his own drink, perching himself on the seat across from you both. He spreads his lithe thighs, too relaxed in the company of someone he doesn’t know - you suppose it’s easy for them.
“I know enough,” When you speak, your voice is quiet, but sure. They hang off your every word, quiet and interested, “you don’t need to hurt people, not really.”
“Mm, you’re right, we don’t need to,” Seonghwa leans forward, elbows on his knees. “We like to, though, me and Hongjoong.”
Your breath catches in your throat. They don’t look any less unsure at your hesitation, only curious, like they’ve waited their entire lifetimes for your answer. You stare at Seonghwa, and then Hongjoong - where have you seen these eyes before?
“L-like,” You stammer, “in what way?”
“Do you know what a little vampire blood does to a human, love?” The taller man’s voice captures your attention. “Just a little bit - not nearly enough to turn you - can make you a horny little love. Even pain feels good. Anything feels good. It can make you beg, even when you’ve cum so much your cunt feels numb, did you ever hear that?”
You stare. You hadn’t heard that, no, but now the idea of the two was seeming even more enticing, if it was possible.
“If you want us to stop, you can tell us to stop,” Hongjoong offers you, and it’s comforting knowing that they’re not totally deranged, but you would never want to tell them to stop. Crossing your legs, you take another sip of the other man’s drink and hand it back to him - his gloves brush you on the way and you don’t know what it is but you want more, inhaling deep, swallowing hard enough for them to notice. He beams, and you swear his eyes flash red for a second, “ooh, I don’t think you do though, do you?”
They notice everything, and you feel like you can’t hide at all.
“So, would you like some, sweetheart?” Hongjoong’s voice is closer now, right at your ear, and it sends shivers through you, down to the tips of your toes. “I think you’d be gorgeous with us inside you,” a thinly veiled innuendo, but you moan too easily, and he laughs, excited with something you’re a little scared of underneath, “mm, why don’t you come here, let me have a look at you properly.”
He’s already had enough of a look, you think, sat next to you for so long, but he pats his lap and you follow. Slinging one leg over his lap, completely ignorant to the happenings of the nightclub behind you, you face Hongjoong. He grips your jaw with two gloved fingers, turning you this way and that like he’s not just going to devour you as soon as he can.
In fact, he leans in just a little closer to look at your eyes, at the way they dilate from something - arousal, fear - and you swear you see two pointy teeth come out to nip at a surly lower lip. His legs spread further, and with the movement you feel him dig into your core underneath your dress, making you squirm where you’re sat. He’s already hard. You wonder if Seonghwa is, too, and the idea of having these two vampires so hot for you… your gut burns.
“Pretty,” He murmurs, and one thumb comes out to dip between your lips, past them into your mouth. It runs over your tongue, and you taste the buttery leather - it doesn’t taste of a lot, the rum perhaps, and he knocks your mouth open to look at your teeth. “Look at these,” he smiles, and you can’t help it; you nip his teeth, gentle but teasing, and he gasps playfully, falling for it, “wow. She bites, Hwa.”
“That’s nice,” He says, almost uninterested. When he crowds into your space, front against your back, you feel his cock, hard and firm against your back that tells you he’s very much interested. He takes your chin from Hongjoong’s hold to pull your head back towards him. You gaze at him upside down, and he smiles, gentle but threatening, “do you want some of this now, love?”
He’s holding a vial, small and clear, with a red liquid moving around inside. This time, you’re sure it’s blood, and you’re even more sure that it’s vampire blood like they were talking about earlier. One of theirs, you presume, but you’re too eager to question it - your lips part, tongue lolling out dumbly as he pops off the cap. Both men look delighted at your eagerness, Seonghwa letting out a little noise of appreciation as he grips your chin.
The cap falls somewhere and rolls on the floor, neither of the men questioning it as Hongjoong’s hands move to your waist to keep you steady. Seonghwa’s fingers hold you more firmly, and he taps once, twice, on the end of the vial, two drops of metallic hitting your tastebuds that have you wanting to screw your face up.
Your head immediately rocks back forwards, eyes scrunching shut as you adjust to the taste. While your ears ring, Hongjoong leans back, gets more comfortable against the sofa and you feel the telltale dip of Seonghwa settling next to him. It’s overwhelming for a moment, and you swallow hard, hoping to get rid of the taste; it’s too much, too strong, too-
Oh.
“Oh my god,” Your hands go to Hongjoong’s chest before you can help yourself, and this time they both watch your pupils dilate, eyes fixated way too intently on yours. A telltale burning spins in your gut, like the same feeling you get when you’ve been building an orgasm and you’re finally, finally about to let go, except the bubble never pops - your hands move eagerly, impulsively. You’re rocking your hips before you can help it, grinding your cunt down against that bulge you’d tried so hard to ignore, sharp whine hitting your ears before you realise you’ve opened your mouth, “fu-uck, oh my- oh, please-”
“How much did you give her, Hwa?” Hongjoong’s voice is gruff, but not at all displeased, his hands moving down the slope of your waist to the plush of your hips, fingers digging in. The pressure guides you to move against him and you feel feverish, desperate, head falling back as your hips fuck forwards. Your pussy starts to slick in your panties, messy and pathetic and ultimately untouched despite your intense movements against his clothed erection, and it builds and builds and never pops.
“Two drops,” Hwa muses, voice level, staring at where you buck against his friend. Your dress rocks up properly from the movement, exposing your panties and where you’re leaking through the fabric, onto Hongjoong’s undoubtedly expensive leather trousers. You run your hands down, over the plush pectorals and over his arms and back down to his belt - even touching him like this feels euphoric, your mouth opening in another strangled noise.
Hongjoong chuckles, seemingly unaffected by your frantic behaviour, “That’s all it took? She really is a slut, isn’t she? Gonna let us bite you tonight too, pretty?”
The idea makes your head spin, and you nod eagerly, “G’na- gonna let you bite me, if you want, would’ve anyway-”
“Would you, little love?” Seonghwa says, and it’s the first time he sounds affected, eyes flickering to the curve of your neck. He reaches over with slender fingers to brush the hair off of your neck, exposing the skin there, and runs one fingernail up as if he can’t wait to split it open. “Isn’t that good to know, Joong?” He’s pleased, lips curving, “she’s just that eager. I think she’d let us do anything to her.”
Seonghwa’s teeth poke out, and you gasp, nodding, eager. Hongjoong’s hand moves suddenly to your neck where his friend’s lips lay, covering the flesh where he intended to bite you, eyeing his friend with a loaded glance.
“I think we need to go home,” he gushes, too fast, a little more panicked than you’ve heard him. The vampire at your neck pauses, before he seems to come back into himself and hum deeply. “Hwa,” Hongjoong murmurs, “you can’t do that here, you know that.”
The other man tilts his head, considering, “Let’s take her back to ours.”
It’s said without an ounce of thought as to what you’d want to do, but you assume they know, can tell by the way your hands roam on Hongjoong and you grab Seonghwa’s waist with one hand, pulling him into you both, hips bucking in short, stuttered movements.
The shorter man huffs out a laugh, hand weaving through your hair and pulling, just slightly. “I think she likes that idea,” his hand smooths down your dress, over your tummy, landing on the soft plush at the bottom, “this little pussy can’t help but move on me, can it? So pathetic.”
You wail. If you grind just right, rubbing your clit against his leather trousers you swear you can cum, if he gives you a little bit, grinds up into you, keeps talking to you like that. He seems to know that’s all you’d need to fall over, and he nudges you off his lap with his knuckles and stands up straight like his cock isn’t tenting his pants. It looks big, thick and promising and your legs fall apart without realising, exposing what’s underneath your dress - simple, cotton panties that are definitely soaked.
Just a few blocks away, Seonghwa says. He seems decisive that you’re coming back with them after your little show, and you wouldn’t have it any other way - you follow them out of the club, leaving the bottles and glasses behind you like they own the place, and you briefly see Jihyo and Sana occupied with their own counterparts for the night. Oh well, you suppose a text will suffice - they seemed to have thought you were safe enough with these men, and although you’re not too sure, you’re the one trailing behind them outside of the club with a stupid little smile on your face.
As soon as you’re outside, Seonghwa lights a cigarette and Hongjoong hands him a lighter from his pocket. The fresh air has you feeling a little clearer, vampire blood wearing off, but surely you can’t be seeing a vampire smoke right now.
“Can you even get addicted to things?” You blurt.
Hongjoong’s eyebrow lilts. “It’s a habit. He smoked when he was human, and he still smokes now.”
He inhales, scratching the back of his head before pointing down the street. You suppose Hongjoong’s right, but it still makes you laugh. He sets off on the journey, leaving you and Hongjoong walking behind him. You’re a lot less colder than earlier with your liquid confidence but the man next to you still takes his leather jacket off and puts it over your shoulders wordlessly, hand wrapping around your waist, keeping you steady and warm.
They were right - it really was a few blocks away, their house, and you’re affronted by how normal it looks.
Their house is modern; it’s sleek and dark and tempting, just like its owners, but painfully normal, and you kick off your uncomfortable shoes at the door next to a potted plant. Without your heels, you feel at a disadvantage, shorter than you were before, but you have no other choice than to walk in and make yourself at home. The sofa is a lot more comfortable than the one in the club, softer fabric and not dipping as much when you sit on it, and Hongjoong walks over to their kitchen and pulls out three glasses.
You wonder if they do this a lot, bringing pretty humans home and taking them apart so nicely they can’t think of anything other than coming back, staying forever, being theirs. It’s already on your mind and they haven’t even touched you properly yet.
Seonghwa sits next to you, legs akimbo. You’re able to see them better now that you’re out of the club, lighting bright - it would be too jarring if they weren’t so fucking beautiful. Turning to Seonghwa, your eyes follow the soft slope of his nose, down to full, plush lips that form as he has a conversation with his friend; you’re not paying attention, wanting so earnestly that you think you might die before they touch you.
A glass of something - whiskey, you think - is placed down on the glass coffee table in front of you, but you don’t touch it, preferring to focus on the men. Hongjoong gives Seonghwa a glass and he sips it, humming at the taste before he finally turns towards you.
His voice cuts through the tension, “What do you want us to do to you tonight?”
What do you want them to do? That’s something you can answer, moreso now that you’ve got your wits about you again, eyes flickering to his lips to give him enough nonverbal consent as you can - you want them to do fucking everything.
With another sip of his drink, he stands up sharply, offering you a hand. Hongjoong’s already gone somewhere, you realise, the shorter man gone from the living room.
Taking Seonghwa’s hand before you can doubt yourself, you decide you’ve already come this far, and he takes you further, leading you down the hallway to the bedroom. Every joke you had stored about vampires not sleeping dies on your lips as soon as you see it, the large bed and pretty much nothing else in the room. The bedposts are clad in canopies just like the club, the mattress clad in dark, satin sheets and with one of your men for the night perched on the edge. He looks satisfied, like he knew this was coming, and Seonghwa leads you to sit on the bed.
“If you need us to stop at any point-”
“I know,” You cut the taller man off, situating in front of him on the bed. The vampire blood has pretty much worn off by now but your gut is still clenching, arousal building up from the simple idea of you having these two men at once, although you can’t help all of the questions you still have. “Do you do this often?”
“Do what often?” Hongjoong says from in front of you, lips curling up like he knows exactly what you mean.
Seonghwa’s hands move to your dress, pulling the fabric up just enough to your waist to expose your panties. “Um,” you start, breath heavy, “bring- bring humans back, and-”
“Oh, that?” He says, eyes dropping to between your legs. You’re know you’ve soaked through the cotton already, and you’re definite his eyes flicker red this time, telling you that he sees it. You squirm with embarrassment. “No, we don’t. Humans break too easy.”
“More like you’re too heavy-handed,” Seonghwa murmurs like an afterthought. His hands roam over your body, too warm for someone who’s meant to be cold. His fingers hook in your panties, teasing, and Hongjoong sips on his drink, content to watch for now. “Should I take these off?”
“Yeah,” you mumble, and Hongjoong’s head tilts. Without him needing to say anything, you straighten up a little, toes curling into the sheets, “yes, please, Seonghwa.”
The “good girl” you get from them both is enough to make you preen, and the man behind you rewards you with taking off your panties, like he was waiting for his friend to tell him he was allowed.
“Keep this up for me,” he motions, and your hands move to your dress, obediently holding it up just enough to show your core. You’re wet, you can feel it - the arousal slicks up to your swollen bud and down past your pussy, dripping to the other hole between your asscheeks. It’s killing you that neither of them are touching you, so content with waiting, letting you feel the tension.
Seonghwa’s fingers finally dip down between your legs, forming a vee up your folds and just barely brushing against the pudge of your clit - you whine, knuckles whiting where they hold your dress up and Hongjoong just watches, across from you both with the two top buttons of his shirt undone, drink in hand.
“How’s she looking?” The man behind you says, quiet in your ear but seemingly loud enough for Hongjoong to hear it - he lets out a noise of amusement in response, placing his glass down on the table. It clatters, glass on glass sharp against your ears, and Seonghwa’s fingers continue their inspection; your legs tremble as they slide down to your hole, prodding teasingly, but you’re in such a position that all you can do is sit there and take it, Seonghwa’s forearm firm around your tummy. You’re convinced this was intentional.
Hongjoong rises from his seat, feet heavy as he struts over to the two of you. He’s on his knees in a beat, pretty face only a few inches from your cunt, and your hips buck desperately.
“I’m not eating it, little thing,” He chuckles, reaching up to swipe his own thumb through your arousal, making a few tight, quick circles around your clit. It wracks a moan from your chest, hoarse and so airy you’re a little embarrassed, but he coos at you, “how long have you been this wet? Since before we gave you that blood?”
“W-way before, since- since I saw you,” You admit, chest heaving, and he rewards you a few more circles against your bud. Seonghwa keeps you spread, and when his friend gives you a few more touches at a rhythm that makes your eyes cross he pulls your thigh back towards him, forcing you to take it. “I- it’s so sensitive there, please-”
“Side effect, honey,” Seonghwa says it like you’re stupid, and you nod dumbly because you’d believe anything he said right now, proving his point. “Why don’t you just feel it, hm? Try not to cum though, yeah?”
It feels impossible right now. Hongjoong’s thumb circles your clit, fast and steady like he knows exactly how to take you apart already, and your hole gushes dumbly down onto their bed. You’re making a mess, you know you are, squirming and writhing on a vampire’s lap while his just-as-dangerous friend rubs your pussy better than your own hands ever could, but you can’t help it - you moan and whine and whimper, hands impatiently moving from your dress to grip at Seonghwa’s thighs.
“We told you we’d make you a horny little thing, but this,” Hongjoong eyes your cunt, looking nothing but thrilled, “this is pathetic. I bet you want to cum so bad already, little clit so fucking swollen you can’t take it.”
It brings your brain back to life, remembering what Seonghwa said, digging your nails into the leather on his thighs with a sharp buck of your hips, “w-why- why can’t I cum?”
“Why would you be allowed to cum already?” Seonghwa laughs mirthlessly. “Have you earned it? I don’t think you have.”
Your head spins. Hongjoong presses down further, slides his hand down until he’s pushing two fingers into your pussy, past the initial resistance and deep until he can curve his fingers up, forcing through slick and mess to reach that spot.
“Mm, she hasn’t,” He says, “all she’s done is been a slut all night. I think she could use learning some manners. Learning how to wait for things, especially.”
His fingers tap against your g-spot and your jaw drops, thighs threatening to close where they’re held apart, voice warbling, “but I w-wanna cum.”
“You do?” Hongjoong laughs, “are you close?”
Voice raising higher, your bottom lip trembles, nodding, the tension in your stomach building with each curl of his fingers, “mmhm!”
His fingers leave you, and although it’s your first proper edge it feels cruel, mean, and your gasp is accompanied by a harsh clenching of your hole around nothing. Slick cascades down your folds, ignored, and you cry out, head rolling on Seonghwa’s shoulder. He shushes you gently, stroking your hair.
“Soon, honey, soon,” He says, and you’re not convinced but you’re still coming down from a denied orgasm and can’t understand fully. “How did that feel?”
“H-hurt,” you strain, and the shorter vampire flicks your clit to laugh at the way you squeak. “It hurt, I- I don’t- I wanna cum-”
His hand still strokes you, kissing at your hairline and down your face until he presses his lips against yours - you hadn’t even realised they hadn’t kissed you but now it feels like a reward, Seonghwa’s tongue claiming your mouth while you lean at an awkward angle to get more. You can’t help the feverish moan you let out, coming down from a harsh edge and being given a pretty man’s lips; it would fully overtake your senses if not for the feeling of the other man moving between your legs. He keeps your jaw positioned against him, hold firm, distracting you with wet, dominating kisses.
You whimper into his mouth, legs still so open, and the feeling of something wet hitting your folds makes you try to pull away and watch.
“No, don’t you worry about that,” He murmurs, and you see the flickering of his teeth - your back arches, skin almost tingling with the need to have him bite you, drink your blood, be his favourite. He rewards you with a nip to your lower lip, just strong enough to break the skin. As soon as the blood hits his tongue he moans, so deep and strangled that you moan right back, scrambling at his arms.
A wet suck on your pussy, and your hips surge far away from him and towards whatever that was. He finally lets you go, your chin smudged with your own blood, eyes fluttering open to see Hongjoong between your legs.
His tongue flicks over your clit, fast and precise, eyes moving up to you and landing directly on your to gauge your reaction.
You’re loud, face crumpling in ecstasy, moans tumbling from your lips quicker than you realise, hand moving to his hair to keep him right there so you can chase it. He lets you, surprisingly enough, groaning at the sensation and rewarding you with his tongue delving deeper into your folds, sucking arousal straight from your hole to spit it back on your pussy again.
The other man seems to savour the taste of your blood on his tongue, licking over his own lips to make sure that he’s gotten as much as he can before moving from behind you. Without the sturdiness of his body behind you, you’re left to fall against the sheets, and your hands automatically come to the pillow, grabbing and pulling and almost ripping your nails right through the fabric.
Seonghwa settles between your legs, right next to Hongjoong. You’re not able to question it because he noses at Hongjoong’s cheek until he looks at him with lust-filled eyes, your slick drowning his chin and his surly lips. The loss of stimulation doesn’t have long enough to bother you because the shorter man pulls at Seonghwa’s hair, yanking him towards him and enveloping him in a messy, spit-filled kiss, both of them sharing the taste of your blood and arousal.
“Mm, fuck, tastes good,” He moans, sucking on Seonghwa’s bottom lip. You moan at the sight, hips bucking for something, anything, but the two men continue to fuck each other’s mouths with their tongues, lips meeting in a heavy exchange - they’ve done this before, you’re sure, too natural in the way they take over each other’s lips.
It only lasts a second longer before they’re pulling away, only this time both men’s lips are on you, Seonghwa sucking your labia into his mouth and letting them go with a wet pop. Hongjoong moves up to your clit, sucking it into his mouth harshly and giving you the stimulation you need, almost too much but not enough. Your body starts to slick with sweat, too warm in your dress but unable to do anything but take it, both men’s tongues swirling around your cunt like they’ve done it a million times.
“Oh- oh my god,” you cry out, in disbelief at the sight in front of you. Both men’s heads move against you, mouths wet and sloppy against your core. Seonghwa moves to lick over your clit, quick kitten licks that have you chasing the pleasure, itching to hold them against you - you imagine they wouldn’t let that slide now that they’re both down there, having their fix. Gripping onto the pillow with another sharp noise, you buck your hips against them, staring down at the mess of tongues and slick that ruin you. It feels so good, so messy but so imprecise and if you just have a little bit more on your clit- “fuck, fuck, feels so good, I-”
“You’ll take what you’re fucking given,” Hongjoong pulls off enough to say, and it’s said so simply that there’s no room to argue. You try to stop squirming but you can’t help it, toes curling and messy cunt rocking to meet their mouths, Hongjoong darting his tongue inside your hole to clean you from the inside. The new sensation makes you gasp, fingers tightening where they grip the pillow, and he does it again, again, curling it a little to see the way you moan, loud and broken.
When their eyes flit up to you this time, you’re surprised to see they’re both fully red now, hungry, dangerous. Seonghwa’s fingertips reach your mound, pulling back to expose your clit to their mouths. It’s too much, too sensitive, and when he sucks over it again you realise you’re dangerously close to cumming. A brief, bratty thought flashes through your mind - could you just let go? - but you remember who they are, what they’re giving you, what they’ve promised to do. You’d rather stay on their good sides if it means getting all of that.
“I’m- I’m close again,” you breathe, and Seonghwa hums, sucking on your clit like it’s a damn popsicle. He doesn’t stop, pushing you right to the brink, and the other man reaches up and slides two fingers past your folds just to really torture you. It’s the most difficult thing you’ve ever had to do, avoiding moving so that the tiniest thing doesn’t send you over the edge. You whine when he taps against your g-spot, shaking your head so rapidly you make yourself dizzy, hips trying to crawl away from the pleasure.
“So good she’s denying herself now,” Seonghwa murmurs, stroking your mound, “don’t be cruel, Joong, look at her trying so hard.”
The man in question does look, eyes round and amused and so red as he watches your struggle. You squirm and writhe until he eventually slides his fingers out, and you fly backwards from the precipice so fast it makes you sob wetly, tears begging to fall from your eyes. Seonghwa pecks your clit softly; Hongjoong doesn’t look bothered, leaning back on his haunches to finally pull some of his clothes off.
You’re exposed to a lot of skin, plush yet firm muscle that begs your hands to touch it when he unbuttons his shirt and throws it to the floor. Seonghwa enters your vision, looming over you and making quick work of your dress - it’s like something goes unsaid, like they know what they both want to do to you and when. It lands on the floor next to Hongjoong’s shirt and you’re moved onto your tummy, automatically scrambling onto your hands and knees with an arch to your back that has the taller man groaning in appreciation.
The sound of a belt buckle is loud, mocking to your ears as you can’t see anything. You hear the sound of fabric hitting the floor again, and then the feeling of a man behind you - not as much of a presence, so you assume Hongjoong, slighter but firmer; heavy-handed too, if the harsh slap he lands on your ass is anything to go by.
Knees crawl closer to you on the bed. Seonghwa positions himself in front of you, shirt now gone too - you wonder when he did that, but you’re so overwhelmed by the men and their two edges have you so dizzy that you can’t question it, mumbling blissfully. You’re able to watch him undo his belt, his trousers being pushed down to his ankles and further onto the floor, his boxers being moved just under his balls to expose his cock.
Seonghwa’s cock is long, thick enough to make your mouth water but not so thick that you think taking him will be a challenge. In fact, your pussy gushes wetly looking at it, the way his tan, erect shaft lays in a smattering of dark hair that leads up to his navel. He grips his base, shows it to you because he can see you can’t stop looking; the way he starts to pump it inches away from your face is cruel.
You inhale sharply at the feeling of a cockhead swiping through your folds, intentionally teasing but capturing your attention effortlessly. Hongjoong’s hand comes down on the small of your back, firm, “do you want it, sweetheart?”
“Yeees,” you writhe eagerly, Seonghwa’s hand coming into your hair to keep you still. He jerks his shaft inches from your face and moves your head onto his thigh, and you lick your lips, wanting nothing more than to be stuffed from both ends. Will they let you cum now? You have a feeling it’s a no, but still, “want it. Gimme both, lemme- wanna cum on it, please-”
“Greedy bitch,” Hongjoong laughs, using his thumb to push his shaft downwards. The tip just about catches on your hole and you whine, thighs shaking as you try to move back towards him - his hand keeps you still, keeping you between him and his friend of eternity. “What did I tell you?” He asks, and your head spins, unknowing of anything but getting yourself full, “stop thinking with your cunt. We’ll decide when you cum, if you cum.”
He’s playing with you, you’re sure, but you’re also sure that he’s mean enough to leave you high and dry once he’s finished using you if you’re not good. With your eyes fluttering shut, you let out a loud whimper of defeat, and he chuckles again from behind you.
“That’s right, quiet now.”
If Seonghwa’s bothered by his friend’s teasing he doesn’t show it, hand tightening at his head and focusing on pleasuring himself. It’s daunting, the way his head rolls back against the headboard but his eyes stay on you, the strings of drool that fall past your lips at the sight, wetting the sparse hair on his thigh. His grip tightens in your hair, tongue curling over his teeth and you see them, sharp and protruding now, and it’s too much to take.
“Please,” You gasp, “please, please, please, fuck, I’ll beg, I-”
“You are begging,” Hongjoong hums, “it’s not very good, though. Beg better. Beg better for me to shove my cock in your little human pussy.”
It’s embarrassing how quickly you respond. “Mm- mm, fuck, please, please, please, want it so bad, want you to- want you to fuck me, bite me, claim me, please, I’ll be yours, both of you-”
He doesn’t say anything, no praise, no confirmation of your hard work - he slides home in one deep thrust, cock so thick your pussy has to stretch to accommodate it despite his fingers spreading you open earlier. It feels like everything you’ve ever wanted, one thrust taking you apart and putting you back together again, and he doesn’t wait; he starts to fuck you vigorously, hips kicking up a rhythm against the plush of your ass.
“Tight little thing, aren’t you?” He sounds unaffected, tone level, “wet enough to drip down to my fucking balls, too. How’s it feel?”
“Mm, I- oh, oh-”
“Yeah,” he smiles, and pushes your head onto Seonghwa’s cock. It’s silent permission for you to start, and you immediately surge forwards to suckle around the head. After his teasing it’s leaking pearlescent drops, and you lick straight from the piss slit with your tongue, swirling it around the head with a delighted moan. Seonghwa swallows hard, sighing, and although you want to take your time Hongjoong grips onto your hips tighter and fucks into you so hard your head slides down the other man’s length too quickly, too fast, hitting the back of your throat and making you gag. “Oh, sorry,” he laughs, “did you think you were in control then? Gag on it.”
You moan, delighted, pussy throbbing so hard Hongjoong feels it and lets out a sharp inhale, sucking his teeth. He starts to bounce against you quicker, fucking you down his friend’s cock, and Seonghwa’s hands move to your hair to control your movements a little more.
Managing to breathe through your nose for the most part, it isn’t too bad, but Seonghwa’s dick is long and it hits the back of your throat so hard you wince and whine through the pain. He bucks his hips upwards, full lips parting in silent, eager little breaths and fucking against the back of your mouth a few more times before he lets you up for air. As soon as your head hits his thigh again, you start whining, too full of Hongjoong’s cock still and Seonghwa laughs breathlessly.
“Shit, you’re just like this, aren’t you?” He grips himself at the base, slapping his cock against your cheek, “don’t even need the blood,” he murmurs, in awe, “you’re just this fucking desperate.”
Hongjoong’s thumb slides down, just barely passing over where his cock stretches you, and the extra stimulation reminds you of your ruined orgasms. You begin to babble something incoherent, some form of pleading, and he sighs wetly and hooks it into your gummy hole alongside his shaft. The stretch is too much - you let out a loud squeal, feet kicking where they lay and he has to pin you down with his hips while Seonghwa teases himself in front of you, starting to strip his shaft again.
You land on your tummy, Hongjoong fucking into you without abandon, and the sheets just barely brush against the pudge of your clit. Suddenly, you’re sobbing, too sensitive and too close, trying to writhe away from the pleasure but the pressure of his body keeps you there.
“I- too much, please, I’m close-”
“Just a little more,” Seonghwa groans, forcing his cockhead past your lips again, “suck on this and stay quiet, honey.”
You’re barely suckling on it, but it’s something to focus on while you try to quell your orgasm. Your thighs burn and your cunt drools but you have to be good, have to do what they say, or- well, you’re not sure, but the need to please them is stronger than any need you have to cum. Seonghwa moves your head on his shaft, softly up and down just to keep him sated for now, and you hum and whine around a full mouth.
“F-fuck, yeah, gonna cum,” Hongjoong breathes, and it’s the first time you hear him sound affected. His hips snap into your ass, eyes fixated on the way the flesh ripples every time, and he fucks inside of your wet cunt a few more times before he pulls out with a sharp inhale. You hear the sound of him stripping his shaft, slick wet noises that make your ears turn red because you’re responsible for that, and on a tight grip upwards you feel the beginnings of his release. “Fuck, yeah, mm- there you go, honey, t-there you go.”
He sounds almost soft, but you know better, the hot strips of his white cum burning his mark into the small of your back. It drips down your skin when you squirm from the feeling of it, and he smears it down to your ass, messy and territorial.
Seonghwa pulls you down to the base of his shaft once more, so deep your eyes water, and then he rips your head up by your hair sharply.
“On your back,” He urges, cheeks flushed and teeth permanently out now, so sharp but alluring. They nip at your jugular when you listen to him, rolling onto your back despite the mess undoubtedly staining their bedsheets. He pushes your thigh back to your chest, long hair cascading over his forehead, gripping the base of his dick firmly, just barely angled downwards to your pussy, “do you want it, my love?”
“Please,” you groan, hole sore but so desperate, clenching rhythmically where it tries to pull him inside. “Please, give it to me, please-”
“I’m not that mean,” He murmurs, clearly referring to his counterpart - Hongjoong only laughs, sprawled on the bed naked with his cock softening against his muscled thigh. The sight causes a fire to burn in your gut; you want them both again, but you’re also very aware of the fact you haven’t cum yet, and Seonghwa seems like he might give that to you. With your leg pulled back, you’re spread open, and from Hongjoong’s ministrations it doesn’t take a lot to shove his cock inside, impatient and longer than the last one you took, so deep it knocks into your cervix when he’s fully inside and you squeal, hands moving to his shoulders for purchase. “Fuck, you are wet,” he says, other hand moving to your tummy to keep you flat, “how much of that is from our blood?”
“I-” he starts moving, and you gasp sharply, eyebrows knitting in a moan of pleasure. He’s good at this, just like Hongjoong was, and after a few hesitant thrusts he’s able to aim specifically at the spot that makes your eyes cross. “Fuck, I- it’s just from you, please-”
“I know, I know, I shouldn’t tease you,” He coos, hand smoothing over your hair. He starts to fuck you quicker, rocking against you at such a pace that you can’t help the way your orgasm starts to build already, pussy gushing a river and smearing over his pubes, his happy trail, his thighs. You start to buck your hips from the delicious sight, clit burning with need, hands gripping onto him for dear life. “I’m gonna let you,” he says, like he knows you were wondering, “you’ve waited so long, hm? I know, baby, let me make it happen.”
It’s a promise that he makes quick work of, both of his hands pushing your legs into a vee. It allows him to fuck you deeper, shaft slick as it moves in and out of you, his lips parting in a moan as he watches it. It doesn’t take long to get the same sensation Hongjoong gave you, hands gripping your trembling thighs as he picks up the pace, “Fuck, so warm, how did you- how did you last so long?”
“I didn’t get my cock sucked by her,” Hongjoong says, head tilting as he perceives you. Your eyes water, so close but not allowed to let go until they say, and he smiles, pleased, “looks like she’s broken in now, Hwa. She’s gonna cry for it.”
“Oh, yeah?” Seonghwa’s breath stutters, thumb and finger gripping your cheeks and squishing them like he’s scolding a child. A shiver runs through you at the treatment, tears spilling over, and your arousal starts to cream at the base of his cock, a white ring that has him groaning. “Should we let you cum, honey? Have you earned it?”
“Have, I have,” you manage, nails digging deep, and he groans at the feeling, kissing you again so hard his teeth bite against your lower lip without him meaning to. When he tastes your blood again he sucks it, straight from the plush of your lip, something painful that has your orgasm threatening to break, about to shatter you from the inside out - you can’t take it anymore, writhing, humping your cunt on his cock, “please, I- I can’t, I’m gonna-”
Seonghwa doesn’t look at his friend for permission this time. He pulls away, mouth slick with the dark red, metallic liquid, and starts to rock into you so hard you start to cry. His cock hits that spot inside you deliciously, over and over, more intense than anything you’ve felt in your life, and you can’t even warn him. Your pussy starts to quiver, walls clenching around him in warning, and he doesn’t stop, fucking you in just the right way to pull you over the edge with him.
“F-fuck, I-” you gasp, trembling. The sensation overwhelms every single one of your senses, finally letting go after so long of being their plaything, and your cunt clenches down hard on his cock as you cum. It’s so tight it stops him from moving, but he grinds his pubic bone against you in small, aborted thrusts, just enough to keep you writhing and riding it out, moaning high and airy in your throat.
Your hole relaxes once you’ve finished soaking him, rivulets of wet stringing his pubes together and his breath hits your neck. He starts to fuck you without abandon again, your pussy screaming in overstimulation but you want him to cum so badly you’d take it three times over, legs falling uselessly against the bed, nails scratching down his torso.
“Just a b-bit more, my love,” he sounds apologetic, his thrusts proving otherwise, cock digging into your cervix hard. You whine, and he kisses the noise away, smearing blood over your lips, dropping his head back to your neck. If you focus on the pleasure enough, you’re sure that you can come again, but another sensation distracts you - Hongjoong, the other side of your neck, still naked and still soft but with something else flickering in those red eyes.
You realise too late. Soft lips press against either side in a gentle kiss, one each, and then two sets of teeth dig in hard enough to break skin. Seonghwa pulls out, cumming messily on your pussy in his way of marking you, and the two men let out satisfied groans when your blood hits their tastebuds.
You wonder if this is what they wanted all along. As your vision goes black, you realise it’s definitely what you wanted.
Waking up, you blink sleep out of your eyes. It was clearly a good sleep, because god, you feel heavy, limbs tired and taking what feels like an age to move. While they warm up you notice the taste in your mouth, something sour that tells you that you may have drunk more than you remember because you had definitely forgotten to brush your teeth last night.
Speaking of last night… you’re still trying to wake up, but it seems to be a bit of a blur. You remember getting to the club with your friends, and talking a bit with those men, and then having a few more drinks, and then… what happened then? It feels like a dream, like you didn’t really go, like the entire night wasn’t real. When you open your eyes, you’ll surely see the same walls of your bedroom, the same pyjamas you wore the night before-
You open your eyes, and you’re definitely not in your bedroom.
Where your room has your band posters and desk with all of your trinkets, you seem to be in some sort of extension of the nightclub you were in last night, room draped with dark reds and black satins. The bed is the comfiest thing you’ve had the pleasure of laying on, where the mattress and blanket seem to dip and cling wherever you move like sand, and although the burgundy canopy obscures your vision you can see other furniture around the room. Dark wood mostly fills the room up, solid, sturdy furniture that looks as clean as it is old, and there’s a man sitting in the corner of the room staring at you.
There’s a man sitting in the corner of the room staring at you.
With the survival instincts of a gnat, you surge forwards and yank the canopy away, facing your intruder. Unmoving, he stares at you knowingly and you blink wildly, hair sticking up every which way, before it comes to you.
“Seonghwa,” you murmur, “shit, I almost-”
“Almost forgot?” He says, amused, “it happens. How did you sleep?”
“Amazingly,” you admit, “I-”
Something clicks in your brain. When you turn around, looking behind you, a shorter man with a pleased little smile is gazing at you, not at all tired and with something in his eyes that has your gut burning again.
You remember. Two men- no, not men, two vampires, and they took you apart and made you cum so good that you never want to leave. Is this what everyone had been warning you about?
Seonghwa rises from his seat. “Did you want anything for food? You must be starving, love.”
It has you faltering. Starving. You are starving, but there’s something else to it, a carnal need that can only be sated by-
“Get back into bed,” you urge. Seonghwa doesn’t look surprised, already moving to the canopy and pulling it aside to let himself onto the mattress. “I- can we-”
Hongjoong tuts, “You really are dumb. All it took was one good fucking, huh? Now you’re running away with the bad men, nowhere to be seen ever again-”
You grip him by the forearm, pulling him on top of you. Instead of showing shock, his grin forms predatory, slow like it has all the time in the world, and you see those two teeth poking out again. It reminds you of last night, and your eyes flicker to your chest, where you can see the remnants of a plethora of two-prong shaped holes.
“I want it again,” you blurt, “want more-”
“Right,” Seonghwa grins, decisive, crawling onto the bed. He’s already ridding his shirt again, exposing planes of tan skin that make your mouth water. His teeth stick out at you, something that should be threatening but it only causes you to whimper in need. “And you know how to ask nicely, don’t you? Not as dumb as you pretend to be.”
Hongjoong finds this amusing.
“Mm, she is, but she still knows better,” his hand pulls at your hair hard. “Where are those manners we taught you last night?”
genre: non idol!au, friends to lovers, lowkey fast n' furious if it was supah horny, mechanic!mingi x street racer!reader
word count: 31.3k
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warnings: no use of y/n, plot with some eventual smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), car sex hallelujah, public sex if u squint, dry humping, p in v, multiple o's, cum play, slight edging, mingi is a fkn munch, felching, fingering, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation (kinda), breast play, nipple play, bratty!reader, dom!mingi hallelujah, mingi is a meanie >:c, spanking, praise kink, almost pronebone but not rlly, he calls the reader a slut once, manhandling, size difference, body worship, use of 'good girl', slight dacryphilia, he's big, weak ass pullout game, implied marathon, cute aftercare (mingi is a softie my baby) / lmk if i missed any!
author's note: i saw his part in the bad mv and this idea just came to me in a dream. his outfit just screamed mechanic to me but also i was horny as fuck sooo can you blame me :> i apologise in advanced to anyone who owns a car or drives i dont have a license (yet) so i was just writing sum bullllshiiit. my friends and i have been rewatching the entirety of the fast and furious franchise so it also continued to spark this idea in my silly little brain. who knew typing a story with one hand could be so hard... i jest! i hope you guys enjoy my extremely self-indulgent fic of mingi. stream ghpt5!
ps. heres some songs i listened to while writing this fic: one, two, three, four, five
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @puoeri @mingvxs @no1likepepix8 + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
The asphalt screamed under your tires like it was begging for mercy, and you gave it none. You’d taken the second turn tight. The one with the loose manhole cover that sent most racers wide. You heard the car behind you overcorrect, its bumper grazing the guardrail in a shriek of metal that meant you’d already won. The night air whipped through your cracked window, carrying burnt rubber and cheap cologne up from the crowd lining the overpass.
Your hands were steady on the wheel. The engine hummed the way it always hummed when it was happy—deep and throaty and just the right side of angry. You’d built this car from the ground up, and the only people who’d ever touched it besides you were the crew at ATZ Auto, and that was a trust you didn’t hand out lightly. Three weeks since the last race. Three weeks of late nights in the garage with nothing but a socket wrench and a headlamp for company. Three weeks of waiting for this exact stretch of empty industrial road.
The finish line was maybe forty seconds out. You could see the flare of the orange cones in your rear view, the silhouette of the flagger already lifting his arm. Another racer had fallen back to a full car length. This was yours. This was already—
Clunk.
You felt it before you heard it. A vibration through the pedal, through the floorboard, through the bones of your right foot. Not the good kind.
Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.
Your stomach dropped.
There was a rattling now, coming from somewhere beneath the driver’s side—under the dash, maybe, or lower, somewhere in the guts of the transmission tunnel. It was rhythmic, metallic, and getting louder with every press of the accelerator.
You glanced at the dash. No lights. No temperature spike. Nothing on the gauges to tell you what was dying under the hood.
“Come on,” you muttered, gripping the wheel tighter. “Come on, baby, just thirty more seconds. Give me thirty.”
You eased off the throttle. Just barely, just enough to keep the rattle from becoming something you couldn’t drive home from. The headlights behind you swelled in your mirrors like something hungry. Whoever it was had sensed the hesitation. Their engine climbed in pitch, closing fast.
Not tonight.
You dropped back into gear and put your foot down, and the rattle became a groan that you felt in your back teeth, in the base of your skull, but the car gave you what you asked for. It always did. You crossed the line with that sound still filling the cabin like a bad omen, and you had no idea by how much, and you didn’t care.
The crowd was already moving toward you. A flare went up somewhere near the overpass, throwing red light across the ground. They were chanting something—your car’s name, probably, or the name they’d given it, which had stopped feeling separate from your own a long time ago.
You cut the engine at the turnout and sat in the silence that followed, listening to the metal tick and settle around you. The rattle was gone. Clean as if it had never happened. You’d learned not to trust that. The car only ever confessed when it had no choice.
A window rolled down somewhere behind you. “No way your shitty car beat mine”
“Well...” you said, and forced a laugh you didn’t feel. “It is what it is. Get good next time, yeah?”
They laughed and drove off to collect their losses from the betters, and you were left alone with the hood of your car and the creeping dread that something expensive had just given up on you.
You popped the hood. The engine bay looked normal, from a racers eye anyway. The wires ran they should be, belts tight, no obvious leaks. You ran your hand along the underside of the frame near the transmission mount and came away with nothing but grease and road grit. Whatever was wrong was hiding from you, somewhere you couldn’t reach without a lift and a full set of tools.
You pulled out your phone. Scrolled past three missed calls from your roommate and a text from your mother asking if you’d eaten dinner. Found the number you needed—the one you’d saved three months ago after your last catastrophic breakdown, the one with the shop logo as the contact photo. You dialed. It rang twice.
“ATZ’s Auto, this is Mingi speaking.”
You exhaled, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened just hearing his voice. That low, unhurried drawl that always made it sound like he’d been expecting your call. A part of you hoped so, anyways.
“Hey—”
“Hi, sweetheart.” There was a smile in it already. You could hear it, the way his voice went soft at the edges. “What did you do to her this time?”
You leaned your hip against the fender, phone pressed between your ear and your shoulder, and let your free hand rest on the warm hood. The metal was still ticking, still settling, and somewhere deep in the chassis, you were pretty sure something was still dying.
“I didn’t do anything,” you sighed, hearing your own defensiveness. “She just—I don’t know. She started making this sound on the last stretch. Like a clunk sound? Like something’s swinging loose under the driver’s side.”
“Clunking?” He repeated, and you could hear the scratch of a pen on paper. Mingi always wrote things down, even the small stuff, even the things you thought were nothing. It was one of the reasons you kept coming back. “If it's under the driver’s side... Maybe it's the transmission tunnel area?”
“Maybe? I couldn’t tell. It was rhythmic, though. Tied to the rotation. Got worse when I gave it gas, went away when I let off.”
“Mmm.” The sound was thoughtful. You heard the creak of his chair, the muffled thump of what might have been his boots coming off the desk. “No dash lights?”
“Nothing. Gauges looked fine. The temperature was steady. I popped the hood and poked around but I couldn't see anything obvious from the top.”
“Of course you can’t,” he teased, “Because the car knows better than to show you what’s wrong. It’s saving it for me.”
“Don’t be smug.”
“I’m not being smug. I’m being right. There’s a difference.” You could hear him moving through the shop—the familiar background percussion of a metal door swinging open, the overhead lights buzzing to life. He was already walking toward the bay. “Where are you? Still on the industrial stretch?”
“Yeah, just by the turnout by the overpass."
“I know the one.” There was a pause, and you heard the jingle of keys. “Stay put. I’ll come get you. Twenty minutes, tops.”
“Mingi, you don’t have to—”
“See you soon,” the line went dead before you could argue.
You stared at your phone for a second, then slipped it into your back pocket. The crowd had thinned out now. Most of them following the money to the next unofficial bet, a few stragglers lingering near the guardrail with their phones still recording the aftermath. Someone had brought a speaker. The bass was thumping low and lazy, and someone else was laughing too loud about something that probably wasn’t funny.
You slid down onto the curb and pulled your knees up to your chest. The asphalt was still warm from the day’s heat, and the night air smelled like diesel and the distant, greasy promise of the all-night diner three blocks over. You let your head fall back and stared at the underside of the overpass, at the graffiti someone had painted in fluorescent pink that you’d never been able to fully read.
Twenty minutes.
You closed your eyes and listened to your car breathe. The ticking had slowed to something almost peaceful, the way a person’s pulse slows after a scare—still elevated, still wary, but pretending to be fine. You knew that rhythm intimately. You’d felt it in your own chest more times than you wanted to count.
The tow truck arrived in eighteen. You’d know the sound of it anywhere—that particular diesel grumble, the squeak of the suspension that Mingi kept meaning to fix and never did because, in his words, it gives her character. The headlights swept across you in a wide arc before settling, and then there he was, climbing down from the cab in that oversized mechanic’s jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, grease already smudged along the inside of one forearm like he’d been working on something else before you called.
He was tall enough that he had to duck under the tow rig’s boom, and the motion made his dark hair fall across his forehead in a way that was, frankly, unfair. His eyes found you on the curb before they found the car—which, coming from Mingi, was basically a love confession.
“There she is,” he announced as he walked over to where you where seated.
You couldn’t tell if he meant you or the car. Maybe both. He was looking at you like you were the one making the concerning noise. “You in one piece?”
“I’m fine. The car’s the one—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just messing with ya,” he was already crouching beside your driver’s side door, one hand flat against the frame, the other reaching underneath. You watched his fingers move with the kind of practiced confidence that made your stomach do something complicated. He’d barely touched the car, and already he looked like he understood it better than you did. “Can you pop the hood for me?”
You reached through the window and pulled the release. He stood, and the hood swung up between you like a shield, and for a moment you could only see his hands—long fingers, silver rings decorating them, a thin white scar across the knuckle of his right index finger that you’d asked about once and he’d shrugged off with "kitchen accident, don’t worry about it." You worried about it.
He leaned into the engine bay, and you heard him hum. A low, considering the sound he made when he was cataloguing damage. You’d heard it enough times to know the variations.
“Transmission mount,” he noted, pulling back. A streak of fresh grease ran from his wrist to his elbow now, and he didn’t seem to notice. “Or something connected to it. The bolt’s either sheared or backed out entirely. I can hear the play from here.”
“Well... Can you fix it?”
He looked at you over the hood, and his mouth did that thing—the half-smile, the one that meant he was trying very hard not to be charmed by the question and failing. “Can I fix it?” He repeated, like you’d asked him if water was wet. “Sweetheart. I could fix this car with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back.”
“Then why do you charge me so much?”
“That's because you keep breaking it in increasingly creative ways, and my emotional labour isn’t free.” He closed the hood with a soft thunk and wiped his hands on a rag he pulled from his back pocket. “C'mon. Help me get her on the flatbed and I’ll take you to the shop. I can pull it apart tonight if you want to watch.”
You stood, brushing the grit off your jeans. “You’re not going to lecture me about racing, are you?”
“I’ve given up on that.” He was already walking toward the tow controls, but he glanced back over his shoulder, and the streetlight caught the line of his jaw and the curve of his smile in a way that made your breath catch. “Besides. You won anyway, didn’t you?”
“Huh? How'd you know?”
“You called me from the turnout instead of a ditch.” He shrugged like it was obvious. “Winner stays. Loser limps home. That’s how it works.”
You helped him hook the chains—your hands under his direction, his voice low and patient beside your ear, his fingers guiding yours when you fumbled with the latch. The car went up onto the flatbed with a groan that sounded almost relieved. You stood there in the red glow of the tow lights with grease on your palms and Mingi’s jacket brushing your shoulder, and something in your chest that had been rattling all night finally went quiet.
He gave the last strap a snap to check the tension, then straightened up and wiped his hands on the rag. You walked together back to the truck and the gravel shifted under your boots and his footsteps were easy and unhurried beside yours, like he had nowhere else to be.
He opened the passenger door before you reached for it. An old habit, one he never skipped, even though the hinges groaned like they were protesting the gentleness—and you climbed up into the seat, settling into the seat that still smelled like him. Coffee, motor oil and that cedar-sandalwood cologne he wore ever since the day you mentioned that combination smelled good.
The engine turned over with a rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and up through the soles of your boots. Mingi pulled out onto the industrial road with the kind of unhurried confidence that came from knowing every pothole and crack by heart, his left arm resting on the door frame, his right hand loose on the wheel at the bottom. You watched his profile in the dashboard light—the sharp line of his nose, the way his jaw worked when he was thinking about something he wasn’t saying.
“You’re staring,” he said, without looking over.
“You have grease on your face.”
He touched his cheek, found nothing. “Where?”
“Nah, it's on the other side.”
He touched the other cheek. “What a little liar.”
“You’ll never know.”
The smile he gave you was small and private, just for the dark of the truck, and you turned to look out the window at the streetlights blurring past. The tow rig swayed gently with each turn, and your car rocked on the flatbed behind you with a soft metallic creak that sounded almost like a lullaby. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until the adrenaline drained out of you all at once, leaving you hollow and heavy-limbed.
You pressed your forehead against the cool glass and let your eyes drift half-shut. The engine hummed quietly. Mingi’s thumb tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel tapping along to a beat of a song you couldn’t quite recognise. The streetlights strobed across your closed eyelids in warm amber pulses.
You didn’t remember falling asleep. One moment you were watching the city slide past in streaks of neon and shadow, and the next there was nothing—just the deep, dark quiet of a body that had decided it was done.
You came back to consciousness in pieces.
First: the smell. Motor oil and metal and something warm—cotton, maybe, or the inside of a jacket? You couldn't tell. Second: The feeling of being carried. Strong arms under your knees and across your back, the steady rise and fall of someone’s breathing close to your ear, the careful way they shifted their weight to keep from jostling you through a doorway that was too narrow.
Then: a voice, very low, and very very close. “—she’s fine, she’s just—no, I’ve got her.”
You forced your eyes open. The ceiling was familiar, you think. Not to mention the acoustic tile and water stain in the shape of something that might have been a rabbit if you squinted. A fluorescent light buzzed somewhere out of sight, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional pale yellow.
You were in Mingi’s office.
You came to that conclusion after you recognized the framed poster on the wall. It was some vintage Porsche ad he’d found at a flea market and hung crooked because he thought straight lines were boring. The desk was covered in invoices and a half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate.
You were on the couch. Or—not a couch, not exactly. Mingi had pushed the two waiting-room chairs together and draped them with what looked like every clean shop towel he owned, layered thick enough that the metal armrests had disappeared entirely. A folded hoodie served as a pillow. He had tucked your boots off to the side, lined up neatly against the baseboard like they were standing at attention.
You tried to sit up but unfortunately your body said no.
“Hey.” His voice came from the doorway, and you turned your head to find him leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression that was equal parts amused and something softer. “You’ve been out for twenty minutes. I was starting to think I’d have to check your pulse.”
“How did I—”
“You fell asleep in the truck. Like, fully. Head against the window, mouth open, the whole thing.” The amusement won out. His smile was wide and unguarded, the kind he only wore when he thought no one was looking. “It was very dignified. Very graceful and adorable”
You groaned and pressed the heel of your hand against your eye. “You carried me in here.”
“Yes, I did.”
You pouted, a flush of pink creeping up your cheeks. The thought of Mingi carrying you alone sent shivers down your spine. "You didn't have to, could've just woken me up too."
“And be a dickhead for waking up sleeping beauty? Absolutely not.” He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in three long strides, and before you could protest, something heavy and warm settled over you—his jacket, the oversized mechanic’s one, still carrying the heat of his body and the smell of him up close. He tugged it up to your chin with the same careful precision he used on engine bolts, making sure it covered your shoulders. “Go back to sleep. I promise the car isn’t going anywhere.”
“But… I wanted to watch you work on it," you yawned, clearly your body betrayed what your heart wanted.
“You can watch me work on it tomorrow, when your eyes are open and you are fully conscious.” His hand lingered on the collar of the jacket, adjusting it, and his knuckles brushed your jaw. You held very still. “I’m just going to get her up on the lift and take a look. No heavy lifting tonight. Scout’s honour.”
“You were never a scout.”
“How do you know? Maybe I had a very brief and disappointing scouting career.” His thumb traced a line along the edge of the jacket—once, twice—and then he pulled his hand back like he’d remembered himself. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right outside if you need me, okay?”
He left the door open a crack—enough that the sounds of the shop filtered through: the hydraulic hiss of the lift engaging, the clank of a toolbox being rolled across concrete, the low murmur of whatever he was saying to your car under his breath. You’d heard him do that before. Talk to engines like they were old friends. Tell them it was going to be okay. You’d always found it endearing in a way that made your chest ache.
You pulled his jacket tighter around you and buried your face in the collar. It smelled like him—the coffee and the oil and the cedar and something underneath that was just warmth. The makeshift bed was more comfortable than it had any right to be. The shop towels were soft from a hundred washes, and the hoodie-pillow held the shape of his head like a confession.
Outside, the lift groaned as it took the weight of your car. You heard Mingi’s boots on the concrete, the metallic click of a drop light being positioned, the soft whistle he made when he was concentrating—the same three-note tune every time, becoming your lullaby for the night.
You closed your eyes and listened to him work, and the sound was steadier than any lullaby, and you were asleep again before the first bolt came loose.
══════════════════
Light came through the half-closed blinds in thin, dusty stripes, and you woke to the sound of water hitting glass. Not rain. Something more deliberate. The measured pour of a coffee machine doing its one job in the world with quiet, mechanical devotion. You blinked against the soft morning light and found the ceiling tile rabbit still there, still watching over you with its water-stain eyes. You were on the couch. Or—the chair-couch. The shop towels had shifted in the night, bunched up under your left hip, and Mingi’s jacket was still draped over you like a promise he’d made and kept. Your neck had a crick in it that felt like it had been personally installed by someone with a grudge.
You turned your head.
Mingi was standing at the small counter he’d wedged into the corner of his office. The one that held the coffee maker, a stack of paper cups, and a jar of sugar packets that had been there so long the paper had gone soft at the edges.
He had his back to you. White tank top, the ribbed kind, worn soft from too many washes, and dark denim that sat low on his hips—not a mechanic’s uniform, not a work shirt. Something he’d changed into. His hair was damp at the temples, like he’d splashed water on his face recently, and you could see the shift of muscle in his bare arms as he measured something into the machine with the kind of focus most people reserved for open-heart surgery. He’d either gone home and come back or kept a change of clothes in the shop. Knowing Mingi, you weren’t sure which answer was more like him.
The machine gurgled and hissed. He reached for two mugs from the shelf above, the ceramic kind with the shop logo chipped along the rim from years of being knocked against the sink. One was blue the other green. He set them side by side with the care of someone arranging chess pieces.
He pulled the carafe and poured it into the blue mug first. Two sugars. A splash of the creamer from the mini-fridge under the counter—the oat milk kind, the specific brand you’d mentioned exactly once, six months ago, when he’d handed you a black coffee and you’d said "oh, I usually take it with—" and he’d cut you off with "oat milk, two sugars, I know, I was testing you."
He didn’t look over. Didn’t ask. Just poured the oat milk in with the same steady hand he used on transmission fluid, stirred it twice with a spoon that had the ATZ logo printed on the handle, and set it on the edge of the desk closest to where you were lying.
The green mug got black. Nothing in it. He took a sip straight from the carafe before setting it back on the warmer, and you watched the line of his throat move when he swallowed, and you thought about how unfair it was that a person could look like that at—you squinted at the clock on the wall—seven-forty in the morning.
“Morning,” he greeted, his back was still facing you. “You snore, by the way. Just so you know. It’s not loud. It’s more of a—” He made a small, rhythmic puffing sound with his lips. “Like a cute little engine trying to start on a cold morning.”
You scoffed. “I do not snore.”
“You absolutely snore.” He turned finally, leaning his hip against the counter with his mug cradled in both hands. “It’s cute, though. Don’t worry about it.”
The morning light caught his eyes and made them warmer than they had any right to be. The cut on his left thumb was wrapped in electrical tape because of course it was. His hair had dried crooked from wherever he’d splashed water on his face, pushed back and slightly flattened on one side, and there was a shadow of his stubble catching the light—along the line of his jaw. You looked at all of it and felt a low, private irritation settle in your chest. Just how could someone look so beautiful?
You sat up slowly, wincing as the kink in your neck announced itself with a crack that echoed off the acoustic tile. His jacket slid down to your lap, and you caught it before it hit the floor and pulled it back over your shoulders. The coffee was right there, steam curling up in lazy spirals, and you reached for it and wrapped both hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into your palms.
“How long have you been up?” you asked, taking the first sip. The coffee hit your bloodstream like a jumpstart cable.
“Since about four.” He took a drink from his own mug, watching you over the rim. “Got as far as I could on the car, then hit a wall—parts house doesn’t open until eight. So.” He lifted a shoulder. “I reorganized the tool wall.”
You raised an eyebrow, “At four in the morning? Really?”
“The socket wrench set was out of order,” he insisted, like that explained everything, and in the context of Mingi’s brain, maybe it did. “It was bothering me.”
You held the mug against your chest and studied him—the way he stood in the morning light like he’d been built for it, all long lines and easy posture, the white shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he spent most of his waking hours lifting things heavier than himself.
“How’s my car?”
Something shifted in his expression. He set his mug down on the counter and crossed his arms, and you watched the fabric pull across his chest and tried very hard to focus on his words and not the way the morning light was doing something illegal to the line of his shoulders.
“Transmission mount bolt sheared clean through,” he explains, “Right at the base. The threads are still in the block, which is the good news—I didn’t have to drill and tap new ones. The bad news is that the mount itself took some damage when it came loose. There’s a crack along the bracket on the driver’s side. Not catastrophic, but it needs replacing.”
You closed your eyes. “Thank God it wasn't that bad. How much do I owe you?”
“Taking into everything into account,” He paused, and you could hear him doing the math in his head, always honest, never padding. “Three-fifty, maybe four hundred. I’ll have to call the parts house when they open to confirm the bracket price.”
You opened your eyes. He was watching you with that careful, measured look—the one that meant he was already running through the options, the payment plans, the ways he could make it hurt less.
Mingi had never once pressed you for money. He’d let you pay in installments more times than either of you could count, and there was a running tab on a sticky note on his monitor that had your name at the top and a number that would have made a bank manager faint.
“I can pay up front,” you weren’t entirely sure that was true, but you said it anyway because pride was a thing you’d never fully excised from your system. “I’ve got some cash from—from last night.”
“From the race.” He replied it flatly, without judgment, but you heard the the underlying concern he always had for you. “How much did you take?”
“More than enough, thankfully.” You took another sip of coffee. “The other racer had a big ego and a bigger wallet. It worked out.”
“Mmm.” The sound was noncommittal, which from Mingi meant he had opinions he was choosing not to share. He picked up his mug again and tilted his head toward the door. “You want to see her?”
You were already standing. The shop towels rustled to the floor as you swung your legs off the makeshift bed, and you pulled Mingi’s jacket over your shoulders because the morning air coming through the cracked window was sharper than you expected. Your boots were still lined up by the baseboard, and you stepped into them and laced them quickly, fingers still clumsy with sleep. He held the door open for you as you walked past him into the shop proper.
The overhead fluorescents were already on, buzzing their familiar yellow-white hymn, and the air smelled the way it always smelled in here—metal and solvent and the particular sweetness of fresh rubber. The shop was organized chaos: tool chests along the far wall, each drawer labeled in Mingi’s careful handwriting; a rolling cart stacked with parts bins; the hydraulic lift in the center bay, and on it—
Your car.
She was up on the lift, raised to chest height, and the undercarriage was exposed in a way that felt almost intimate—the transmission tunnel open, the exhaust piping curled along the frame like veins, the differential housing gleaming with fresh grease where Mingi had been working. You could see the damage from here: the empty bolt hole where the mount should have been secured, the cracked bracket hanging at an angle that made your stomach clench. There was a new bolt already threaded partway in, shiny and clean against the old, oil-darkened metal around it.
Mingi came to stand beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he pointed. “See there? The crack runs along the weld line. It’s been stressed out for a while—this didn’t happen last night. This has been a gradual build up”
You crouched down to get a better look, and Mingi crouched with you, his knees popping softly. His shoulder pressed against yours, warm and solid, and you could feel the heat of him through the jacket, through your shirt, through the thin barrier of everything you both weren’t saying.
“How long has it been building?” you asked.
“Hard to say. A few weeks, maybe. You said you tuned it yourself—when was the last time you had the transmission out?”
“Three months ago. When you replaced the clutch.”
“Right.” He reached past you—his arm extending over your shoulder, his chest nearly against your back—and tapped the bracket with one finger. The metal gave a dull, hollow sound that confirmed everything he’d already told you. “The mount was probably already compromised then. The new clutch put more torque through it, and the racing just—” He made a sound with his tongue, a soft tch, like he was scolding the car. “She held on as long as she could. She’s a good girl.”
The last two words landed somewhere low in your stomach and stayed there. You’d heard him say it before—to engines that turned over after a hard rebuild, to cars that limped in and left running clean—but with his jaw close enough to your temple that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the phrase did something it had no business doing. You wondered how much better it would be if those words were directed at you.
You looked up at him. He was close—closer than he needed to be, his face inches from yours. You tear your gaze away to reassess your car.
“You fixed the bolt already?” you gasp, pressing your lips together to fight a smile.
“Started to. I couldn't sleep, remember?” His voice had dropped to something quieter, something that belonged to the space between the two of you and nowhere else. “The bracket’s the holdup. I’ve got to call the parts house soon. If they have it in stock, I can have her back on the road by this afternoon.”
“That quick? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I‘m sure.” He held your gaze, and his eyes did that thing—that slow, warm thing that made your chest feel like it was full of something too big for your ribs. “Unless you had somewhere else to be?”
You didn’t. You looked back at the car—at the cracked bracket, the new bolt, the careful way Mingi had already cleaned the mating surfaces and applied thread locker to the fresh threads. He’d been working on your car in the dark hours of the morning while you slept on his makeshift bed in his office, wearing his jacket, drinking coffee he’d made exactly the way you liked without being asked.
He’d cut himself on your transmission and wrapped it in electrical tape and kept going. He’d reorganized the socket wrench set at four in the morning because the disorder bothered him, and he’d remembered your oat milk, and you realized, belatedly, that it wasn’t just about the car and it wasn’t just about the coffee and it wasn’t just about the sharp sting of a cut wrapped in cheap tape. It was the sum of it, the way it all stacked up into a scaffolding of care, a habit of showing up for you that had never announced itself as anything special but now, under the ugly shop fluorescents and the pale creep of morning, felt like the kind of thing people wrote songs about. It hit you with a force that absolved every sleepless night you’d ever spent wondering if you meant anything to anyone outside of a set of hands on a steering wheel, or the numbers on a finish line clock.
You remembered the first time you’d stumbled into his shop: rain in your hair, a half-dead alternator in your trunk, and a chip on your shoulder big enough to wedge open the front door. Mingi had looked at you over the top of his glasses, rainwater pooling under your boots, and said, “No offense, but you look like you lost a fight to a lawnmower.” He’d fixed your alternator for half what the dealer quoted, showed you the basics so you could DIY next time, and called you “boss” with a straight face even as you stripped a bolt and almost started a small electrical fire.
You remembered the way he never commented on your hands, even when they shook after a race, even when you cut them on cold steel and stained the shop rags dark. He’d hand you a fresh towel, or a bottle of water, or a protein bar from his desk drawer, and just say, “You good?” Like he already knew you weren’t, but he’d be there when you started to be.
You remembered that night you lost by a nose and blew out the input shaft. You’d expected nothing—maybe a lecture, a bill, perhaps even silence. Instead, you’d found a note under your windshield wiper: “Nice launch. Shift faster next time. Come by tomorrow, I’ll fix her up. - M :)"
You remembered a lot of small things. The way he’d always find the one good song on the radio and turn it up just before the solo. The way he’d set his jaw when he was about to say something he thought might piss you off. How he’d talk to your car when he worked on them, in the low, careful voice some people reserved for frightened animals or babies. How he’d stand close, when you both leaned under the hood—shoulders bumping, elbows knocking—and none of it ever felt accidental.
You looked at him now, this tall, loose-limbed mechanic with his wild hair, goofy smile and hands that looked like they’d been built to break and repair the same things over and over. The cut on his thumb was leaking through the electrical tape, and his shirt was streaked with something dark.
You thought about every time you’d tried to pay him back, every time you’d tried to balance the emotional ledger, and how he always found a way to tip the scales in your favour. You thought about all the ways you’d failed to say thank you, or I owe you, or just—anything that would make it clear that you noticed. That you noticed everything.
The weight of it all landed on your chest with the slow, terrifying certainty of falling in love with the exact person you’d told yourself that would never fall in love with you. It didn’t hurt—it just rearranged some things inside you, made space for something that might not have a name but absolutely had a pulse.
You reached for the coffee again, just for something to do with your hands, and took a sip that was mostly oat milk and sugar from the lack of stirring. Mingi watched you, waiting, like he knew you were on the verge of some personal catastrophe and was already prepping the metaphorical fire extinguisher.
You finished the coffee in two long swallows and set the mug down on the edge of the lift, where it wobbled once before settling. Mingi caught it with the edge of his hand—a reflex, the same one he used to catch falling tools before they hit concrete—and set it somewhere safer without comment.
“I should go,” you cleared your throat, your voice came out steadier than you expected. “Don't want to bother you more while you're working on my baby."
He straightened up from his crouch, and you both rose together, and the distance between you was exactly the same as it had been a moment ago—close enough to feel the warmth, far enough to pretend it was nothing. He nodded once, that slow, easy nod that meant he understood and wasn’t going to make it difficult.
“Like I said, I'll phone the parts house and if, hopefully, they have the shit I need I can have her buttoned up by—” He tilted his head, calculating. “Three, maybe four this afternoon. I'll call you as soon as I'm finished”
You nodded, finding a sense of calm with his reassurance. “Sounds good! Also, don’t bother calling 'cause I might not answer. Text me instead.”
“Of course.” He pulled his phone from his back pocket and held it up like proof. “Go home. Sleep in a real bed, please.”
You pulled his jacket tighter around your shoulders and walked toward the office to collect your things. Your phone was on the desk where you’d left it, the screen lit with three new notifications—your best friend asking if you were alive, a group chat you’d muted, and a weather alert you didn’t read. You shoved it into your pocket and hesitated at the door, one hand on the frame.
“Mingi?”
He was already turning back toward the lift, a socket wrench in his hand, but he paused and looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Thank you. For—” You gestured vaguely at the car, the shop, the jacket, the coffee, the entire architecture of care he’d built around you without ever asking for permission. “All of it.”
His mouth did the half-smile thing—the one that meant he was trying not to be charmed and failing. “Don’t mention it, it’s my job after all.”
You left before he could see whatever was happening on your face.
══════════════════
You showered in water hot enough to turn your skin pink, scrubbing road grit and engine grease from under your nails until your fingertips went raw. You changed into clean clothes—jeans, a t-shirt that had seen better days, a hoodie that smelled like your own laundry detergent and not someone else’s cologne. You ate a bowl of cereal standing at the kitchen counter and stared at your phone, waiting.
The text came at 8:47.
Parts house has the bracket.
Pulling it now.
She’ll be ready by 3.
Don’t come early, I mean it.
You sent back a thumbs-up and nothing else, because if you started typing you’d say something stupid, and Mingi would read it in the middle of a transmission job and drop something heavy on his foot.
You spent the morning doing nothing useful. You organized the junk drawer. You called your mother and listened to her talk about the neighbour’s cat for eleven minutes. You scrolled through your phone and found a video someone had posted from last night’s race—the angle was bad, the audio even worse. You could hear the clunking in the last stretch, that rhythmic metallic death rattle that had sent your stomach through the floorboards. The comments were already filling up. She’s cooked. That’s a rod. Nah that’s transmission. RIP to another one. You closed the app and put the phone face-down on the couch.
At two, you couldn’t sit still anymore. You grabbed your keys and your wallet and this jacket, still draped over the back of the kitchen chair where you’d left it that morning, because you’d forgotten to give it back, or maybe because you hadn’t wanted to—and headed out the door.
You stopped at the place on the corner. The one with the yellow awning and the handwritten menu taped to the window and the cook who knew your order by heart because you’d been coming here since before you had a car to break. You got two orders of the spicy pork bulgogi bowls—extra kimchi on the side, extra rice, the way Mingi liked it, because you’d watched him eat it enough times to memorize the ratio.
You added a container of japchae because he’d mentioned once, offhand, that his mother used to make it on Sundays, and the way he’d said it had made you want to put the entire city between you and the feeling it produced. You got two coffees—black for him, oat milk and two sugars for you—and a slice of the honey butter cake that the owner’s wife made fresh every afternoon, because Mingi had a sweet tooth he pretended he didn’t have and you’d watched him eat three pieces at a shop potluck without breathing between bites.
The bag was heavy and warm against your hip as you walked the six blocks to the shop. The afternoon sun was high and bright, and the city smelled like exhaust and fried food and the particular greenness of the potted trees someone had placed along the sidewalk in a doomed attempt at beautification. You passed the auto parts store where Mingi had sourced your bracket, the hardware store where he bought his electrical tape in bulk, the laundromat where he washed his shop rags because the machines at his apartment complex ate quarters. You knew this stretch of road the way you knew the inside of your own engine bay—every crack, every stain, every story it told about the people who walked it.
The shop’s roll-up door was half-open when you arrived, and you could hear the radio before you could see inside—some old rock station Mingi kept tuned to because the signal was clear and the DJs never talked during the guitar solos. You ducked under the door and stepped into the fluorescent hum.
Your car was on the ground. The hood was closed. The driver’s side door was open, and the interior light was on, and you could see the fresh gleam of something newly installed through the gap in the door frame.
Mingi was sitting on an overturned bucket near the workbench, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since given up any pretense of cleanliness. He had the radio turned up just loud enough that he didn’t hear you come in, and for a moment you just stood there and watched him. The way his shoulders moved when he reached for the solvent bottle, the way his jaw worked around whatever he was chewing (gum, probably, or the inside of his cheek), the fresh bandage on his left hand where he’d clearly cut himself again and upgraded from electrical tape to something that actually qualified as medical supplies.
You cleared your throat.
He turned. His face went through three expressions in rapid succession—surprise, recognition, and then something warm and slow that started at the corners of his mouth and spread upward until his whole face was doing the thing, the thing you’d been cataloguing for months without admitting what it was.
“What did I tell you about coming early, hm?” He deadpanned.
“Don't be dramatic, Min.” You held up the bag. “I got your favourites.”
His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to your face, and the warmth deepened into something that looked almost endearing, which was not a look you’d ever seen on Mingi and did not know what to do with.
“All of this for me?” He set the rag down and stood, and he was taller than you remembered, or maybe you’d just forgotten in the hours since morning how he filled a room without trying. “You shouldn’t have, baby.”
The word landed somewhere between your ribs and stayed there. He said it casually, the way he said everything—like it cost him nothing, like it was just a sound the air made when it passed through him on its way to you.
You crossed the shop and set the bag on the workbench, pulling out the containers one by one. The bulgogi bowls steamed when you opened the lids, and the smell of garlic and gochujang filled the space between the tool chests and the lift. You handed him the black coffee without asking and kept the other one for yourself, and you set the japchae and the honey butter cake on the bench beside the bowls like you were setting a table.
“It’s for my favourite mechanic, after all,” you smirked, keeping your voice light and easy.
Kept it from doing the thing it wanted to do—which was crack open and spill everything you’d been carrying since four that morning when you’d woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room. Maybe even beyond that.
Mingi’s smile went wide and bright, showing the dimples that only appeared when he was genuinely, stupidly happy. “So, you finally admit I’m your favourite, huh?”
You handed him a pair of chopsticks and fixed him with a look that you hoped conveyed the appropriate ratio of affection and threat. “Don’t push it, pretty boy.”
He laughed—full and loud, the kind of laugh that echoed off the concrete walls and made the overhead lights buzz in sympathy. He pulled the bucket closer to the bench and sat, and you pulled up a stool from the corner, and you ate lunch together.
He told you about the bracket—how the parts house had exactly one left in stock, how he’d had to sweet-talk the guy behind the counter into holding it, how the installation had gone smooth except for the bolt that fought him for twenty minutes before finally surrendering. You told him about the cereal, and the cat, and the video someone had posted, and he made a face and said, “Send me the link, I want to see these idiots diagnosing your car from a thirty-second clip.”
You ate the japchae first, and he didn’t comment on it, but you watched his face when he took the first bite and saw something shift behind his eyes—something old and fond and a little bit melancholic—and he looked at you across the workbench with an expression that said he knew exactly why you’d ordered it and exactly what it meant that you’d remembered, and he didn’t say thank you because he didn’t need to.
The honey butter cake disappeared in four minutes flat, and he licked the glaze off his thumb with the shamelessness of a man who had given up pretending he didn’t have a sweet tooth approximately three bites ago.
When the food was gone and the coffees were empty and the radio had cycled through two more songs, Mingi stood and stretched—arms overhead, back arching, the white tank pulling tight across his chest in a way that you absolutely did not stare at—and walked to your car. He patted the roof twice, the way you’d seen him do a hundred times, and looked at you over the hood.
“She’s ready when you are.”
You walked to the driver’s side and ran your hand along the door frame, tracing the line where the paint chipped and the clearcoat had started to surrender to time and sun and too many city winters. It was cool and solid under your palm, and for the first time in days you didn’t imagine hearing the sickly metallic tick that had haunted every drive since the first warning sign. No rattle. No vibration. No secret countdown to catastrophic failure shivering through the welds. Just a door, a car, a moment of stillness as you drew in a breath and let your shoulders drop.
You slid into the seat, and the interior smelled like Mingi—solvent, engine oil, the sharpness of fresh brake cleaner and something sweeter underneath, a cedar note that clung to the cloth. You could see where he’d wiped down the steering wheel, the faintest imprint of a towel snagged on the horn pad, and the new bracket gleaming through the gap below the dash. The seat was exactly the way you left it, except you could tell he’d sat here, adjusted the mirrors, checked the fit of the pedals. It was like stepping into a space that had been quietly, lovingly proofed against disaster.
The key was already in the ignition. You turned it.
The engine caught on the first try—clean, steady, the deep throaty hum you’d tuned into existence with your own hands, but different now. Quieter. Settled. Like something that had been suffering in silence had finally been allowed to breathe again. You pressed the throttle lightly and listened, heart in your mouth, waiting for the telltale clunk or metallic swing-and-bang. Instead, there was only the smooth, even purr, the delicate click of injectors priming, the systems waking up like a body stretching after a long sleep.
You pressed a little harder, feathering the pedal. The tach jumped, held, dropped. No hesitations. No overcompensation. No subtle warning in the feedback through the wheel. If you closed your eyes, you could almost believe this was someone else’s car—someone who’d never driven it to the edge, never asked it to survive three consecutive summers of midnight street circuits, never let it run a degree hotter than it was supposed to just to beat a kid with something newer and flashier. But it was yours, and you’d earned every scar on the center console, every burn mark on the carpet. And now, for the first time in years, it didn’t sound like a ticking time bomb. It sounded like something that was meant to last.
You sat with that for a minute, hands resting on the wheel, the engine’s steady rhythm echoing in your bones. You shifted into neutral and let the engine idle. Mingi’s handwriting was on a sticky note taped to the dash: “Check oil before running. -M.” You popped the hood just to be sure, and the dipstick came up clean and full, the oil exactly where it should be, the new gasket already sealing like it was part of the block from the beginning. He’d even topped off your washer fluid, the little things he always did, the ones he never mentioned but that you always noticed.
When you came back around, Mingi was standing by the shop door. He’d wiped his hands again, but there was a new smudge of something across his cheekbone, and he was watching you with an expression so open it made it impossible to look away. There was pride there, and relief, and a weird kind of gentleness that didn’t fit with the way he usually moved through the world. You realized, suddenly and with embarrassing clarity, that he was waiting for you to say something. To react, to light up, to show him that this mattered.
So you revved the engine, just a little, and gave him a thumbs-up through the windshield.
He grinned, and the whole shop seemed to brighten. You cut the engine and stepped out, and for a second the world held its breath.
He nodded, then pointed at the car. “How does she feel?”
You tried to come up with something technical. Something that would do justice to the hours he’d put in, the parts you knew he’d paid for himself, the sweat and blood literally on the line. But all that came out was, “She’s perfect.”
Mingi’s face went soft around the eyes, and he scrubbed a hand through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with the compliment. “You did most of the work, I just did some touch ups,” he smiled.
You barked a laugh. “All I did was fall asleep in your office and bring you lunch. You fixed my car.”
He shrugged, but you could tell he was pleased. “Yeah? What’s next, then? An oil change? New tires? You know, just for fun.”
You grinned. “I was thinking about a test drive. Want to come with?”
He hesitated, then held up his hands. “I’ll sit in the passenger seat, but only because I don’t want to get kimchi juice on your nice upholstery.”
You tossed him the keys. “No Min, You’re driving.”
He caught them one-handed, easy, and you felt something loosen in your chest. You hopped into the passenger seat, let the window down again, and watched as he adjusted the mirrors just so, checked the angle of the seat, and all the little rituals he did before a test drive.
He started the engine, and this time you noticed the way the sound made him smile. He rolled slowly out of the shop and down the street, careful at first, but then letting the car stretch out as the road opened up. You watched the city go by in a blur—corner store, laundromat, the park with the busted swing set—and realized you were seeing all of it through the windshield of a car that was finally, blissfully, whole.
Mingi drove with one hand on the wheel and one on the shifter, and he kept glancing at you like he was trying to memorize your reaction. You leaned back in the seat, let the sun warm your face, let the feeling of the world working as it should sink in.
Halfway to the river, he turned to you and said, “So what do we do now? Victory lap? Or do we just keep driving until something else breaks?”
You considered it. “Can we...” You stopped, not sure how to put it into words, and settled for, “Let’s just keep going for a while.”
And so you did. You let the city recede, let the noise fade into the background, and just existed, two people in a car that was finally running right, the road unspooling ahead of you like there was nowhere else you needed to be.
The road curved along the riverbank, and the water caught the late afternoon light in long, lazy ribbons of gold. Mingi drove with the windows down, one elbow resting on the door frame, and the wind pushed his hair back from his forehead in a way that made him look younger, looser, like someone who’d set down a weight he’d been carrying for years and forgotten what it felt like to stand up straight.
You watched the trees slide past and let the silence hold for another mile before you spoke.
“Hey,” you began, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “I have another race on Friday. The industrial stretch again—the same one as last night, but bigger. More cars. Some guys from out of town are coming up.”
Mingi’s thumb tapped the steering wheel once. Twice. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You turned in the seat to face him, pulling one knee up under you. The leather creaked. “I’m in, obviously. Jihoon, the guy that had that fat stack of cash, wants a rematch, and there’s this new kid from Busan who’s been talking shit online all week.”
Mingi nodded slowly, eyes still on the road. “You can beat him for sure.”
“I don’t even know what he drives.”
“Nah, it doesn't matter.” He glanced over, a warm smile spread across his face. “It’s not about the car, it’s about who’s behind the wheel. That cocky piece of shit will not win, trust me.”
The warmth that spread through your chest was embarrassing in its intensity. You looked down at your hands, at the grease still lingering in the creases of your knuckles, and you said the thing you’d been turning over in your head since you woke up on his shop-towel bed with his jacket over your shoulders and his coffee in your hands.
“You should come watch me. In the race— I mean.”
The words hung in the air between you, carried on the wind rushing through the open windows. You kept your eyes on your hands, on the grease, on anything that wasn’t his face, because you’d said it casually—or tried to—and you needed a second to make sure the casual had landed.
Mingi was quiet for too long. Unusually long, you think. His jaw had set. Not in a hard way—in the way it did when he was about to deliver news he didn’t want to deliver.
“Friday,” he repeated, and the word came out carefully, measured, like he was testing its weight. “This Friday?”
“Mhm. Starts around ten. Should be over by midnight, hopefully by one.”
He exhaled through his nose—a slow, controlled breath that told you everything before the words did.
“Oh I'm sorry, sweetheart.” His voice had gone soft in that particular way, the way that meant he was about to disappoint you and he already hated himself for it. “I can’t. I’m booked solid. Like—completely. I’ve got three clients coming in after hours, and one of them’s a timing chain replacement on a V6 that’s going to take me till two in the morning if everything goes right, which it won’t, because timing chains never go right.”
“Oh,” you mumbled. And then, because you were a person who’d spent your entire adult life pretending you didn’t need anything from anyone: “That’s fine. No big deal. It’s just a race.”
You turned back to the windshield. The river was on your left now, wide and flat and silver, and a heron stood motionless in the shallows, and you focused on the heron because the heron didn’t care about Friday nights or timing chains or the particular ache that had settled behind your sternum like a stone dropped into still water.
The car slowed. Mingi pulled over onto the gravel shoulder, the tires crunching softly, and cut the engine. The sudden silence was enormous—just the tick of cooling metal and the distant hum of the highway and the sound of your own breathing, which you were trying very hard to keep even.
He turned in his seat.
You didn’t look at him. You kept your eyes on the heron, which had taken a step forward into the water with the slow, deliberate grace of something that had never once needed to explain itself to anyone.
“You’re doing the thing,” he frowned as he scanned your facial expression.
“What thing?”
“The thing where you say it’s fine and it’s not fine.” His voice was close. Closer than the passenger seat should have allowed. “Look at me, please.”
You looked at him.
His face was right there—inches away, the afternoon light catching the gold in his eyes. He was looking at you with an expression that made your chest do something complicated and painful, like a valve opening somewhere you hadn’t known was closed.
“I want to be there,” he mumbled. The words were simple and direct, the way Mingi’s words always were when he meant them. “You know I want to be there. I’d rather be watching you race than doing a timing chain on a V6 that some idiot ran dry for six months. But I told these people I’d do it, and they’re counting on me, and—”
“I know.” You did know. That was the worst part. You knew exactly the kind of person Mingi was—the kind who showed up, who kept his word, who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning because someone had asked him to and he’d said yes. You’d fallen for that person. You didn’t get to resent him for being exactly who he was. “It’s okay, Mingi. I understand.”
He studied your face for a long moment—the way your mouth was doing something you hoped passed for a smile, the way your eyes kept flicking to the heron because holding his gaze for too long felt like standing too close to a fire. He saw it. Of course he saw it. Mingi saw everything.
His hand came up.
Slow. Deliberate. Giving you every chance to pull away, to deflect, to make a joke, to do any of the things you usually did when someone tried to touch you with intention. You didn’t move.
His palm settled against your cheek. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone—once, twice—and his skin was warm and rough and smelled like solvent and the honey butter cake from lunch, and the touch was so gentle it made your eyes sting.
“Hey,” he whispered. Soft. So soft. “I’ll make it up to you. You name it, and I’m there. I promise.”
You leaned into his hand before you could stop yourself. Just a fraction—just enough to feel the pressure of his palm, the steady warmth of it, the way his thumb stilled against your skin like he was holding his breath.
“You promise?” you mumbled against his hand, your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to.
“Promise.” His thumb moved again—a slow sweep along your cheekbone that sent something warm and liquid through your bloodstream. “I’ll clear a night. I’ll put it on the calendar in permanent marker. I’ll tell every client in the city that Song Mingi is unavailable that evening because he has a prior engagement that is non-negotiable.”
A laugh escaped you, a little broken, but real. “Non-negotiable?”
“Completely non-negotiable.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and the dimple appeared, and the cut on his lip stretched when he smiled, and you thought—with the kind of clarity that only comes in the quiet moments between one heartbeat and the next—that you would remember this exact image for the rest of your life. Mingi in the driver’s seat of your car, his hand on your face, the river silver behind him, promising you something he meant with every molecule of his being.
“Okay,” you exhaled. “Another night.”
“Another night, I promise.” He held your gaze for one more beat—long enough that the air between you changed, thickened, became something you could almost taste—and then his hand dropped from your cheek and returned to the wheel, and the moment collapsed back into the ordinary like it had never happened.
He started the engine. The car came alive around you, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He pulled back onto the road, and the heron lifted from the shallows and beat its slow, heavy wings into the sky, and you watched it go until it was a speck against the pale blue, and then you watched the road unfold ahead of you, and you didn’t say anything else because you didn’t need to.
The silence held. The kind that didn’t need to be filled. The kind that felt like a promise.
══════════════════
Friday arrived like a held breath finally released.
The industrial stretch was different tonight—larger, louder, the energy cranked up to something that buzzed against your skin like a live wire. More cars lined the turnout than you’d seen in months, their engines idling in a low, impatient chorus that vibrated through the soles of your boots. The crowd had spilled past the guardrail and onto the shoulder, phones out, speakers blasting three different songs at once, the smell of cigarette smoke and cheap beer and someone’s body spray mixing with the burnt-rubber perfume of the asphalt. Someone had strung LED lights along the overpass supports, casting everything in a pulsing, carnival-bright wash that made the night feel like something staged, something that knew it was being watched.
You stood at the open driver’s side door with your hands on the roof and your head bowed, running through the checklist.
Tire pressure: thirty-two all around, checked four times.
Oil: full, clean, Mingi’s handwriting still on the dipstick tube where he’d marked the fill line with a pencil.
Coolant: topped off. Brake fluid: clear and full. Belts: tight, no cracks, no fraying.
You’d gone over every inch of the engine bay yourself that afternoon, twice, with a headlamp and a torque wrench and the kind of obsessive attention to detail that bordered on compulsion. The new bracket gleamed under the hood like a promise kept, and the transmission mount bolt sat snug and true, and you’d driven the car here tonight without a single sound that didn’t belong.
Still. You checked again. You always checked again.
Behind you, the pre-race circus was in full swing. You could hear your best friend, Yuna, before you could even see her. A voice that could cut glass and a laugh that could shatter it—was arguing with someone about the bet spread, her hands moving in sharp, emphatic arcs while three guys in matching jackets nodded along like they understood a word she was saying. Your friend, Soobin, was crouched beside your rear tire with a flashlight, double-checking the tread depth because he’d lost fifty bucks once on a blowout and had never fully recovered emotionally.
And there, leaning against the hood of a black sedan that had no business being at a street race, were three figures you’d recognize anywhere.
Hongjoong saw you first. He was the shortest of the three but carried himself like he’d been genetically engineered for maximum authority—black beanie pulled low over his forehead, a leather jacket that cost more than most of the cars on the stretch, arms crossed, jaw set in that permanent expression of mild, world-weary amusement that he wore like a second skin. He raised his chin in greeting, and you raised yours back, and that was the entirety of the conversation Hongjoong ever needed to have with anyone.
Beside him, Seonghwa stood with the kind of posture that suggested he’d been born in a finishing school and escaped at the first opportunity. Tall, lean, dressed in all black like he was attending a funeral for someone he didn’t like, his dark hair swept back from his face in a way that looked effortless and absolutely was not. He was the manager at ATZ—the one who kept the books, handled the clients, and maintained the delicate fiction that the shop operated within the bounds of something resembling a schedule. He was also, you’d learned over the months, the only person on earth who could make Mingi do paperwork without a fight, which meant he was either a wizard or had blackmail material of catastrophic proportions. You suspected both.
Jongho was on Seonghwa’s other side, arms folded, watching the crowd with the alert, slightly wary expression of someone who’d seen enough to know that crowds were where trouble went to multiply. He was the youngest at the shop but moved through it like he’d been born under a lift—quiet, capable, the kind of mechanic who could diagnose an engine from the sound of the starter alone. He’d helped Mingi with your transmission mount the morning after the repair, you’d learned later, holding the bracket in place while Mingi threaded the new bolt. He gave you a small nod when you caught his eye, and you nodded back, and the exchange contained approximately as much warmth as two people who respected each other’s competence could manage in a single gesture.
You straightened up from the door and walked over to them, wiping your palms on your jeans.
“I can’t believe you guys made it,” you beamed, because it was the polite thing to say, even though the sight of them—of anyone from ATZ, anyone who knew the shape of your engine bay the way you did—had loosened something tight behind your ribs.
“Hongjoong lost a bet,” Seonghwa said, without looking at Hongjoong.
“I did not lose a bet.” Hongjoong’s voice was flat. “I made a strategic decision to attend a cultural event.”
“Uh-huh, cultural event… right, right.” you nodded your head slowly, heavy with suspicion.
“Street racing is a cultural institution with deep roots in—”
“He lost twenty dollars to Jongho about whether you’d check your tire pressure two times or four,” Seonghwa said, and Jongho’s mouth twitched in something that was almost a smile. “It was three, by the way.”
“Four, actually.” you corrected, and Hongjoong pointed at Jongho with the satisfied air of a man who’d just been vindicated.
“See? She checked it four times and I said four. You said three. Pay up, kid.”
Jongho reached into his back pocket without argument and handed over a crumpled twenty. Hongjoong took it with the gravity of someone accepting a Nobel Prize.
You laughed, the sound felt good in the night air, loosening something that had been wound tight since you’d pulled into the turnout and cut the engine. The three of them were here. They’d come. Mingi’s people had come, which meant maybe he was also there too.
“How’s the car?” Seonghwa asked, and his tone was professional—the manager’s tone, the one that meant he was genuinely interested in the answer and not just making conversation.
“She’s solid,” you answered back confidently. “Mingi did the bracket last week. She’s running cleaner than she has in months.”
“Mm. Good.” Seonghwa’s eyes moved past you to the car, assessing it with the same quiet attention he gave everything—invoices, clients, the state of the break room microwave. “He spent three hours on that mount. Wouldn’t let anyone else touch it.”
Something warm bloomed behind your sternum. You didn’t let it show on your face.
“Control freak,” you joked lightly.
“The worst,” Seonghwa agreed, and there was something in his voice—something knowing, something that suggested he’d been paying attention to more than just the state of the break room microwave—but before you could parse it, Hongjoong was speaking again.
“Who are you running against tonight? The Busan kid?”
“Jihoon and the Busan kid, yeah. And a few others—some guy in a WRX who’s been talking a big game on the forums, and a girl in a Civic that’s been modded within an inch of its life. It should be interesting.”
Jongho made a sound—a low, considering hum that was eerily similar to the one Mingi made when he was cataloguing damage. “The Civic’s got a K-swap. I saw it at the meet last weekend. She’s running a bigger turbo than she should be. She’ll pull hard off the line but fade by the second turn if the cooling can’t keep up.”
You looked at him. “You went to the meet?”
“I go to all of them.” He said it like it was nothing. Like attending every unofficial car gathering within a thirty-mile radius was a perfectly normal hobby for a twenty-five-year-old mechanic who otherwise gave the impression of being allergic to social interaction. “Research.”
“Research,” Hongjoong repeated, deadpan.
“Market analysis,” Jongho smirked, and didn’t elaborate.
You grinned and turned back to the car. The ritual wasn’t finished. You still had to walk the length of the stretch—check the surface for debris, note the manhole cover on the second turn, feel the asphalt under your boots and commit its texture to memory. You still had to sit in the driver’s seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, running the course in your head—every shift point, every braking marker, every place where the road cambered in a way that could send an unwary car wide.
Your eyes moved past the crowd. Past Yuna and her betting spreadsheet, past Soobin and his flashlight, past the three ATZ mechanics standing in their cluster of black leather and quiet competence. Past the LED lights and the speaker stacks and the groups of strangers with their phones raised like offerings to some digital god. You scanned the turnout. The guardrail. The overpass. The shadows where the streetlights didn’t reach.
You looked for him.
You looked for the tall frame, the dark hair, the oversized jacket with the sleeves pushed up. You looked for the way he stood—loose and easy, one hip cocked, like gravity was a suggestion he’d chosen to follow. You looked for the familiar smile. You looked for the one person in the crowd who would be watching you the way he watched engines—with total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
The turnout was full of people. None of them were Mingi.
You let your gaze sweep one more time—slower now, deliberate, giving him every chance to materialize from behind a car or step out of the shadows or call your name from somewhere you hadn’t checked. The crowd shifted and pulsed, and a flare went up near the starting line, throwing red light across a hundred faces, and none of them were his.
He wasn’t here. Of course he wasn’t here. He’d told you, and you’d said it was fine, and it was fine. It was completely, totally, one-hundred-percent fine.
You turned back to the car and placed both hands on the roof again, fingers spread wide, and you took a breath that went all the way to the bottom of your lungs and held it there for a count of four.
“You okay?” Seonghwa asked from behind you. His voice was careful. Observant. He’d seen you looking.
“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” you replied, and you meant it about the car, and you meant it about the race, and the part that wasn’t about the car or the race—the part that was about a mechanic who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning and remembered your oat milk and carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shoulders—you set that part aside. You set it in the same place you kept all the other things you weren’t ready to examine, and you closed the door on it, and you turned the lock.
You had a race to win.
You walked the stretch. You checked the surface—clean, dry, the manhole cover still loose on the second turn, the same one that had sent Jihoon wide last time. You committed the texture to memory—smooth here, slightly rough there, the seam where the old pavement met the new running like a scar down the centerline. You sat in the driver’s seat for exactly three minutes with the engine off, hands on the wheel, eyes closed, and you ran the course in your head.
You opened your eyes. The dashboard glowed its familiar amber, and the key was in your hand, and the crowd outside had gone quiet in that particular way that meant the flagger was taking position.
You turned the key.
The engine caught—clean , steady, that deep throaty hum that meant every bolt was where it belonged and every belt was singing the same song. You let the RPMs settle, then blipped the throttle twice—once for luck, once because the car asked for it—and pulled forward to the starting line.
Jihoon was already there. His silver coupe idled beside you, its aftermarket exhaust popping and crackling with the aggressive, attention-seeking rhythm of someone who’d spent more on sound than substance. He revved at you—three quick stabs, the automotive equivalent of a middle finger—and you didn’t respond. You kept your eyes on the flagger, on the strip of white cloth hanging limp in the still night air, on the exact point where it would snap upward and the world would narrow to nothing but asphalt and instinct.
The Busan kid was two cars back in his modified Civic, the intercooler gleaming under the LED lights like a promise of trouble. The WRX was on your other side, its driver—a guy you didn’t recognize, late twenties, a baseball cap pulled low—cracking his neck side to side with the theatrical tension of someone who’d watched too many movies. The girl in the K-swapped Civic was behind you, engine ticking over with the tight, impatient rhythm of a turbo spooling against its wastegate.
The flagger raised his arm.
Your hand found the shifter. First gear. Clutch in. Throttle to the sweet spot—three thousand, hold it, feel the car strain against the brakes like a dog pulling at its leash. Your heartbeat was steady. Your breathing was even. Everything outside the windshield had gone soft and distant, the way it always did in the seconds before the green—the crowd noise flattening to a dull roar, the LED lights blurring into streaks of color, the smell of burnt rubber and beer and body spray condensing into a single, meaningless note.
The flag dropped.
You released the clutch and the brakes simultaneously, the way you’d practiced ten thousand times in empty parking lots and deserted stretches of road, and the car launched forward with a violence that pressed you into the seat. The tires bit—clean, no spin, no wasted energy—and you were through first gear before the WRX had found its footing, the tach needle swinging past redline and your hand already moving to second, third, the engine screaming its approval as you fed it everything it asked for.
The first turn came fast. You took it tight—tighter than the line you’d rehearsed, cutting inside the apex marker by a close margin because Jihoon was already trying to crowd you wide, his front bumper edging into your peripheral vision like something predatory. You held the line. Your right rear tire kissed the inside curb and the car shuddered once—a brief, violent protest—and then settled, and you were through, accelerating hard into the short straight before the second turn.
The manhole cover. You could see it ahead—a dark circle in the asphalt, slightly raised, slightly loose, the same one that had cost Jihoon a bumper last time. He’d remember it. He’d be cautious. You wouldn’t.
Your foot came off the pedal at the last possible moment, and the car rotated into the turn with the kind of precision that only comes from knowing exactly how much grip you had left and being willing to use all of it. The manhole passed under your left tires with a dull, metallic thunk that you felt through the steering column, and you were already unwinding the wheel, already feeding power back in, already watching Jihoon in your rearview as he lifted—just barely, just enough—to avoid the cover, and the gap between you opened by half a car length.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
The third turn was sweeping and fast, the camber pulling you toward the outside guardrail, and you fought it with micro-adjustments of the wheel—tiny, instinctive corrections that kept the car on the line you’d drawn in your head three minutes ago. The tach sat at six thousand in fourth gear, the engine pulling hard and clean, no hesitation, no vibration, no sound that didn’t belong. Mingi’s bracket held. Mingi’s bolt held. The transmission mount sat silent and true beneath you, and you pushed harder because it let you.
The Busan kid was gaining. You could hear him—the high, tight whine of his turbo spooling, the sharp crack of his exhaust on overrun—and in your mirrors you could see the Civic’s headlights swelling, closing, eating the gap you’d built on the first two turns. He was fast. Jongho had been right about the cooling—you could see heat shimmer rising from his hood in the LED light—but he was fast enough that the fade wouldn’t matter if he caught you before the straight.
The fourth turn. The one that looked easy and wasn’t.
Jihoon had recovered from the manhole. He was on your right now, his front bumper level with your door, his engine screaming as he pushed for the inside line. You could see his face through his window—jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road ahead with the desperate intensity of someone who’d bet more than he could afford to lose. His car was faster in a straight line. You both knew it. If he got past you before the fifth turn, the straight would belong to him, and you’d never close the gap.
You braked early.
You let the car slow a fraction of a second before the braking marker, and Jihoon took the bait. He shot past your bumper, diving for the inside, certain he’d found the opening, and you let him have it. You let him have the inside line on a turn that tightened at the exit, on a road that cambered outward, on an asphalt surface that was slightly rougher on the inside than the outside.
He realized his mistake a half-second too late. You saw it happen—the moment his wheels lost their grip, the moment the camber pulled him wide, the moment his rear end stepped out and he had to catch it with a correction that cost him speed, momentum, everything. You cut to the outside, carried your speed through the exit, and when you looked in your mirror, Jihoon was a full car length behind and fighting to stay on the road.
The straight opened ahead of you—flat, dark, the orange cones of the finish line glowing like distant candles. Fifth gear. Foot to the floor. Don’t lift. Don’t think. Just go.
The Civic was still there. The Busan kid had found something on the fourth turn—some line you hadn’t anticipated, some technique that kept his turbo spooled and his tires planted—and he was alongside you now, his front bumper creeping past yours inch by inch, his engine howling with the particular fury of a K-swap pushed past its comfort zone. Heat poured from his hood in visible waves. The cooling was failing. You could see it in the way his tach was fluctuating—dropping a hundred RPM, climbing back, dropping again—the engine fighting for air it couldn’t get.
But he was still moving. Still gaining. His front bumper was at your door. Then at your front wheel. Then past it.
The finish line was thirty seconds away. Maybe less. The cones were getting bigger, the crowd noise swelling from a dull roar to something sharp and specific—you could hear individual voices now, individual shouts, someone screaming your name.
You dropped to fourth. The engine screamed—past the redline, into territory you’d never asked it to visit, the tach needle buried in the red and the valves singing a song that was equal parts defiance and desperation. The car responded. It always responded. The RPMs climbed past anything the factory had ever intended, and the power came back—not smoothly, not cleanly, but enough. Enough to close the gap. Enough to pull even with the Civic’s rear bumper, then its door, then its front wheel.
The Busan kid looked over. You saw his face through his window—young, flushed, eyes wide with the particular shock of someone who’d been certain they’d won and was watching the certainty evaporate. He pushed the throttle harder. You heard his engine stutter—a single, violent misfire that cost him everything—and in that fraction of a second, you were past him.
The finish line. The cones. The flagger’s arm dropping.
You crossed first.
You knew it before the crowd told you. You knew it in the way the Civic’s headlights fell behind you, in the way the straight opened up empty ahead of your bumper, in the way the engine’s scream shifted from desperate to triumphant as you lifted off the throttle and let the car coast, the adrenaline still singing through your veins like electricity through a live wire.
The crowd erupted.
You could hear it even through the closed windows—a wall of sound that hit the car like a physical force, hundreds of voices merging into a single, incoherent roar of celebration. Phones were raised, flashlights swinging, the LED lights along the overpass pulsing in time with the bass from the speakers someone had turned up to maximum. You pulled into the turnout and cut the engine, and the sudden silence was immediately filled by the sound of people running toward your car, their boots pounding on the asphalt, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of congratulations and disbelief.
You sat there for a moment. Hands on the wheel. Breathing hard. The dashboard lights faded slowly, and the engine ticked its cooling song, and something behind your chest—something that had been wound tight since the starting line, since the moment you’d scanned the crowd and found him missing—unspooled all at once, leaving you lightheaded and grinning like an idiot.
The door opened from the outside.
Yuna was there, her face split in a grin so wide it looked like it hurt, both hands gripping the door frame like she was afraid the car might try to escape. “You absolute madwoman! You insane, beautiful, completely unhinged—” She was pulling you out of the seat before you could unbuckle, her arms around your neck, her voice shouting directly into your ear at a volume that should have required a permit. “You killed it, babe! You beat them all! The Busan kid looked like he was going to cry!”
Soobin was right behind her, his flashlight still in his hand, his face flushed with the particular joy of someone who’d just won back the fifty dollars he’d lost on the blowout plus interest. “Dude, that fourth turn was insane! That was literally criminal, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal but who gives a fuck.”
You were laughing—you couldn’t stop, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and raw and entirely involuntary—and people were pressing in from all sides, hands clapping your shoulders, voices shouting your car’s name, your name, variations of your name that you’d never heard before. Someone had a bottle of champagne—the cheap kind, the kind that came in a green bottle with a foil label—and the cork popped with a sound like a gunshot, and foam sprayed across your hood in a wide, arcing fan that caught the LED light and turned to gold.
“Careful on my paint man!” you shouted, but you were laughing, and someone else had a second bottle, and then a third, and within seconds your car was glistening with cheap champagne, the hood dripping, the windshield streaked, the headlights wearing crowns of foam that slid slowly down the lenses. The crowd was chanting—your name, your car’s name, something rhythmic and obscene that Yuna had probably started—and you stood in the center of it with champagne in your hair and the particular, dizzying high of having done the thing you’d set out to do and done it perfectly.
Hongjoong materialized at your left shoulder, his twenty-dollar bill now folded neatly in his breast pocket, his expression one of grudging respect. “Not bad, kid.” He nudged your shoulder, which from Hongjoong was roughly equivalent to a standing ovation.
Seonghwa was beside him, arms crossed, a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “The bracket held,” he observed, like he’d been watching for exactly that and nothing else.
“Thank god for that, huh,” you confirmed, and the words came out slightly breathless, slightly giddy, and you wiped champagne from your eyebrow with the back of your hand and grinned at both of them like you’d just won the lottery.
And then you saw him.
He was at the edge of the crowd—tall, unmistakable, the white of his tank top bright against his leather jacket, dark jeans that had no right to fit the way they did. Hair pushed back. Rings shining brightly on his fingers and silver chains by his throat catching the light they always did. Both hands clean, the left one uninjured and wrapped around the stems of a bouquet he was holding down at his side with the careful, slightly uncertain grip of someone who had never bought flowers before and was now standing in a crowd of street racers holding flowers. Proudly wearing that stupid smile of his.
Mingi.
Your brain short-circuited. You blinked. You blinked again. The champagne was still dripping from your hair, and the crowd was still roaring, and Yuna was still screaming something in your ear that you couldn’t hear, and Mingi was there, standing at the edge of the turnout like he’d materialized from the very specific fantasy you’d been refusing to acknowledge for the past couple of weeks.
You pushed through the crowd. People moved aside—or you moved through them, you weren’t sure. The crowd parted like water, and you were running. Boots slapping against the champagne-wet asphalt, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your teeth. Mingi lifted the bouquet from his side and held it out to you like an offering, like a confession, like the only thing he could think to bring to the most important moment of his week.
You took the flowers without breaking stride. Wildflowers, not the kind from a shop, the kind that grew along the riverbank where you’d pulled over that afternoon, blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in what looked like shop towel because Mingi didn’t own ribbon. Then you were launching yourself at him, both arms around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist because the momentum demanded it, because physics demanded it, because every molecule in your body demanded it.
He caught you. Of course he caught you—his free arm hooking under your thighs, the other still clutching the bouquet, his body absorbing the impact with the same easy, practiced confidence he brought to everything that mattered. You buried your face in his neck, and he smelled like something warm and new—aftershave, maybe?
The crowd erupted.
Not the race-winning eruption—something different, something bright, the particular sound of hundreds people collectively losing their minds over something they hadn’t known they were watching for. A chorus of whoops and whistles and someone—Yuna, definitely Yuna—screaming “OH MY GOD” at a frequency that could transcend both space and time. Phones were up, cameras flashing, and you could hear the cooing, the affectionate, slightly drunk awwww that rolled through the turnout like a wave, and someone shouted “KISS HER, BRO!” and someone else shouted “AW MAN I THOUGHT I HAD A CHANCE.” and the whole thing collapsed into laughter and applause that vibrated through the asphalt and up through Mingi’s chest and into yours.
His mouth was at your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, and his voice was low—so low that only you could hear it, the words meant for you and you alone, tucked into the space between his jaw and your hair.
“Congratulations, my little racer,” he whispered. “You were incredible. I watched the whole thing from the overpass. You kicked their asses.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him—his face inches from yours, the gold in his eyes catching the LED light, the cut on his lip healed to a thin white line, the flowers crushed between your chest and his, releasing their faint, sweet smell into the narrow gap between your bodies.
“You came,” you beamed up at him, your voice came out breathless and disbelieving, like you were still waiting for the punchline. “I thought you said you couldn’t—the timing chain, the V6—”
“I pulled some strings.” His dimple appeared. “I finished the timing chain at nine. Drove straight here. Parked on the overpass and watched you absolutely murder that Civic.”
“You finished a timing chain in—”
“Did you forget that I’m very good at my job?” The smile was wide now, unashamed, the kind of smile that belonged in a movie montage, and you were laughing—both of you were laughing, your foreheads pressed together, the crowd still cheering around you like you’d invented something new.
He shifted his grip on you—adjusting, settling, his arm tightening under your thighs—and then he was walking. Carrying you. Back through the crowd, past Yuna who was filming with both hands and sobbing dramatically, past Soobin who gave you a thumbs-up that was mostly champagne foam, past Hongjoong who looked like he was trying very hard to maintain his world-weary composure and failing, past Seonghwa who was watching with the quiet, knowing satisfaction of someone who’d seen this coming from three months away.
Mingi’s mouth found your ear again. His lips brushed the shell of it—barely, accidentally, not-accidentally—and his voice dropped to that register that lived in the space between a whisper and a thought.
“Did you want to give them a show, hm?” The words were warm and teasing, his breath ghosting across your skin. “Because we could. We could stand right here and let them film every second. I’m sure everyone would appreciate the content.”
You shook your head against his shoulder—a quick, emphatic no—and felt him smile against your temple.
“Smart girl, aren’t you.” His arm tightened around you, possessive and gentle in equal measure. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
You reached into your back pocket without looking, your fingers finding the key fob by touch alone, and you pressed it into his free hand—the one not holding the bouquet, the one not holding you. He caught it without looking, the way he caught everything—tools, keys, the particular weight of your trust—and his fingers closed around it like it belonged there.
He carried you to the car. The crowd was still cheering, still filming, still living in the moment you’d already left behind, and Mingi set you down gently at the passenger door—your feet finding the ground, his hand lingering at the small of your back—and opened it for you with the same old habit, the one he never skipped. You slid into the seat, the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, and Mingi closed the door behind you with a soft, deliberate click.
He walked around the hood—you watched him through the windshield, the way he moved through the champagne-streaked light with the unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going—and dropped into the driver’s seat. The engine turned over on the first try, that clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be, and Mingi pulled out of the turnout with the kind of smooth, controlled precision that made your stomach flip.
The crowd fell away behind you. The LED lights shrank to pinpoints in the rearview. The champagne and the shouting and the bass-heavy music dissolved into the night, replaced by the sound of the engine and the wind through the open windows and the faint rustle of wildflowers in your lap.
══════════════════
The road unwound beneath you, and the city thinned to scattered streetlights and the occasional glow of a late-night convenience store. You held the flowers in your lap, their stems cool against your palms, their scent—something green and wild and faintly sweet—mixing with the smell of Mingi’s cologne that still clung to the upholstery. The radio was off. The engine hummed its steady, contented song. The wind through the open windows pushed your hair across your face, and you didn’t bother pushing it back.
Mingi’s hand left the wheel. You felt it before you saw it. The shift in the air, the subtle change in the weight distribution of the car as he turned his body slightly toward you. His fingers found yours on the center console, warm and rough and sure, and they laced through yours with the easy, unhurried confidence of someone who’d been waiting to do exactly this and had decided that the waiting was over.
You looked down at your joined hands. His thumb traced a slow circle over your knuckle—once, twice—and then his grip tightened, just barely, and he lifted your hand from the console and brought it to his mouth.
His lips pressed against the back of your hand. Soft, deliberate, lingering. The kiss was warm and dry and over almost before it began, but it sent something electric cascading through your bloodstream, a current that started at the point of contact and raced up your arm and settled somewhere behind your ribs like a spark catching dry tinder.
You didn’t pull away. You didn’t speak. You just watched him—the sharp line of his profile in the dashboard light, the way his jaw worked as he lowered your hand but didn’t let go, his thumb resuming its slow, circling pattern on your skin.
The car turned left. You recognised the road—the one that curved along the riverbank, the one you’d driven that afternoon with the windows down and the silence between you feeling like a promise. The water was dark now, reflecting the moon in long, broken ribbons of silver, and the trees along the bank stood in silhouette against the pale sky. The road narrowed to a single lane, then to gravel, and Mingi pulled into the empty parking lot.
He cut the engine.
The silence was immediate and total—just the tick of cooling metal and the distant murmur of the river and the sound of your own breathing, which had gone slightly uneven without your permission. Mingi’s hand was still in yours. The flowers were still in your lap. The moonlight came through the windshield and painted everything in shades of blue and silver, and for a long moment neither of you moved.
Then Mingi turned in his seat.
He looked at you the way he looked at engines—with total, uncomplicated attention, like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at. His eyes moved from your face to the flowers in your lap and back, and something shifted in his expression—something vulnerable and warm and slightly terrified, the look of a man who’d decided to say something he’d been carrying for a long time and was now realizing there was no taking it back.
“I picked those,” he said, nodding at the bouquet. “From the riverbank. This morning, before the shop opened. I drove out here at five-thirty and walked along the water and picked the ones that looked the prettiest, reminded me of you.”
You looked down at the flowers. Blue and yellow and white, stems wrapped in shop towel, slightly crushed from being held between your bodies during the champagne-soaked celebration. They were imperfect—wild, uneven, some of them already starting to droop—and they were the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given you.
“You drove out here at the ass crack of dawn” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. “To get me flowers?”
“Mm.” His thumb was still moving on your hand—slow circles, steady and grounding. “I was going to give them to you at the race. Had this whole plan—I’d wait until you won, and then I’d walk up like it was nothing, suuuuper nonchalant. Like hey, congratulations, here are some flowers I found, no big deal.” He huffed a laugh, soft and self-deprecating. “But then you came up and ambushed my whole plan.”
“You remembered the flowers.”
He turned to look at you—really look at you—with an expression you’d never seen on him before. Not the easy grin, not the teasing half-smile. Something quieter. Something that made your breath catch.
“You’re surprised?” he said. It wasn’t a question.
You didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
“Sweetheart.” His voice was low, almost careful, like he was choosing each word by hand. “I remember your fancy oat milk creamer. I remember that you check your tire pressure four times before a race. I remember the little sound you make right before you shift, and the way your hands shake after, and you shove them in your pockets, so nobody sees.” His thumb stilled on your knuckles. “It’s you. How could I forget all the things that make you, you?”
The words landed in the space between you like stones dropped into still water. You could feel the ripples spreading—through your chest, through your stomach, through the places you’d been keeping locked and quiet for months.
“Mingi—”
“I know,” there was a thread of nervousness in his voice that you’d never heard before—not from him, not from the man who rebuilt transmissions at four in the morning with one hand tied behind his back. “I know it’s a lot. And I know the timing is—I showed up at your race with riverbank flowers wrapped in shop towel, that’s not exactly—”
“No, It’s perfect,” you breathed.
He stopped. Blinked. “What?”
“It’s perfect.” You squeezed his hand, and your voice was steadier now, steadier than it had any right to be given the way your heart was trying to escape through your sternum. “The flowers are perfect. Showing up when you said you couldn’t is perfect. Finishing a timing chain in four hours to watch me race is—” You laughed, a little broken, a little giddy. “That’s the most ridiculous, over-the-top, completely unnecessary thing anyone has ever done for me, and it’s absolutely perfect.”
His eyes went bright—not with tears, but with something close, something that made the gold in them catch the moonlight and hold it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You held his gaze, and the air between you had gone thick and warm and charged with something that had been building since the first time he’d called you sweetheart over the phone, since the first time he’d carried you through a doorway too narrow for his shoulders, since the first time you’d woken up on his makeshift bed with his jacket over you and his coffee in your hands and the sound of him working on your car like a prayer in the next room.
“I’ve been remembering things too, you know. The way you talk to engines. The way you wrap cuts in electrical tape. The way you always open the door even though the hinges complain. The way you—” Your voice cracked, just barely, and you pushed through it. “The way you make me feel like I’m worth showing up for. Like I’m worth the overtime and the missed sleep and the riverbank flowers at five-thirty in the morning.”
Mingi’s hand tightened around yours. His jaw worked—once, twice—and when he spoke, his voice was rough at the edges, like something had been sanded down to its most honest layer.
“You are,” he said. “You’ve always been. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding—”
“Like a lovesick mechanic?”
The laugh that escaped him was startled and genuine, and it broke the tension like a window shattering—not violently, but completely, the barriers between you dissolving all at once. “Yeah,” he admitted, still laughing. “Like a lovesick mechanic who picks wildflowers at dawn and drives across the city to watch his girl race because he can’t stand the idea of her crossing the finish line without him there.”
His girl.
Your chest was so full it hurt. You looked at him, at the way his eyes were shining in the moonlight with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like love—and you made a decision.
You swung your leg over the centre console, bracing one hand on the dashboard and the other on the back of Mingi’s seat, and the flowers tumbled from your lap into the footwell—you’d apologise to them later—and you were halfway across when your back connected with the steering wheel.
BEEEEP!
The horn blared. One long, deafening, comically loud sound that shattered the romantic tension like a brick through a greenhouse window.
The sound bounced off the river and came back at you from three directions, and a flock of something erupted from the trees along the bank in a flurry of wings and indignant squawking.
You froze. Mingi froze. The horn kept blaring—your weight still pressing against the wheel—and for one horrible, eternal second the only sound in the universe was the aggressive, unwavering beep of your car announcing to every living creature within a half-kilometre radius that two people were having a moment.
Then Mingi laughed.
It started low—a rumble in his chest that you felt through the hand still pressed against his seat—and then it broke open, wide and bright and completely unrestrained, his head falling back against the headrest, his whole body shaking with it. You were laughing too. you couldn’t help it, the absurdity of it crashing over you like a wave. You shifted your weight off the horn, and the silence that followed was somehow even funnier than the noise had been.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. “I just—I can’t believe I did that.”
“So smooth,” Mingi confirmed, his voice cracking with laughter. “That’s going in the wedding vows. I’m putting it in our wedding vows one day.”
“Stop—” You were laughing too hard to finish the sentence. “This is so embarrassing.”
“To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, and that one time you honked the horn with your back—”
You swatted his shoulder, and he caught your wrist—easy, instinctive, the way he caught everything—and the laughter died between you like a candle guttering in a draft, and the silence that replaced it was different from the one before. Charged. Intentional. The kind of silence that had a destination.
You were in his lap.
You hadn’t fully registered it until this moment. The solid warmth of his thighs beneath yours, the way your knees bracketed his hips, the way his free hand had found your waist and settled there with the kind of certainty that suggested it had been planning this landing for months. His face was inches from yours. You could see every detail—the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lower lip caught the moonlight and held it.
“Hi, gorgeous,” he murmured.
“Hi, pretty boy,” you whispered back.
His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back and pulled you in with the quiet confidence of someone who had already decided. Your chest met his, and through the thin cotton of his tank top you felt it: the hard press of a chain against your chest, cold metal warming fast between your bodies, and beneath it the steady knock of his heartbeat going just a little faster than it should have been. His other hand still had your wrist, his thumb resting over your pulse, and you had the dizzy, helpless thought that he could feel exactly what he was doing to you—every traitorous beat of it.
“Mingi,” you whispered.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice was low and rough, the words coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “If you want me to stop, tell me now, because—”
You kissed him.
You didn’t hesitate. The need in your chest had built past the point of thinking, past the point of planning, leaving you with nothing but the gravitational certainty of wanting him so badly it hurt. You leaned in and claimed his mouth with both hands—one threading into his hair, the other cupping the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb grazing the stubble as you tilted his face toward yours. Your lips crashed together, all the trembling restraint of the last few months shattering between your teeth, and you kissed him with none of the gentleness you’d always thought a first kiss was supposed to have. It was hungry, greedy, almost angry—a collision of lips and breath and hands, your pent-up longing poured into the space of a single, shuddering breath.
Mingi met you with an equal, ferocious urgency. His hands found your hips and pulled you even closer, and the heat between your bodies was immediate, as if the months of flirting and 'what ifs' had been gasoline and someone finally struck the match. His mouth tasted like cool mint and something darker, sweeter, and you licked into him without thinking, chasing the sound he made when your tongue brushed his. He groaned, low in his throat, and the vibration went straight through your bones, finding all the places in you that had been waiting for this and lighting them up at once.
The kiss turned reckless almost instantly. Your fingers curled into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath catch and his lips part for you. His hands slid up your back, bunching the fabric of your shirt at your waist, exposing a strip of skin that tingled in the cool air and then burned under the heat of his palms. He kissed you like he was trying to learn you—memorise you. Take as much as you would give and then ask for more, and you gave it to him gladly, shamelessly, your body moving in the small, instinctive ways that said yes, now, please.
He tasted you, mapped you, his breath coming faster as the kiss deepened, and when you broke away to gasp for air, his mouth didn’t leave your skin—it travelled along your jaw, down to your neck, finding the spot just beneath your ear that made your eyes flutter shut, and your nails dig into his shoulders. You heard yourself make a noise, helpless and wrecked, and felt him grin against your neck, triumphant.
You chased his mouth back to yours, biting his lower lip, and he let you, let you take and take until you were dizzy with it, until nothing else existed except the press of his lips, the slide of his hands, and the wild, intoxicating rush of wanting him and being wanted back just as fiercely.
You barely heard yourself whisper his name as you pressed your forehead to his, breathing the same air, letting his hands anchor you while the rest of the world spun out beneath you.
He kissed you like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else, and you let him. You kissed him back like you wanted to ruin him too. You lost track of time. Of the river outside, of the moon overhead, of anything that wasn’t the taste of him and the weight of his hands on your body.
When you finally separated, both of you breathing hard, his hands were still at your waist and your fingers were still in his hair. He was looking at you like a starved man, a little wrecked and utterly, unironically smitten.
“I should’ve done that a long time ago,” you heard yourself say, voice shaky but certain.
He grinned, slow and devastating, and pulled you in for another, softer kiss, barely a brush of lips but somehow more intimate than everything before. “You know damn well that I would’ve let you,” he breathed, and you felt the words all the way down your spine.
You kissed him again.
This time it was deeper, hungrier, his hands sliding up your sides with a deliberateness that made your skin prickle. His thumbs hooked under the hem of your shirt, and he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against your lips.
“Lift your arms for me, baby.”
You did, arms lifting without hesitation, and he peeled the fabric up and off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind the driver’s seat without looking. The cool night air hit your bare skin, and you shivered— but not from the cold. His gaze darkened as it dropped to your chest, and his fingers went to the clasp of your bra with the same practiced ease he used on engine bolts. One flick, and the band loosened. He didn’t pull it away yet, just let the straps slide down your shoulders an inch at a time, his knuckles grazing your skin like a promise.
“Fuck,” he murmured, voice rough. “Look at you.” His thumb traced the edge of the lace, teasing the swell of your breast before finally dragging the fabric away.
The air hit your nipples first, tightening them instantly, but then his hands were there—warm, calloused, cupping you with a reverence that made your breath catch. He rolled one peak between his fingers, watching your face contort with pleasure as you gasped, then leaned in to take the other into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue made you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he teased you, alternating between gentle suction and sharp little nips that sent sparks straight to your core.
“S’not fair I’m half naked, and you’re still fully dressed,” you whined, tugging at his own shirt. He smirked and let you pull it over his head, revealing the lean muscle you’d been thinking about all evening—all week, if you were being honest. His chains pooled against his collarbones, still warm from his skin. Your fingers went to them before you’d made any conscious decision to, looping them gently, feeling the small links drag across your knuckles as you gave a slow, idle tug.
“Fuck… Damn,” you breathed, because apparently your vocabulary had abandoned you.
Mingi’s laugh was low and pleased. “Yeah? That’s all you’ve got for me?”. His hands were already on your hips, guiding you down onto his lap, and the words dissolved into something more primal when you settled against him.
You rolled your hips experimentally, and the sound he made—half groan, half growl—went straight to the blooming heat of your pussy. His fingers dug into your waist, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to steer, and you found a rhythm that had both of you panting against each other’s mouths.
“That’s it,” he drawled, his voice dropping into that register that made your stomach flip. “Always so pretty f'me.”
You ground down harder, chasing the friction, and his head fell back against the headrest. His throat was right there, and you kissed it, nipped at it.
“Backseat,” the command in his tone sent a thrill down your spine. “Now.”
You blinked, dazed. “What?”
“Go to the backseat. I’m not doing this half-assed in the front of your car.” His hands were already pushing you off his lap, and you stumbled out of the driver’s side, your legs unsteady. He followed, unfolding his long frame from the passenger seat with considerably less grace.
You both climbed into the back—you first, sliding across the leather—and then Mingi ducked in after you. Or tried to. His head connected with the roof with a solid thunk, and he winced, rubbing the spot with a rueful grin.
“Jesus—Forgot this car is so tiny. Might need to buy you a bigger car if we're going to do this again.”
You burst out laughing, the tension breaking into something bright and giddy. “It’s a perfectly normal-sized car! You’re just—” You gestured vaguely at all six feet of him.
“I’m just what?” He was grinning now too, that lopsided smile that crinkled his eyes. He settled beside you, the space suddenly very, very small. “Don't get shy on me now.”
“Massive,” you smirked, and the word came out breathier than you intended.
His eyes darkened. “Is that so? You know…My height isn’t the only thing that’s massive.” Instead of answering, you pulled him into another kiss, and he let you for a moment before pulling back, his hand on your jaw
“Lie back for me, baby.” He nodded toward the door behind you. “Right there.”
You shifted, letting your back find the door, the handle pressing briefly into your shoulder blade before you angled away from it. Your upper body sank against the cool window, your legs stretching across the seat toward him. The leather was cold against the backs of your thighs. Mingi settled in the footwell—knees at his chest, impossibly folded—and reached for the button of your jeans.
“Lift your hips.”
You did. He worked your jeans down your legs, his hands trailing fire along your skin, then dealt with your boots—one lace, then the other—and you kicked them off into the darkness somewhere near the front seats.
Then it was just you, stretched across the backseat in your panties, propped against the door with Mingi crouched between your knees, looking up at you like you were something worth taking his time with.
“Spread your legs wider,” he drawled.
Your breath caught. “Mingi—”
“Don’t make me ask twice, sweetheart.” His voice was velvet over steel, and your thighs fell open almost involuntarily. “Good girl.”
His hands settled on your knees, and he just looked at you—all of you, laid out for him. The parking lot light filtered amber through the windows. You could feel your own heartbeat in your throat. “You’re so beautiful,” he coos, his thumb grazing the inside of your thigh and stopping long before you needed him.
“Please,” you managed, voice trembling.
He flashed that infuriating smile and inched his thumb higher, then paused. “Please what? You’re my smart girl—you can use your words.”
“You know what I want,” you whispered, voice cracking.
He reached up, cupping your face and tilting your chin until you met his gaze. “If you want something, you have to use your words.”
You wanted to kill him—or kiss him. Maybe both. “Touch me properly. Please, Mingi, I need—”
“Shh.” At last his thumb brushed the edge of your underwear and you whined. “Good job, baby. That’s all you had to say.”
He shifted forward, knees braced against your thighs, steam and intent filling the small space between you. His eyes were dark, fixed on the bare skin just above his reach. When you looked down, your heart stuttered—he was entirely present, and you trembled before his touch even arrived.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmured, voice absolute. You obeyed, so helplessly drawn in that you’d have done anything he asked.
His touch feathered across your knee crease, drifting upward along the line where your skin warmed with anticipation. He watched every shiver, every hitch of your breath, lingering on the inner curve of your thigh. You squirmed; his hands held you steady, grounding you with effortless strength.
When your lids fluttered closed, he cleared his throat, and you snapped them open, mortified by how much it turned you on. He extended each second, building tension until you felt you might scream.
Finally, his thumb caught the elastic of your underwear, teasing the fabric. He leaned in close enough for each breath to scorch your skin. “Want it right here don’t you, baby?”
You nodded, barely able to whisper, “I do, Please Mingi...”
He rewarded you with a devastating smile and hooked both thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, dragging it down your legs in one slow, deliberate pull. He held your gaze as he folded the fabric and tucked it into his back pocket, casual as anything, like he was keeping it. Then his hand found you, fingers gathering your slickness, mapping every gasp and twitch as he traced your clit in gentle, maddening circles.
Your hips bucked, and he murmured, “Easy, pretty girl. I’ve got you.” But instead of rushing, he slowed, keeping you perched at the edge. Your knees knocked against his shoulders as he leaned back to admire his work.
“You look so perfect like this,” he breathed, voice low and ragged, “alll of this just for me.” He paused, satisfaction in every curve of his smile, as though he’d painted a masterpiece with his own two hands.
“Please, Mingi, p-please,” you heard yourself beg, the words rolling out of you shameless and raw.
He gave in, at last, sliding one long finger inside you, the sensation so intense you almost blacked out. The stretch and the heat and the pressure, all of it hit you at once, and your hands flew to his shoulders, digging in.
He curled that finger, just so perfectly, and when you arched off the car door, he kept pace, never breaking that perfect eye contact, never letting you drift even a second away from his attention.
He pumped his finger with a slow, luxurious rhythm, letting you ride the wave until you could hardly breathe. “So fucking tight, need to get you all ready for me,” he whispered, the pride in his voice made you even wetter. His thumb came up to circle your clit again, this time with purpose, dialling your body up to eleven in the space of a heartbeat.
He added a second finger, stretching you wider, and that was it—you were gone, hips rolling, head tossed back, mouth open in a silent scream. He pressed his face against your thigh, biting softly, and the feeling of his teeth and tongue sent shivers through your whole body.
But even when you tried to hide your face behind your hands, to ride the sensation out in the darkness of your palms, he stopped, pulling his hand away just long enough to force your gaze back to his.
“Don't you hide that cute face from me. I wanna see all of you.”
"Ah! M-mingi, fuck!" You cried out, unconsciously pulling away from him when his fingertips were already hitting so sinfully against your g-spot. You gripped onto his forearms for purchase, steadying yourself against his promiscuous rythmn.
He kept his fingers moving through it—curling, stroking, finding that sweet spot again and again with devastating precision, the filthy wet sounds of your cunt filling the silence of the car each time he drove his fingers deeper.
"You're taking my fingers so well," Mingi cooed, picking up the pace even faster.
Broken moans left your lips as he fucked you with his fingers. Your thighs clamped around his wrist and he pulled them apart with his free hand, firm and unhurried, spreading you back open without ever breaking his rhythm.
“You’re close, aren't you?” He murmured, not as a question rather as a statement. His voice was low and honeyed, that lazy confidence threading through every word like he’d mapped out every single one of your reactions before you’d even felt them. “I can feel it. You’re clenching so pretty around my fingers, baby.”
You whined, high and desperate, because he was right and he knew he was right and the worst part was that he sounded so goddamn pleased about it.
“That’s it. Don’t fight it.” His free hand slid up your thigh, fingers splayed wide against your skin, and he pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee like it was something sacred. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
The coil in your belly pulled tighter, tighter, and your hands fisted in the leather seat because there was nothing else to hold onto, nothing solid in a world that had narrowed down to the curl of his fingers inside you and the rough velvet of his voice.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Right on my hand. Show me how good I made you feel.”
You shattered.
It hit you like a wall of white noise, blinding and electric, and your back arched clean off the backseat as you came apart around him. His fingers didn’t stop for a second. If anything they slowed, drawing it out, wringing every last shudder and pulse from your body until you were trembling and gasping and completely, utterly ruined.
He watched you the entire time. You cracked your eyes open at some point and found him staring down at you with that crooked half-smile, the one that always made your stomach flip even when you were too wrung out to do anything about it.
“Fuck,” he breathed, and there was something almost reverent in it. “Look at you.”
He pulled his fingers free slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, but then he was bringing his hand up between your puffy folds gathering the remains of your pleasure on his digits.
You watched, still trembling, your chest heaving, as he slipped those slick fingers them between his lips and sucked them clean with the kind of deliberate, unhurried pleasure that made your thighs clench all over again. His eyes never left yours, dark and heavy-lidded, and the sound he made—a low, appreciative hum—vibrated through the small space between you.
“So sweet,” he murmured, pulling his fingers free with a soft pop. He licked the pad of his thumb, slow and thorough, like he was tasting something worth savouring. “So fucking perfect. You taste even better than I imagined.” He paused, searching for the word, and the half-smile that curved his mouth was devastating. “And I've imagined it a lot.”
Your face burned. Your entire body burned. You couldn’t look away from his mouth, from the way his tongue traced the line of his knuckles, from the way his eyes went half-lidded and dark with satisfaction.
You made a noise that was supposed to be indignation but came out embarrassingly close to a moan. “Such a fucking perv.”
“Mm.” He lowered himself over you, bracing his weight on one forearm against the back of the seat, and pressed his lips to the corner of your jaw. Still wet. Still tasting like you. “You love it though.”
You did. God help you, you really did.
He lowered his hand and reached for you, his palm warm against your hip, guiding you with that easy, unhurried confidence that made your knees weak even when you were already lying down.
“Come lie down properly, you know I don’t bite,” he purred, and you obeyed—sliding backward onto the leather seat, letting him guide you. His hands traced your spine like he was tuning something precious. He shifted, smoothing your body until you lay flat, legs splayed, arms above your head, torso exposed beneath the cool leather.
He hovered over you, one hand on your hip to anchor you, the other brushing your inner thigh. The door handle pressed into your shoulders, the stickiness of the leather biting into your ribs, but none of it mattered. Only Mingi’s heat and the slow, hungry gleam in his eyes.
“How flexible are you?” he asked, as casually as if checking the time.
Your mind still foggy, you blinked. “I’d say I’m pretty flexible. Why?”
He hummed, hands sliding beneath your hips with mechanical precision, and lifted. Your lower body left the seat entirely, suspended in the air, nothing beneath your but his grip. You grabbed for something to hold and found his thighs—thick and solid under your palms, the denim warm.
“Is this okay?” he murmured. You nodded as you dug your fingers in his thighs.
Then his mouth was on you.
His tongue was a live wire, tracing a slow, molten path from where you ached to where you burned. The first drag of it—flat, deliberate, searing—sent a jolt through you like a spark plug firing. Your hips jerked upwards in his grasp, a broken sound clawing its way out of your throat. Mingi hummed against you, the vibration a deep, resonant purr that thrummed through your bones, your nerves, your very core. He explored you like he was memorizing a blueprint—each ridge, each sensitive fold, each flutter of muscle beneath his lips. His tongue lingered where your breath hitched, swirled where your thighs trembled, pressed where your pulse hammered like a piston in overdrive.
“M-Mingi—fuck, feels so good!” Your voice was raw, shredded by the pleasure coiling tighter inside you.
His grip on your hip intensified, fingertips biting into your flesh with an urgency that made your spine arch. You could feel the imprint he was leaving on your skin—five points of possession, claiming you as his even as you squirmed helplessly in his hold. The other hand slid up, tracing the natural curve of your back with almost reverent care before splaying wide and holding you there, helplessly suspended, a perfect angle for his tongue to do its damage. The cold air inside the car prickled against the sweat beading along your skin, but the contrast only sharpened the focus of every hot, wet, maddeningly precise thing Mingi was doing between your thighs.
He worked you with a methodical, almost mechanical intensity, the kind you’d seen him use on the shop floor with a stubborn bolt or a seized part—determined, relentless, and utterly sure of himself. His mouth didn’t just tease; it engineered your pleasure, tracing out every sensitive ridge and dip, every stuttering gasp and involuntary twitch. He learned you so quickly it was terrifying—every time you tried to twist away or clamp your knees shut, he countered, easily, like a wrench snapping onto a stripped nut. You had no leverage. No hope. Just the inevitability of what he was building in you.
He alternated, sometimes flattening his tongue and dragging it up your puffy pussylips in one long, slow burn, sometimes isolating the spot that made your vision strobe, focusing the pressure until you were clawing at his jeans and choking on your own moans. There was no rhythm to fall into, no lull; just spikes of pleasure, sharp and unpredictable, wracking through you until your thighs shook uncontrollably. He hummed again, the sound low and smug, vibrating straight into your core like a tuning fork.
Somewhere in the haze, you realized you’d started to beg. Not with words, not at first—just hoarse little whimpers, your ragged breathing an open admission of defeat. But then the words tumbled out, torn from you by the merciless grind of his tongue. “Please, Mingi, please, please, I can’t—” You weren’t sure what you were asking for. Mercy, maybe. Or more, always more.
He paused only long enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark with heat and satisfaction. “I thought you could handle more, baby?” he rasped, breath fanning over your swollen flesh.
“I can-fuck, I can handle it.” you snarl back, your words having no real bite behind them. Mingi knows that, hell, even you know that.
He bent to his work with renewed vengeance—faster now, chasing your pleasure like it was something he could catch and pin down. The car’s interior filled with the obscene wet sounds of his mouth and your body betraying you, slick and desperate under his assault. The seat vibrated under your head as you started to thrash, your legs locked tight around his shoulders, your fingers digging deeper and deeper into the meat of his thighs.
Somewhere outside, a car alarm went off, a shrill warble that barely penetrated the cocoon of sensation. The world could have ended around you and you wouldn’t have noticed. Not when he was doing this, not when he was making you feel like your whole body had been rewired for his touch alone.
He played you up and down the scale, sometimes gentle, sometimes ruthless, reading every clench and flutter with greedy satisfaction. When he sensed you hovering on the knife’s edge, he eased off, letting you breathe for exactly two seconds before diving back in, measuring out your pleasure in cruel increments. He wanted you to break. He wanted to see it.
And you did.
Then he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked, hard. The sensation detonated through you, a backfire of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. You came apart with a cry, your voice fracturing on his name, the seat shuddering beneath your frantic grip. The orgasm wasn’t just a release—it was a full-system failure, white-hot and all-consuming, waves of sensation crashing over you like a blown gasket. Your vision whited out, your body convulsing in his grasp as he drew it out, his tongue still working, still demanding, still taking until you were nothing but a trembling, sobbing mess of sweat and tears.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were slick with small strings of your arousal hung between his lips and your dripping cunt. You collapsed against the seat, your chest heaving like you’d just run a 10km marathon, your arms limp, your legs still trembling in the cradle of his hands.
He blew warm breath against your thigh and groaned, part laugh, part moan. “Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re incredible. So good for me, my sweet girl.”
Then he rose, slow and deliberate, his body unfolding from between your legs with the easy grace of someone who knew exactly how much power he held. Your breath still came in short, hitching gasps as he leaned over you, one hand braced on the headrest beside your temple, the other still tangled with your fingers.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said enough—hungry, satisfied in a way that was only temporary, the kind of satisfaction that fueled something deeper. He tilted your chin up with his free hand, thumb tracing your lower lip, and then he was kissing you.
His mouth was hot and wet and you—the unmistakable taste of your own release still clinging to his tongue as it swept past your lips. The flavor was sharp, musky, intimate in a way that made your cheeks burn even hotter. You moaned into the kiss, the sound muffled against his mouth, your body still trembling with the aftershocks that his taste seemed to reignite. He swallowed the sound like it was something precious, his hand sliding from your chin to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the angle.
You could feel the rough texture of his calloused fingers against your jaw, the faint scent of cologne and sweat and him filling your lungs with every ragged breath you shared. His tongue moved against yours with the same deliberate precision he’d used between your thighs—methodical, thorough, tasting every corner of your mouth like he was cataloging you. The kiss was filthy and tender all at once, possessive in a way
You couldn’t speak. Still pulsing with aftershocks, you looked and saw him—flushed, lips swollen, eyes dark with hunger sharpened, not sated. His hand found yours on the seat, fingers lacing through yours, squeezing gently.
“Still with me?” he whispered, genuine concern in his voice, as careful as checking an engine after a hard run. You nodded, something warm and new cracking open behind your sternum.
You squeezed his hand back. “Still here,” you managed, and your voice was hoarse, barely recognisable. “Want… more.”
His eyes went dark—deeper, hungrier, the look of a man who’d been holding himself back by a thread and just heard the thread snap. “More,” he repeated, and the word came out low and rough, like gravel dragged across silk. “Does my baby want more?”
You nodded. “Please. I need—I need to feel you inside me, Mingi.”
The sound he made was barely human—a low, guttural growl that started in his chest and vibrated through the console into your bones. Then his hands were on you, sure and unhurried, guiding you forward until your stomach met the centre console, the leather cool against your bare skin. He arranged you with careful, deliberate hands—chest down, hips tilted back toward him, your ass and cunt angled up and open, completely exposed to whatever he wanted to do next.
“Stay right there,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that register that made your thighs clench. “Don’t move. Keep your hips up, just like that—perfect, sweetheart, perfect.”
You stayed. The hard edge of the gear shift dug into your body and none of it mattered because Mingi’s hands were on you, warm and sure.
His hand left your hip. You heard the rustle of denim, the soft clink of a belt buckle, and then the sound of fabric being pushed down—and your heart hammered so hard you were certain he could hear it, certain it was echoing off the windows and the river and the moon. You glanced over your shoulder to watch him, he smirked when he realised you were watching him, then pulled down his boxers.
Precum was already oozing from his pinkish mushroom tip. Mingi wasn’t kidding, he was fucking massive. A good 7 to 8 inches you thought to yourself. You reached behind you and pumped the base of his cock, earning a low groan from him as you traced your thumb across the head. Mingi twitched in your palm and gently bucked his hips into your hand.
Mingi’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering in his cheek as you squeezed him again, your thumb swirling another lazy circle around his tip just to watch his nostrils flare. His hand closed over yours—large, warm, calloused—and stilled your movements.
“Careful,” he moaned, his voice had dropped into that dangerous register, the one that sounded like a warning label on something flammable. “You keep teasing me like that and you’re gonna regret it, sweetheart.”
You bit your lip, a grin spreading despite yourself. “Regret what, exactly?”
His eyes narrowed. “You know exactly what.”
You didn’t stop. You couldn’t help it. The power of making him twitch, of watching his composure crack, was intoxicating. You gave him one more deliberate pump, slow and tight, your fingers curling just the way you knew would make his hips buck.
“Mingi, I don’t think you’d actually be so big—”
The words died in your throat because he was moving, shifting behind you with that fluid, predatory grace that made your stomach drop. His hand left yours and found the small of your back, pressing you flat against the console. You felt the blunt, hot head of him drag through your slick—not pushing, not entering, just smearing—trailing a path of your own arousal along your swollen, desperate entrance with agonizing precision.
You clenched. Your body tried to pull him in, hips tilting back, chasing the pressure that wasn’t there. Your cunt pulsed around nothing, fluttering, aching, empty.
“Mingi—please—”
“Uh-uh.” His voice was velvet over steel, warm and utterly merciless. “You had your chance to behave. You didn’t take it.”
Then his hand was on your ass. Not gently or tentatively. His palm settled against the curve of your right cheek with a weight that made your breath catch, his fingers spreading wide, and for one suspended moment he just held you there like he was claiming his territory.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, almost to himself, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the crease where your thigh met your ass. “Such a shame, you just had to be a brat, didn’t you?”
The first spank landed without warning.
His palm connected with your right cheek with a sharp, stinging crack that echoed through the car’s interior like a gunshot. The sound was obscene—wet, resonant, the kind of sound that made your face burn and your cunt clench simultaneously. The pain bloomed hot and bright, spreading across your skin in a wave that crested and broke into something that wasn’t pain at all—something electric, something that lit up every nerve ending it touched and sent a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.
You gasped. Your fingers scrabbled against the dashboard, and Mingi made a sound—low, satisfied, the sound of a man who’d just confirmed a hypothesis and found the results exceeded every expectation.
“Again,” you whimpered at the impact. “Harder, Mingi.”
“Tsk, Greedy girl,” he murmured, but there was no admonishment in it. Only warmth, only approval, only the particular pleasure of being asked for exactly what he wanted to give. His hand came down again—left cheek this time, harder, the impact ringing through your bones—and you cried out, your hips jerking forward, your body chasing the sting like it was oxygen.
He spanked you three more times—alternating sides, each one landing with a precision that spoke to practice, or instinct, or both. The pain built in layers, each impact compounding the last, until your entire ass was burning and your cunt was so wet you could feel it dripping down your inner thighs. You were moaning openly now, embarrassing, desperate sounds that you’d never made in your life, sounds you’d have been mortified by if anyone but Mingi could hear them.
And still—still—he didn’t push inside you. His cockhead just rested there, right at your entrance, hot and heavy and right there, and every time your hips shifted back to try and take him, he pulled away just enough to deny you.
“Min—baby please, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I’ll—”
“You’ll be good?” he repeated, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without turning around. “I asked you to stop teasin' me but you didn't listen, baby. Look where that got you.”
His hand smoothed over the burning skin of your ass, palm flat and warm, soothing the sting even as he stoked it. The gentleness was almost worse than the spanking. The tenderness in contrast to the punishment making your eyes sting.
He leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear. “You’ll get what I give you, when I decide to give it,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “And right now, I think you need to learn some patience.”
His hand returned between your thighs, fingers sliding through your slick folds, gathering your arousal before circling your entrance again still refusing to push inside. You whined, your hips bucking desperately against his teasing touch.
“Aww you poor thing,” he chuckled, his voice thick with satisfaction. “So wet. So desperate. All because you couldn’t resist being a brat.”
You were beyond words now, reduced to incoherent sounds of need as he continued his torment. The spanks had left your skin hypersensitive, every nerve ending alight, amplifying the sensation of his fingers as they traced patterns around your entrance without ever granting you the penetration you craved.
When he finally, mercifully, pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, you nearly sobbed with relief. But he didn’t push in—he just held it there, letting you feel the heat and weight of him without giving you what you needed.
“Still want to tease me?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“No,” you gasped, shaking your head frantically. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll be good I-I promise…”
He rewarded your submission with a slow, deliberate push—just the head of his cock entering you, stretching you just enough to make your breath catch. Then he stopped again, pulling back slightly.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded, his voice rough with restraint.
“You,” you panted, your fingers gripping the dashboard so hard your knuckles turned white. “All of you. Please, just fuck me, Mingi.”
The sound he made sent shivers down your spine. “That's my girl. Look how easy that was when you just ask nicely.” he murmured, and then he was pushing forward. His fingers were spreading you open, and you felt his cock—hot, heavy, already slick—pressing against your entrance with a pressure that made your whole body clench in anticipation.
“Hands,” he said, the command was quiet but absolute, leaving no room for interpretation.
You reached back automatically, and his hand caught both of your wrists in one grip and pulled them behind your back. His fingers laced through yours, locking your hands together, and the position pushed your chest forward, your breasts pressing into the console, your back arching in a curve that left you completely exposed, completely vulnerable, completely his.
“Now, be a good girl and stay still for me, okay?” He instructed, and you gripped your own hands, your fingers interlaced behind your back, held in place by the warm cage of his palm. The restraint was gentle but unyielding, and the vulnerability of it—the inability to move, to brace, to control anything about what was happening to you—sent a wave of heat through your body so intense it bordered on vertigo.
Then he was pushing inside you.
Slow. So slow. Inch by agonising inch, his cock stretching you open with a fullness that made your breath stutter and your vision white-out at the edges. You were still sensitive from before, still trembling with aftershocks, and the sensation of him filling you—thick, relentless, every ridge and vein pressing against walls that were already singing—was almost too much. You whimpered against the console, your fingers tightening behind your back, and Mingi groaned above you—low, broken, the sound of a man who was fighting for control and losing.
“Fuck—fuuuck, you’re so tight, sweetheart—” His voice cracked on the last word, and his free hand found your hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks. “So perfect. So goddamn perfect for me.”
He bottomed out, and the feeling of him—fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried to the hilt inside you—drove the air from your lungs. You could feel his heartbeat through the point of connection, fast and strong and slightly out of rhythm, and for a moment neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just existed in the same impossible, electric space.
Then he pulled back and thrust forward, and the world narrowed to nothing.
The angle was devastating with the console holding your hips at exactly the right height, the position forcing him deep, deeper than you’d thought possible, every stroke hitting something inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. You couldn’t move. Your hands were locked behind your back, his grip unrelenting. The helplessness of it, the complete surrender of control, turned every nerve in your body into a live wire.
“Mingi—oh my god, oh fuck—” The words tumbled out of you in a broken stream, your voice cracking on every syllable, and you felt him shift behind you—adjusting, finding the angle, his hips snapping forward with a precision that told you he was paying attention to every sound you made, every hitch in your breathing, every involuntary clench of your body around him.
“I want to hear you,” he growled, and his voice was rough, wrecked, barely holding together. “Every sound. Every moan. Every time I make you feel good, I want to hear it. Don’t hold back. Don’t be quiet. I’ve been thinking about the sounds you make—” His hips pressed forward, just an inch, just enough to make you gasp. “—for months. So be loud for me, baby.”
He punctuated the words with a thrust that drove the air from your lungs, and the sound you made was loud—embarrassingly loud, the kind of sound that would have carried across the parking lot if anyone had been there to hear it—and Mingi groaned like you’d punched him.
“Louder,” he demanded, and his hand tightened on your wrists, pulling them higher up your back, the new angle arching your spine and pressing your chest harder against the console. “You think I pulled up to this abandoned car park to hear you be quiet?”
You laughed—or tried to, the sound dissolving into a moan as he hit that spot again, that devastating, mind-melting spot that turned your bones to liquid. “You—you’re such an asshole—mmf!”
“Mm-hm.” His hips snapped forward, harder this time, and the console creaked beneath you. “And you love it. Now be loud for me, baby. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”
He set a devastating rhythm—deep, relentless, each thrust measured and deliberate. His cock dragging against every sensitive point inside you with a precision that bordered on cruel. You couldn’t hold back. You didn’t try. The sounds poured out of you. Moans and whimpers and half-formed pleas, his name repeated like a prayer, a mantra, the only word your brain could still form.
Each thrust pulled another sound from your throat, each one louder than the last, and Mingi fed on them. You could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his breathing went ragged, in the way his hips moved faster, harder, chasing the particular pitch of your voice that told him he was doing something right.
“So—fuck, so fucking tight,” he panted, and his forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, his breath hot against your spine. “My pretty little slut to ruin.”
His free hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pressing flat against your abdomen, and you could feel him through the thin wall of muscle—the thick, heavy shape of his cock moving inside you, stretching you open with every thrust—and the obscenity of it, the visceral, undeniable reality of being filled so completely, made you sob.
“That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, and the words sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. “You were made to take this cock.”
He established a rhythm—steady, unhurried, each thrust deep enough to hit the spot that made your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open. The console creaked beneath you with every movement, the gearshift vibrating against your hip, the leather squeaking where your skin met it. The sounds were so pornographic. Wet, rhythmic, the slap 'plap, plap, plap' of skin against skin punctuated by your increasingly desperate moans and Mingi’s low, ragged breathing.
You kept your promise. You were loud. Every thrust pulled a gasps, moans, whimpers and broken versions of his name that dissolved into nothing before they finished. When he angled his hips and found the spot that made you see stars. The pleasure was so euphoric you felt fat wads of tears trailing down your face.
“Right there, baby?” he grunted, barely controlled. “That feel good?”
“Yes—fuck, yes, right there, d-don’t stop, please don’t stop—”
He didn’t stop. He shifted his angle, changed the depth, found the exact position that had your entire body lighting up like a switchboard and he stayed there, driving into you with a precision that was almost mechanical in its consistency. Each thrust hit the same spot, built the same pressure, sent the same cascade of pleasure rolling through you in waves that grew taller and closer together with every repetition.
His free hand left your hip and found your hair, fisting in it, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat. His mouth found the pulse point beneath your jaw. Sucking, biting, leaving marks you’d find tomorrow. The overwhelming combination of sensations—his cock inside you, his hand in your hair, his teeth on your neck—pushed you toward the edge with a speed that was almost frightening.
“Min—Mingi, I’m close, I’m so close—”
“I know, baby.” His voice was strained, the words coming in sharp bursts between thrusts. “I can feel it. You’re clenching so hard—fuck, sweetheart.”
His hand left your hair and slid down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. The first touch was electric. A direct connection to the live wire of your pleasure and you completely fell apart.
Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, no warning, no build up, just a sudden detonation that ripped through your body and turned every muscle to liquid fire. Your walls clamped down around his dick, pulsing in tight, rhythmic waves, and Mingi’s breath hitched—a sharp, broken sound that told you he was right there with you. His jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables, and his thrusts grew slower, sloppier, the precise mechanical rhythm dissolving into something raw and desperate.
His fingers kept working your clit through your high, drawing out every last tremor, and you could feel the sweat dripping from his forehead and chest onto your back. The ministrations he had on your clit wasn’t his normal teasing ones. It felt like he was spelling something out—S-O-N-G M-I-N-G-I. You gasp at the realisation. The bastard wrote his name on your clit. He didn’t pause, didn’t pull away, just kept moving inside you through the wreckage of your own orgasm.
“Gonna cum, baby,” he rasped, and his voice was wrecked—scraped raw, barely recognizable, the voice of a man hanging by a thread. “Where do you want it?”
“Inside,” you whimper, the word torn from you as another wave crested and broke. You were still coming, still trembling, still clenching around him in pulses that you couldn’t control, and you were pretty sure if he kept going like this, kept hitting your sweet spot, kept his fingers on your clit—he’d pull another orgasm from you before you’d even finished the first. “Want it inside, need it inside. Need you s’bad ohmygod.”
He groaned as his hips snapped forward three more times, deep and deliberate, each one driving the air from your lungs. Then his entire body locked, every muscle going rigid, and you felt him spill inside you—hot, thick, pulsing in time with the frantic beat of his heart.
“Wait, baby—don’t do that,” he choked out weakly when your cunt fluttered around him, trying to milk every last drop.
His cock twitched inside you, still sensitive, still spilling, and you hummed—content, satisfied, smug—at the feeling of him filling you up exactly the way you’d asked. He laughed, the sound hoarse and breathless, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.
“You’re greedy,” he murmured, carefully lowering himself until his chest pressed flush against your back. His body was warm despite the sweat, solid and heavy and grounding, and you felt him press a kiss to the nape of your neck—soft, almost tender, completely at odds with the animal intensity of the last twenty minutes.
“Mm,” you managed, your voice barely a whisper. Your hands were still locked behind your back, still held in his grip, and you made no move to free them. You didn’t want to. You wanted to stay exactly like this—trapped between the console and his body, filled and claimed and utterly, completely his.
Mingi’s grip loosened on your wrists. His fingers uncurled from yours, and your hands fell to your sides, tingling with returning blood flow. His forehead was still pressed between your shoulder blades, and you could feel the rapid hammer of his heartbeat against your back, slowly, slowly beginning to steady.
“Are you okay?” he murmured against your skin, and his voice was wrecked—hoarse and tender and slightly dazed, like he’d just woken from a dream he wasn’t sure was real.
You turned your head on the console, your cheek pressed against the leather, and managed a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. “Barely.”
He laughed—a warm, rumbling sound that vibrated through your back and into your chest—and his arms came around you, gathering you against him with a gentleness that made your chest swell with love. He pulled you upright, carefully, mindful of the cramped space and the awkward angle, and you collapsed back against his chest, your body boneless and trembling, your head falling against his shoulder.
His arms were warm around you, his heartbeat steadying beneath your ear, and the world was slowly reassembling itself from the scattered pieces the orgasm had left behind. His hand was tracing lazy patterns on your lower back, his fingers drawing circles that made your skin prickle with renewed sensitivity.
His face was right there—inches away, his eyes half-lidded, his lips swollen and slightly parted, a thin sheen of sweat catching the moonlight that filtered through the windows. You looked at the way his hair stuck to his forehead, and at the flush still high on his cheekbones, shifted in your chest. You turned your head and found his mouth with yours.
The kiss was different this time. Slower. Softer. The desperate, hungry collision of before had given way to something deeper, something that tasted like relief and wonder and the particular sweetness of a thing you’d been waiting for without admitting you were waiting. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, and you felt him smile into the kiss.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark and soft and slightly unfocused, the way they got when he was looking at something he couldn’t believe was real, and you pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.
Then you moved.
You shifted in his lap, turning your body, swinging one leg over his hips until you were straddling him—facing him, your knees pressed into the leather on either side of his thighs, your hands braced on his shoulders. The position was awkward in the cramped backseat—your head nearly brushing the roof, your knees at angles that would make a chiropractor weep—but you didn’t care. You looked down at him, at the way his eyes went wide and dark and hungry all at once, and something hot and liquid pooled low in your belly.
His hands found your waist immediately. Both of them, warm and rough, his thumbs tracing slow circles on your hipbones through the thin barrier of your skin. His gaze dropped from your face to your chest, and the sound he made—low, appreciative—sent a shiver cascading down your spine.
“Oh fuck,” he breathed, and his hands slid upward, tracing the line of your ribs with a touch so light it barely qualified as contact. “Now this is a view I could get used to.”
You rolled your hips. The movement was deliberate. Slow, grinding, your cunt dragging along the length of his cock where it lay heavy and spent against his stomach. You felt him twitch, felt the soft sound he made vibrate through his chest, and you did it again—slower this time, more pressure, watching his face the whole time.
His hands tightened on your waist. His jaw clenched. His eyes went dark—not the playful dark, not the teasing dark, but the deep, consuming dark of a man who was being given something he hadn’t known to ask for.
“Again,” he groaned, his voice was rough, wrecked, the words barely holding together. “Do that again.”
You did. You rolled your hips in a slow, circular motion that pressed your clit against the base of his cock, and the friction—combined with the oversensitivity still singing through your nerves—made your breath catch. You braced your hands on his shoulders and lifted your hips, just enough to shift the angle, and when you sank back down. Taking him inside you in one smooth, devastating stroke.
His head fell back against the seat, his throat exposed, the tendons standing out in sharp relief. His hands flew to your hips, gripping hard, and you felt his cock twitch inside you—still soft, still recovering, but the sensation of being filled, of being stretched around him even in this state, sent a fresh wave of heat rolling through your core.
“Holy shit…” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You’re gonna kill me. You know that, right?”
You smiled slow and deliberate. “Good.” Then, you started to move.
Not fast. Not yet. You set a torturous rhythm. Slow, grinding, your hips rolling in tight circles that dragged his cock against every sensitive wall inside you. You kept your eyes on his face, cataloguing every reaction—the way his breath hitched when you clenched around him, the way his fingers dug into your hips when you changed the angle, the way his eyes went half-lidded and glassy when you found the spot that made his whole body tense.
His hands never stopped moving.
They traced your waist, your ribs, and the curve of your lower back. Like he was trying to touch every inch of you at once and couldn’t decide where to start. His hands were everywhere, and each point of contact sent sparks cascading through your nervous system, building on the pleasure already coiling tight in your belly.
Then his hands found your breasts.
You felt the shift in his attention before you saw it. His gaze dropping, his breath catching, his hands moving with a new kind of intention. His palms cupped you from below, lifting, weighing, his thumbs tracing the undersides with a touch so light it made your skin prickle. He squeezed gently—once, twice—and the sound you made was involuntary, a soft, broken moan that escaped before you could catch it.
“These,” he murmured, and his voice was thick, reverent, his eyes fixed on your chest with the same focused attention he gave to engine bays. “I’ve been thinking about these. Every time you leaned over the hood, every time you stretched. I tried to be a gentleman but fuck, baby, you made it so hard.”
His thumbs found your nipples—hard, sensitive, still aching from before—and rolled them between his fingers with a precision that made your vision blur. The sensation was sharp and electric, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core, and you arched into his touch, your hips stuttering in their rhythm.
“Oh god, that feels s-so good!”
“I know, sweetheart,” he breathed, and his mouth was already moving, leaning forward, closing the distance, his tongue finding your left nipple with a flat, wet stroke that made you cry out. He circled it, his tongue painting tight spirals around the peak and then he sucked, and the sound you made was loud enough to echo.
His hand kept working the other breast. Rolling, squeezing, his fingers finding the perfect pressure while his mouth lavished attention on the first. He alternated between gentle suction and sharp, teasing bites that made your whole body jerk, and every time you moved, every time your hips rolled or your back arched, he groaned against your skin like you were doing something specifically designed to destroy him.
You were. You knew you were. The way you moved, the way you clenched around him on every upstroke, the way your hands found his hair and pulled just hard enough to make his breath catch—you were giving him exactly what he’d given you, and then some.
His cock was hardening inside you. You could feel it. You could feel him. The gradual thickening, the way he filled you more completely with every passing second, the way his breathing went ragged and his grip on your hips turned desperate. You rolled your hips harder, faster, chasing the friction, chasing the building pressure, and Mingi broke away from your breast with a gasp that was almost a sob.
“You feel so fucking good.” His hands were everywhere—your waist, your back, your tits, your thighs—touching, squeezing, mapping your body with the frantic energy of someone who was trying to memorise every detail before the moment ended.
You leaned down and kissed him. Deep, hungry, your tongue sliding against his, your hips never stopping their rhythm. He kissed you back with equal fervour, his hands sliding up your back and pressing you closer, your chest flush against his, your nipples dragging against the hard planes of his pecs with every movement.
When you pulled back, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together, your noses brushing. Mingi’s eyes were dark and dazed and full of something that looked terrifyingly like love.
“Ride me like you mean it, baby. Show me what you’ve got.” he whispered, and the words were a plea and a command in equal measure.
You sat up straight, your hands braced on his shoulders, and you moved.
Your thighs flexing as you lifted yourself up and dropped back down, setting a pace that was fast and deep and absolutely devastating. The angle was different from before. You were facing him, your weight driving you down onto his cock with a force that made the leather squeak and the seat frame creak and Mingi’s hands fly to your hips like he was trying to hold on to something solid in a world that had gone liquid.
“Atta girl, that’s it baby jus’ like that” The words tumbled out of him in a broken stream, his head falling back, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscles jumping.
His cock was fully hard now, thick and heavy inside you, stretching you open with every downstroke, and the sensation combined with the friction of your clit against his pelvis was building something enormous and inevitable at the base of your spine. You were bouncing now, your body moving with a fluid, athletic grace that surprised even you—and every time you dropped down, Mingi’s cock hit that spot, that devastating, mind-melting spot, and the sounds you made were obscene.
“Harder,” he growled, and his hands tightened on your breasts, squeezing, rolling, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to make you see stars. “Ride me harder, baby. I want you to feel me until tomorrow.”
You obliged. You drove yourself down onto him with everything you had. Every ounce of strength in your thighs, every shred of control in your core. The impact was sharp and bright and perfect. The car rocked beneath you, the suspension groaning, and Mingi’s grip on your breasts turned bruising, his mouth finding your collarbone and biting down hard enough to leave a mark.
“You’re—fuck, you’re so good at this,” he panted against your skin, his voice cracking.
“Shut up,” you gasped, and you meant it fondly, your hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest, your nails dragging down the hard planes of muscle. “Stop talking and touch me.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
His hands moved. They slid up your sides—slow, reverent, his palms mapping the terrain of your body with the same careful attention he gave to engine components. His hands cupped you—both of them, warm and sure, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles that made your breath hitch and your hips falter. You were still riding him, still moving in that steady, controlled rhythm, but his touch was pulling your focus, scattering your concentration, turning the deliberate pace into something more desperate, more urgent.
You couldn’t stop. You were moaning—loud, unrestrained sounds that filled the car’s interior—and every sound you made seemed to spur him on, his mouth working harder, his tongue more insistent, his hands gripping tighter.
“Fuck—Mingi, I can’t—it’s too much—”
“You can.” His voice was muffled against your breast, his tongue still working, his hand still moving. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. So fucking good for me. Oh fuck— This pussy was made for me.”
You found the rhythm again—or something close to it. Your body moving on its own, chasing the pleasure that his mouth and his hands and his cock were building inside you in overlapping waves. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping hard, your nails digging into the muscle, and you rode him with everything you had—every ounce of strength, every shred of desire, every month of pent-up longing poured into the movement of your hips.
Mingi’s mouth left your breast. His lips traced a burning path up your sternum, along your collarbone, to the pulse point in your throat, where he sucked hard enough to leave a mark you’d wear like a trophy. His hands were on your back now, his palms sliding from your shoulder blades to the base of your spine, pressing you closer, holding you flush against his chest as you moved.
“My pretty girl giving me the best ride of my life,” he breathed against your throat, and his voice was shattered, barely holding together.
You rolled your hips harder, faster, your body tightening around him with every downward thrust, and you could feel him swelling inside you, thicker, harder, his control fraying at the edges. His hands dropped to your ass, gripping both cheeks, spreading you open, and the obscenity of it—the way he was holding you, positioning you, watching you take him apart—sent you spiralling toward the edge.
“Mingi, I’m so close again—I’m gonna cum again!”
“Me too, baby.” His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. “Together. Cum with me... I want to feel you cum all over me.”
You kissed him. Messy, desperate, your teeth catching his lower lip, your tongue pushing past his, and your hips didn’t stop. They couldn’t stop. The rhythm had taken on a life of its own, your body moving with a primal, instinctive urgency that left no room for thought. Mingi kissed you back with equal desperation, his hands gripping your ass, his hips thrusting upward to meet your downward movements, and the collision of forces—you riding him, him driving into you—created a friction that was devastating.
The orgasm built from the base of your spine—a slow, tight coil of pressure that wound tighter with every thrust. You could feel it approaching like a wave, could feel the moment the water started to pull back from the shore, and you held Mingi’s gaze through it all—his eyes dark, desperate, fixed on yours with an intensity that told you he was right there with you, hanging by the same thread.
It broke.
The orgasm hit you with a sensation so immense it threatened to strip away your consciousness, leaving you suspended in a single, blinding instant of pleasure that fused every muscle, every nerve, every trembling synapse into a singular electric current. You screamed, a sound that started low and guttural and built into a thin, ragged shriek, the kind you’d never made before, the kind that left your throat raw and echoing in the thick, humid air of the car.
But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the way your body seized around Mingi’s cock, the way you milked him, the way every wave of release hit harder than the last, scattering your thoughts to the corners of your skull and leaving you utterly, beautifully ruined.
You felt him come apart under you. Felt the way he jerked inside you, the way his breath stuttered, the way his hands flew up to lock around your waist like he could anchor himself in your wreckage. He was gasping your name, voice wrecked and desperate, his hips slamming up to meet you with a force that jolted your spine, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself inside you with a velocity that bordered on violence. The aftershocks were nearly as intense as the orgasm itself; your body took his, drank him down, and doubled the force of his own release, the sensation so raw and so real it went straight to your soul.
Your legs shook. Your vision went white at the edges. You collapsed forward, your hands flattening against the sweat-slicked muscle of his chest, your hair falling in a tangled curtain around your face as you panted, desperate for air, for sanity, for a return to the world that didn’t seem to want you anymore.
Mingi’s hands were still on your waist, trembling slightly, his chest heaving beneath your palms. You could feel his heartbeat—fast, erratic, slowly steadying—and the wet heat of him still inside you, still filling you, still marking you as his in the most primal way possible.
You shifted. Slowly, carefully, your body protesting every movement, and reached between your bodies. Your fingers found the mess between your thighs. Warm, slick, the mingled evidence of both of you leaking from where you were still joined and you gathered it. Your fingers came away glistening, and you brought them to your mouth without thinking, without planning, without anything but the raw, animal instinct to taste what you’d made together.
You closed your lips around your fingers. Sucked. The taste hit you. Salt and musk and something uniquely, unmistakably both of you. You moaned around your own knuckles, your eyes fluttering shut, your hips clenching involuntarily around his softening cock.
Mingi went absolutely still beneath you. The way his breath stopped, the way his hands tightened on your waist, the way every muscle in his body locked into sudden, rigid attention. You opened your eyes and found him staring at you with an expression you’d never seen before—not hunger, not satisfaction, not even the dark, possessive gleam from before. Something rawer. Something that looked like he’d just been hit by a car he hadn’t seen coming.
“Oh my god.” His voice came out wrecked—not the sexy, post-orgasm wrecked, but genuinely, fundamentally destroyed. “Oh my fucking god.”
You pulled your fingers from your mouth slowly, your tongue dragging across your knuckles one last time, and you watched his eyes track the movement with the intensity of a man watching his life flash before him.
“That,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word, “might be the hottest thing I have ever seen in my entire goddamn life.”
You smiled and as you were about to say something clever when his hands flew to your face and he was kissing you. Hard. Desperate. His mouth crashed into yours with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting the remnants of what you’d just licked from your fingers, and the sound he made—a low, broken groan that vibrated through your chest and into your bones—made your entire body clench around him again.
His hands were in your hair, cradling your skull, angling your head to deepen the kiss even further, and you kissed him back with everything you had left. Which wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to make his hips shift beneath you, enough to make him gasp against your mouth, enough to make the world narrow to nothing but the heat of his lips and the taste of you both on his tongue.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing like you’d just run a sprint. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes still closed, his lips still parted, and you could feel the smile forming on his mouth before you even looked at him.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he murmured, and his voice was warm and dazed and full of something that made your chest ache. “You know that, right? I haven't even taken you out to a proper date yet and I'm already dead.”
You laughed—soft, breathless, your hands still flat against his chest. “Would you have it any other way?”
His eyes opened. Soft, shining with something that looked terrifyingly, beautifully like devotion. “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart.”
Mingi shifted beneath you once more, his arms loosening just enough to let you breathe, and you felt his lips press against your temple.
“We should go and get out of here,” he murmured against your skin, and his voice was low, rough, still carrying the gravel of everything you’d just done to each other. “Do you wanna come back to mine?”
You lifted your head to look at him, and the expression on his face made your stomach flip. Hungry. Determined. The look of a man who’d tasted something and was addicted.
“Your place?” you repeated, your voice still wrecked, still barely functional.
“Yeah.” His hand slid down your spine, settling at the small of your back with a possessiveness that made your toes curl. “Because this car is about three seconds away from being declared a biohazard, and I have a bed that’s significantly bigger and more comfortable than this console.” His thumb traced a slow circle on your skin. “And I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.”
The words hit you like a spark jumping a gap—sudden, electric, lighting up every nerve ending you had left. You felt your body respond before your brain caught up, a fresh pulse of heat rolling through your core despite the fact that you were still trembling, still oversensitive, still leaking him onto the leather beneath you.
“Not done?” you managed, and your voice came out breathier than you intended.
Mingi’s grin was slow and devastating, the kind that started at the corners of his mouth and spread until it reached his eyes, turning them dark and dangerous and full of promise. His hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing gently, and you felt him shift beneath you—felt the unmistakable, traitorous twitch of his cock, still buried inside you, already stirring back to life.
“Sweetheart,” he said, and the word came out like a caress, like a threat, like both at once, “we’ve been in this car for what—an hour? Maybe two?” His hips rolled upward, deliberate, and the friction made you gasp. “I’ve been thinking about this for months. You think I’m gonna call it quits because your backseat’s uncomfortable?”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, and he was smiling, and then he was easing you off of him—slow, careful—and you both made a sound at the same time, a soft, involuntary whimper at the sudden cold where there had been warmth, the absence where there had been fullness. He pressed his lips to your temple like an apology.
He helped you dress.
Not in a hurry because nothing about Mingi was ever in a hurry, but with the same methodical care he brought to everything. His hands found your bra first, hooking it closed with fingers that trembled just slightly, his knuckles brushing your spine in a way that made you shiver. He smoothed the straps up your arms, adjusting them with a precision that suggested he’d been paying attention to how they sat before, and when his thumbs traced the line where the fabric met your skin, you caught his wrist.
“Mingi.”
“Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded pleased. “Can’t help it. You’re right here.”
You pulled your shirt over your head, and his hands were there immediately—tugging the hem down, smoothing the wrinkles, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a gesture so domestic it made your chest ache. He found your jeans in the footwell, shook them out with a quiet efficiency that made you think of him folding shop towels, and held them open for you like a gentleman helping you into a coat.
Before reaching for your jeans, he paused and reached behind him, two fingers hooking your underwear out of his back pocket like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been carrying them there all evening on purpose.
He crouched down and held them open at your feet without a word, and something about the quiet patience of the gesture made your throat tighten. You stepped in. He took his time drawing them up, his thumbs pressing slow, warm circles into the outside of your hips as he settled the waistband into place.
Then he shook out your jeans and held them open the same way—“ Step in,” he said— and you did, balancing on one foot, your hand on his shoulder. He pulled the denim up after, his palms warm against your calves, your thighs, the curve of your hips, and when he fastened the button, his fingers lingered at your waistband, pressing a kiss to your stomach through the fabric.
“There,” he murmured against your skin. “All dressed.”
“Not all of us are dressed.” You gestured at his bare chest, the leather jacket still draped over the front passenger seat, his own shirt nowhere to be found. “You’re half naked.”
“Am I?” He looked down at himself with mock surprise. “So I am! The absolute horror.”
You found his shirt balled behind the driver’s seat and tossed it at him. He caught it one-handed and pulled it over his head, the fabric stretching across his shoulders in a way that made your mouth go dry all over again. His jeans were already on. You had no memory of when he’d managed that. He reached past you for his jacket, shaking it out with a practiced flick of his wrists.
Then he held it open for you.
The gesture was so simple—so stupidly, achingly simple. You turned, and he draped the jacket over your shoulders, his hands settling on your arms for a moment, pulling you back against his chest. The leather was warm from the car’s interior, and it smelled like him—cedar and engine oil and the faint sweetness of whatever he’d put on after his shower—and it was so big on you that the sleeves swallowed your hands entirely.
“You look good in my jacket,” he said, his chin resting on your crown.
“It looks like I'm being swallowed by your jacket.”
“You look perfect.” His arms tightened around you, and you let yourself lean into him, let the weight of his body hold you upright when your legs were still shaky and your brain was still soft around the edges. “Absolutely perfect.”
You stayed like that for a moment—wrapped in his jacket, wrapped in his arms, the car ticking quietly around you, the river murmuring its endless, indifferent song beyond the steamed-up windows. Then Mingi pressed one more kiss to the top of your head—soft, lingering, the kind that felt like a period at the end of a sentence—and pulled back.
“Alright, let's go home.” he exhales.
“Okay.” You tugged the jacket tighter around yourself, the leather creaking softly. “But you’re driving. I can barely feel my legs.”
“Of course.” He kissed you once more—quick, chaste, the kind of kiss that was more punctuation than prose.
Unfolding his long frame from the backseat with considerably more grace than he’d managed on the way in. You heard the soft thud of his boots hitting the gravel, and then his hand appeared through the open door, palm up, waiting. You took it.
He helped you out of the backseat. Steadying you when your knees buckled, his arm around your waist, his body a warm wall of support, and you stood in the moonlight together, the river silver behind you, the city a distant constellation of light beyond the trees. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you pulled his jacket tighter, breathing in the smell of him like it was oxygen.
Mingi opened the passenger door for you and you slid into the seat, the leather warm beneath you, the dashboard glowing its familiar amber. He closed the door with that soft, deliberate click, and you watched him walk around the hood—tall and sure and slightly dishevelled, his hair a mess, his shirt still untucked, the moonlight catching the line of his jaw and the satisfied curve of his mouth.
He dropped into the driver’s seat, and the car came alive around you. That clean, steady hum that meant everything was where it was supposed to be. He adjusted the mirrors, checked the seat position, and turned to you with an expression so open and warm it made your breath catch.
“Ready?” he asked.
You nodded your head. He pulled onto the road, and the river fell away behind you, and the city lights grew closer, and you sat in the passenger seat of your own car—wearing his jacket, smelling like his skin, your body still singing with the echo of his touch—and you watched the road unfold ahead of you.
His hand found yours on the console. Not tentative—not the careful, testing reach of someone still figuring out the impossible. This was different. This was his palm sliding across the leather, his fingers lacing through yours. His thumb settled into the groove between your knuckles, and the warmth of his skin against yours was so familiar it made your chest ache.
You looked down at your joined hands. At the way his thumb traced a slow, absent circle on your skin, the same pattern he’d used that afternoon on the river road, the same pattern he’d use a thousand more times if you let him.
You lifted his hand from the console.
He glanced over—just briefly, just long enough to register the movement—and you brought his knuckles to your mouth. You pressed your lips to the back of his hand and felt the slight roughness of his skin, the faint chemical smell of solvent that lived in the creases of his fingers, the steady pulse of blood beneath the surface. You held the kiss there for a count of three, maybe four, and then you lowered your joined hands into your lap, tucking them between your thighs, his palm warm against your denim-clad leg.
Mingi laughed.
Not the startled, horn-induced laugh from before. Something quieter. Something that started in his chest and came out through his nose, a soft, incredulous huff of sound that carried more tenderness than any word could have. His thumb resumed its circling on your knuckle, and he kept his eyes on the road, but the smile, the one that crinkled his eyes and pulled at the cut on his lip, was doing something devastatingly beautiful to his face.
“You’re so cute, baby,” he coos. The words were simple, almost offhand, delivered with the same casual confidence he used when he told you your oil level was fine. But you heard the weight behind them. The particular, careful weight of a man who meant what he said and was still learning how to say it without sounding like he was about to combust.
“Only for you,” you replied, because you couldn’t think of anything else, because your chest was so full it was pressing against your ribs, because his hand was in your lap and his jacket was on your shoulders and his smell was in your lungs, and you were fairly certain you’d never been this happy in your entire life.
He kept driving. One hand on the wheel, one hand in yours, the road unspooling ahead of you like a ribbon of dark silk under the pale wash of the streetlights. The city rose around you in increments—first the scattered houses, then the convenience stores with their neon signs still burning, then the apartment blocks and the late-night buses and the occasional taxi drifting through the empty streets like a fish through deep water.
The city had a way of falling in love with the people who moved through it at night—the ones who knew its empty streets and its quiet corners, the ones who understood that the best parts were the ones nobody else was awake to see. The racer and the mechanic drove through those streets now, their hands locked together over the center console, the engine humming its steady, contented song beneath them, and neither of them said a word about timing belts or transmission mounts or the particular, terrifying thrill of falling in love with someone who could take you apart and put you back together better than you’d been before.
But the car knew. The car had always known. It had carried you to him and it had carried you home, and somewhere between the starting line and the finish, between the riverbank and the backseat, between the first time he called you sweetheart and the last time you screamed his name, the engine had learned a new song—one about two people who’d been running on parallel tracks for so long they’d forgotten what it felt like to collide, and who were now, finally, beautifully, irreversibly headed in the same direction.
The mechanic’s hands knew every bolt and belt and bearing in the city, but they’d never held anything as perfectly as they held yours. And the racer’s heart, which had spent its whole life chasing finish lines, had finally found the one that mattered—the one that didn’t end with a checkered flag, but with a man in a leather jacket who picked wildflowers at dawn and rebuilt transmissions at midnight and promised you another night in a voice that meant forever.
You squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.
The city lights blurred past the windows, and the engine hummed, and the road stretched ahead, endless and open and full of possibility, and you didn’t need to say a word, because the car was already saying it for you. In every clean shift, every steady rev, every mile that carried you closer to the place where the racer and the mechanic had stopped being two separate things and become something neither of them had the words for yet.
But they’d find them. They had all the time in the world, and an engine that would never let them down, and a road that went on forever, and each other.
And really—when it came down to it—what else did anyone need?
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 10/?
🎤︎︎ 18+ | 10.7k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is the only man ever and a frat boy whore | thank you again for 5k <3 my heart is so full!! this one is dedicated to my sugarplum @svgaplvm ᢉ𐭩 wooyo & baseball is how u summon her in case anyone was wondering
“CONFESSION TIME. But I need everyone to be really normal about it, okay? I asked someone for sex advice four days ago. You heard me right, sex advice, the thing I come on here and talk about weekly. Another thing I need everyone to be really normal about– the guy I asked, I’ve hooked up with before. And I asked him for advice about the guy I’m currently hooking up with. I think I’ve reached a new, different kind of rock bottom… like, deeper than rock bottom. I don’t know where that is, but I’m there, it’s where I live now, in case you guys ever want to come searching for me or something.”
“Do you guys remember Mister Tall from my zip-tie episode? Yeah, me too. Turns out he’s actually Mister Tall and Dominant, but he wasn’t being dominant with me, or at least not as much as he wanted to be. It’s like I could smell it on him, but he wouldn’t do it, like he was holding himself back or something. Now, the obvious answer is to say, ‘Hey, Mister Tall and Dominant, why won’t you just fuck me the way you want to?’ and then it’s a done deal, right? You talk about it, you fix it, sex gets better, you move on. But because my brain works a very specific and certain way, my thought process was: how can I get him to do it, without telling him to? Because apparently just saying the words is a fucking death sentence.”
“It’s all very silly and stupid, and I should have just brought it up to him. He’s a sweetheart, and the moment I told him it was like a switch had flipped. I didn’t know you could have such an extensive conversation about kinks, I didn’t realize how many actually exist, how long a conversation could be about it. I like to think I’m pretty well-versed, but apparently I am not. Let’s just say I’m still learning about kinks, especially about the ones I like the most. The last four days have been very… active for me. My ass hurts. Still. But I’m getting off-topic now.”
“Have you ever had someone straight up ask you what you want, and you can’t answer? You can’t verbalize exactly what you enjoy, you rely on experience, you know what feels good when it’s happening. But when you’re not in the moment, when you’re standing outside of it, what the fuck do you want? What the fuck do you like? It’s weird, it’s like my brain shuts off. I think that’s why I asked the other guy, the one I hooked up with before, because in a very weird and strange and off-putting way, he knows me. I still can’t comprehend how he knows me, if I look back and analyze every interaction we’ve ever had, there’s no logical reason for why he knows me so well. I must be easy to read or something, I don’t know.”
“At first, I thought I asked him for advice because he’s a pretty active guy. And by active, I mean he’s had sex with everyone and their mother, I mean, you’ve probably fucked him. I am not using hyperbole here, I am so serious when I say every-fucking-body. If you need sex advice, you ask the sex guy, right? Logical. I have friends I could have asked, fuck, I could’ve asked on this fucking podcast and had you guys send in your goddamn advice, but I asked him. And it’s sitting with me in a heavy way, why I made that choice, why I trust his advice before even asking for anyone else’s. And the logical reason is because he’s the sex guy, right? But the more I think about it, it’s because he knows me, I trust him. Do you guys fucking know what he told me? That I’m not submissive. What the fuck? He basically said I’m someone who needs to fuck, not someone who needs to be fucked. Again, what the fuck?”
“It’s kinda weird, it’s like he knows me without me giving him permission to know me. I think I always thought that being learned is a conscious thing, like, a choice you make. You tell people your secrets, you show them your vulnerable side, you cry, you laugh in front of them, and they pocket all of these different facts about you. What about when it’s not your own choice? When you accidentally show sides of yourself that you don’t mean to, and now some guy has all this random-ass information about you. He knows what you like, who you are, what you look for, and they’re all facts that you didn’t mean to give him, and they’re all true. It’s fucking weird. But now I trust him, and he’s not someone who seems like he… could be trusted, I guess. I’m not really even sure if he knows my name.”
You pause, thinking. Then you laugh a little, because your listeners don’t press play on your podcast to listen to silence, and a tiny laugh breaks up the seriousness of it all. “That was a lie, he definitely knows my name. I think. I know some things about him too, I guess, weird shit, though. I know his phone number, his Instagram username. I know at least five people that he’s slept with. I know why he fucks so often… kinda. I know when he’s lying, or when he’s intentionally trying to piss me off, I know the difference between his insults. Sometimes they’re real–and they fucking hurt–but sometimes he’s just deflecting, or he wants to get out of the conversation. I know he’s a fucking asshole. I know that he doesn’t like being understood, he fucking hates it if you even come close to knowing what’s underneath all the bullshit– I know– I know it bothers him that I never know what I want.”
Your brows furrow, irritation bubbling in your gut. “But why does that even bother him? None of my choices affect him, nothing I do should matter. Why does he even care? I could literally go the rest of my life letting other people make my own choices for me, and it would have no effect on his life whatsoever. Why is he so interested in knowing? You know, I’ve actually never wondered that, why he even gives a fuck. He came to my–”
You cut yourself clean off, eyes widening. “I’m losing track because he actually pisses me off more than anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life. This outro today is full of my rambling, I’m so sorry if you’re sitting at home thinking what the fuck is she talking about? My bad, for real. Anyways, the point is that I brought it up to MT&D, and he’s been fucking me right ever since, thanks to Mister Piss-Me-Off. I guess. Mister Tall is a good guy, I think the only guy who’s ever put so much into me, figuratively and literally. He lets me figure my shit out on my own, he lets me bring it to him, and he accepts all of it, even me. He’s patient, he’s kind, he’s a fucking sweetheart and I probably don’t deserve him. But I have him, so no one else can, and I’m not sorry about it.”
“I hope you all have a great night, or a great rest of your day, whatever time it is for you. Sorry that the think piece today was… whatever the fuck that was, but it was unscripted, as always.”
You press stop on your laptop. You spent the whole first forty-five minutes talking about backshots which led to libidos which led to fucking Viagra before the confession segment, and for some reason, you don’t really feel the need to listen to it all again. The pauses, the stuttering, everything could stay today. You pull up Spotify, and before you know it, the episode is uploaded.
You check your phone and your lock screen is lit up from notifications, forty fucking two from the group chat Yunjin added you to last night. She planned a night out this Friday, or, Jihyo planned it for one of the girls she’s friends with. The invitation was offered to you and Yunjin, so she passed it along to San, Wooyoung, Yunho and the rest of their frat, who were all now in this orgy of a fucking group chat on your phone. You, Yunjin, and eight men. Eight.
You don’t even read the messages. You pull up your thread with Yunho and see three silver bubbles awaiting your reply.
yunho: is ur car still making that noise?
yunho: i have class at 4 but im free after. oh fuck u work today right
yunho: im going to class now but i can look at it after class!! come over after ur done work
You smile at your screen, immediately typing back.
you: yes it is im scared pls fix it handy man
you: did u ever watch handy manny growing up
you: lowkey thats u
you: but yes ill come over after work have fun at class <3
Checking the time, you realize you’re supposed to be at work in thirty minutes. Thirty.
“Oh, fuck,” you mutter under your breath, shooting up out of your bed like gravity doesn’t apply to you. Racing around your room that was now dirty again, you search for a bright purple collared shirt and a clean pair of jeans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you repeat under your breath, ripping through the pile of clothes on your floor, no longer caring if what you grab is dirty or clean. You need to do fucking laundry.
You didn’t check the cleanliness of either article of clothing before throwing them on your body, rushing to your bathroom to fix your hair, and applying a little makeup before your shift. There’s a lot of people who go to the gym you work at, a lot of beautiful, gorgeous people. Filling your water, throwing a snack into your purse, you rush out to your car that seems angry at you for even trying to drive it.
“Be nice to me,” you order from the driver’s seat, ignoring the singular, loud click, and the grinding noises that follow when you throw the transmission into drive. You don’t even turn music on for your quick trip, you’re too close to being late, and for you, arriving anytime after fifteen minutes before your shift is considered late.
You’re reminded no one gives a fuck when you walk inside, throwing your purse under the counter, placing your water where you always keep it, beside the monitor that shows you everyone who scans in. You greet the coworker you’re relieving with a smile, clock in, and even though your nervous system just experienced twenty different levels of adrenaline, it all calms when you stand behind the counter, prepared to do absolutely fucking nothing for the next four hours.
The last hour of your shift is when you actually leave the counter. Re-racking weights, mopping the floors, sanitizing machines, it’s easy shit, it’s why you applied in the first place. They don’t give you an extreme amount of hours, the work is the exact opposite of grueling, and you get to stare at gorgeous, muscled people for hours. It’s an easy, well-paying job that you don’t mind working, especially when you get snippets of campus gossip when people walk inside.
The first hour, the gossip makes you feel uneasy. Two women scanned in, giggling about Mister Tall and Dominant and Mister Piss-Me-Off. You had to will your face from going pale as you smiled at them, acknowledged them while they scanned their student IDs.
Then the second, two guys you’ve never seen before smacking each other’s chests about how you can’t trust bitches. You had curses on your tongue, ready to fire before you heard the rest– even Unscripted is a fucking cheater. You actually gasped at that, then they looked at you like you had three heads, so you forced your expression back into neutral. A cheater?!
In the third hour now, you can’t stop scrolling social media, typing Unscripted in every search bar you can think of. It’s filled with discourse: MT&D vs. PMO, is emotionally cheating the same as physically cheating, who is Unscripted, there’s a fucking megathread on r/Unscripted.
“Wow, playing on your phone on the clock? Should I call your manager?”
You smack your phone down face-first against the counter, caught red-handed. Wooyoung stands in front of you, a lazy smirk on his lips, hair pulled back off his tanned, angled face, gym bag over his shoulder. He’s covered in droplets of rain, in your deep internet dive you didn’t even notice that it was pouring outside, slamming against the concrete just beyond the clear, gym doors. Fitting.
“Fuck off,” you sneer, pushing yourself off the counter, crossing your arms. Friends again, yes, but you fear your dynamic might never change from exactly this.
His brow lifts, making sure you see him curiously glancing down at your phone. “Whatcha lookin’ at? Something you shouldn’t be looking at while you’re working?”
“You’re gross,” you throw back at him, picking up on what he’s insinuating. “You haven’t been here to run at night in weeks.”
“Drama,” he sings. “It’s been, like, a little over a week, I just haven’t felt like it.” He throws his elbows over the counter, head tilting as he teases, “Look at you, paying attention to what I’m doing. Do you time me, too?”
You thin your eyes, “I do, and I think you’re really brave for running in public.”
His lips part, brows scrunching, “What’s that supposed to mean?” You immediately laugh, and he stands up straight again, palms braced on the counter. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Come talk to me when you can run a five-minute mile,” you’re still laughing as you say it.
“I run a six-minute mile!” he argues, voice raising in pitch, clearly offended.
“Then go run it, asshole.” You point towards the treadmills. “Stop bothering me while I’m on the clock.”
“Fine,” his lips tighten before a smile curves them again. “Wouldn’t want to take you away from your amateur, homemade videos.”
You roll your eyes, forgoing an answer. Wooyoung leaves and you pick your phone back up instead of starting your closing duties, opening the subreddit and scrolling.
MT&D/PMO MEGATHREAD – KEEP ALL DISCUSSION HERE
unpopular opinion: tall & dominant deserves sm better
Theory: I think PMO is the overstimulation guy
is anyone else wondering who PMO is? if he’s fucked everyone, someone has to know him
“I trust him” LMAOOO she bouta get her heart broken again grab ur popcorn yall
You curse under your breath. Maybe you shouldn’t have clicked post so quickly. Maybe you should have at least listened to the episode before letting the fucking internet get to it first. There’s still no way to connect it back to you, so you take a calming breath, run your fingers through your hair, and leave your phone under the counter while you start your closing rounds.
Your calming breath does absolutely fucking nothing to help you. All you can do is think while you work, you didn’t even notice Wooyoung leaving, and surprisingly, he didn’t bother you before he left. He probably assumes he’ll see you back at his house, which he will, if you can get the fuck out of this building. When you come back to your phone, you’re scared that you’ll touch the screen and a million messages of ‘are you Unscripted?’ will pop up one after another. Instead, it’s just the stupid fucking group chat that you still refuse to open.
Instead, you open Spotify, and your heart sinks immediately when the numbers next to your episode are already outperforming every other episode you’ve ever posted. The spike is alarming enough that you shove your phone into your back pocket, sprint around the gym to shut all the lights off, and grab your keys to fucking leave.
“Fuck,” you mutter when you feel the cold rain hitting your back, twisting the key in the door, pulling on it twice because you have to, just to be sure the gym is locked properly. You run to your car, cursing like a sailor with every step, you only let out a breath when you’re seated in the driver’s side. You shove your key in the ignition, turning it, and your car clicks. Once. That's it.
“No,” you mutter, turning it again. It clicks, but it doesn’t fucking start, the dash doesn’t even light up. You refuse to believe it. You try again, click. “Are you fucking kidding me!?”
You fish out your phone from your pocket, hands still covered in droplets of rain, you dial Yunho. It rings five agonizing times before you make the loudest sound of frustration you’ve ever summoned, hanging up.
Before texting him, your eyes catch on the group chat. There aren’t any new messages from the last time you checked, but the thread is still at the top of your screen, begging for attention. The last text sent is from Wooyoung, and all it says is ‘ur fucking stupid san’.
You call him. Three rings, and his confused voice pours into your ear, “Hello?”
“Hi,” all of your frustration is wrapped up into one singular word. “I’m… my car won’t start, and I was supposed to come back to your house anyway, and you just left the gym–”
“I’m on my way. Stay in the car, it’s storming,” he says, and then hangs up. You pause for a second before dropping your phone from your ear back into your lap, a little dumbfounded at how simple that was.
Sighing, you try turning your key in the ignition again, frowning when it clicks back like it’s fucking taunting you. Why did you call him? Why did you ask him for advice? Why did he say yes before you even asked the question?
You shiver for the entire ten minutes it takes for him to get to you. Rain should be comforting, the soft, rhythmic noises of water hitting the glass on your windshield, even the rough pangs slamming against the steel hood of your car, you can’t find any fucking comfort right now. Especially as he pulls up beside you in a low, blacked-out sports car you have to squint to make sure he’s actually inside of.
You curse when freezing droplets hit your back again, jiggling his door handle that’s fucking locked. “Unlock it!” you yell at his window, and it’s raining so hard you can’t even hear it unlock, you tug at the black handle until it finally gives.
“Jesus Christ you’re fucking soaked,” is the first thing he says when you tumble into his passenger seat, immediately greeted by the smell of him. Masculine, not too heavy, mixed with the scent of a thunderstorm.
“No shit.” You hug yourself, cringing at the feeling of your hair sticking to you. At least it’s warm.
“What’s wrong with your car?” he leans forward to look over your body, like he’d be able to see the issue through the rain, from a different vehicle.
“Do I look like a fucking mechanic?” you snap, finally looking at him. Immediate consequences for your actions, for asking him to get you— you don’t have it in you to banter with him, your humor was stolen by the internet. “I tried to start it and it wouldn’t start.”
“Damn,” he stares at it like he might revive it with his fucking eyes. His hair is down again, messy over his face, his tank still on his body, sweatpants on his legs. Fuck him. You feel heat on your backside seeping into your clothes, your skin, and you finally look around, taking in the details of his car.
“What the—?” you mutter, staring at the black leather seats, the manual shifter, the wide, dimmed screen at the center of the dash. “Are you rich?”
“What?” His brows furrow, sitting back in his seat. “No, I’m not rich, why the fuck would I be rich?”
“Your car is nice.” You run a hand over the leather of the center console, feeling the lines in the soft material with your palm. “Your seats are heated and you drive stick. That means you’re probably rich.”
He snorts, “I’m rich because I drive stick? Did you hit your head on the Smith?”
“It would explain why you’re so arrogant,” you shrug, crossing your arms as you sit back in your seat. “Let me guess: mommy’s boy? She gets you everything you want because you’re her smart, perfect son?”
“Where am I taking you, Virgin?” He sits properly in the driver’s seat, right hand moving to the gearstick, and your eyes slide toward it as you hear him press the clutch. His tattoo peeks over his forearm, small, intricate details, thorns of a rose.
“Your house.” You force yourself to look away as you pull the seatbelt over your front. Your eyes betray you as he shifts into reverse, then first as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“Is this the aftermath of watching your amateur videos, or do cars just really get you going?” he asks coolly, not even looking at you as he pulls out onto the main road.
You look up, mortified that he caught you. His hair sits behind his shoulders like he ran his fingers through it as he pulled into the parking lot, but it’s the purple bruising his neck that catches your eye. Purple that wasn’t contrasting his golden skin an hour ago.
Immediately, you grill him. “Where were you?”
He looks at you from his peripherals, for just a split second. “What?”
“Where were you before you picked me up?”
“Getting the skin sucked off my dick.” His lips curve a little as he says it, humored by his own answer.
“What?” You blink at him, dumbfounded. “Why’d you pick me up then?”
Like it’s the only plausible answer, he replies simply, “You called me.”
“Yeah, but I could have called someone else,” you argue. “You didn’t have to leave a hookup, or whatever.”
“Or whatever,” he retorts under his breath in a huff of amusement. “Do you want me to take you back to your car? Or would you rather wait here so I can pick back up where I left off?”
You gruff a sound of irritation instead of answering. You pull out your phone, turning your brightness down before checking your Spotify stats again, then refresh the subreddit. It's all growing— the listens, the posts, the debates, you feel fucking sick.
“Why’d you call me?” he asks. You don’t even look up.
“I don’t know. Yunho didn’t answer.”
There’s a pause before he speaks again, your nail sliding against your screen and the rain hitting the car the only noise. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Huh?” You look up at that, locking your phone, letting it fall into your lap. “Nothing.”
“You’re quiet,” he notices. “Your battery’s probably just dead, Virgin, it’s not a big deal. Yunho can jump it tomorrow.”
“I don’t—” you start, then cut yourself off. “I know, it’s fine. Sorry.”
He looks at you, brows furrowed. “Seriously, what the fuck is good with you?”
“Nothing!” you stress, voice raising. “Fuck, nothing is fucking wrong.”
You fall into silence again. Your phone feels hot in your lap, begging for you to pick it up, to see what everyone’s saying about you. You bounce your knee, looking out the window, teeth clamping over your bottom lip.
“Virgin—”
“I swear to god, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’ll actually fucking kill you,” you finally turn to him, voice so calm it’s almost scary.
His lips tighten, palm leaving the gearstick to raise it in defense, but he doesn’t answer. For what feels like ages you sit there, arms crossed over your chest, mind reeling over every little thing you can’t control. You shouldn’t have posted the episode. If the man sitting beside you listened to it— you can’t even think of that fucking happening or else you might actually throw your guts up.
Staring through the windshield, you realize you don’t know where you are. You should have gotten back to his house five minutes ago. Your body straightens, fight or flight kicking in, head snapping to the side, “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he answers casually, too fucking casually for it to be down pouring, driving this far outside of campus. He's kidnapping you. He’s kidnapping you and you’re going to fucking die.
“I’m serious, Wooyoung,” you press, tone holding the weight of it. “Take me home.”
He glances at you, your hand gripping the center console, the other tightened in a fist in your lap. “You seem like you need to hit something, Virgin. I’m taking you somewhere you can do it.”
“The only thing I want to fucking hit is you,” you sneer, anger returning to your tone. “I shouldn’t have fucking called you.”
“Well, you did.” He looks at you again, brows high and lips tight as if he’s saying you’re shit out of luck. “We’re two minutes away, just try it. If you want to leave, for real, then we’ll leave.”
Your jaw clenches, unclenches, and you sit back in the seat, defeated. “If you kill me, I’ll haunt you. That's a promise.”
“I don’t need your blood on my hands, Virgin,” he says through a breath, turning the steering wheel with the edge of his palm onto a side street only lit by dim orange every other block. It does nothing to ease your racing heart.
But two minutes he promised, and two minutes it was until he was pulling into a fairly lit parking lot, backing into a space right at the front. You don’t realize how tense you actually are until he turns the car off, your body physically relaxing, melting into the heated, leather seat.
He reaches between you into the backseat, giving you a view of the expanse of his chest peeking out from the tank, his chain that slides with the stretch of his body. You slide your eyes to the parking lot in front of you, silent until he throws something on your lap.
You look at him, brows lifted. He nods at the fabric in your lap, “You look like Barney. Put it on.”
“I’m in my work uniform.” You look down at your bright purple shirt, your Barney-colored shirt. You frown, but pick up the sweatshirt anyway, black with white detailing on the back. You unclip your seatbelt to tug it over your head.
“Better,” he looks satisfied before he reaches for his door handle, grabbing his wallet and keys from the cup holder before getting out. Begrudgingly, you follow, finally looking at the sign over the entrance.
Bat Ball Indoors— with a phone number beneath it. You stop in your tracks, blinking at the sign, putting the pieces together in your mind. Not only did he take you to a fucking batting cage, it’s a janky batting cage?
When you glance at the side, ready to berate him for taking you to a goddamn batting cage instead of taking you home, he’s already at the front door, gripping the handle. “Are you coming, or do you enjoy getting rained on?”
You tug the hood over your head, jogging toward him. “Are you paying for this shit, Mister Rich?”
He opens the door for you, “Get inside.”
Hugging yourself again, you’re greeted by lighting that’s too fucking yellow, somehow still bright enough to make you squint. It’s warmer inside, not heated, but a dry warmth that’s an immediate comfort from the stickiness of outside. Your sneakers scuff against the floor, and when you look down, it’s covered with tracks, other people whose sneakers did the same.
“Jung!” You pick your head up to see an old man behind the counter. Bald, short, he stands behind a register that looks like he’s had it since the nineties. Actually, you’d put your money on the fact that the entire place hasn’t changed since the nineties.
There’s baseball shit on the walls, signs reading something about cleats and helmets, the glass covering the lights is stained with yellow. There's a faint cigarette smell, but it’s not overpowering or uncomfortable, it compliments the scent of rubber and rain.
Wooyoung talks to the man, you can’t be bothered to listen as you finally notice the cages. Separated by old, heavy netting, there’s only three and they’re all empty. Long tunnels of turf, a target made by red tape on ripped, black netting at the back of each cage, a tiny black machine beside the target you can only assume shoots balls at you. You want to go home.
“Thanks,” you hear Wooyoung say at the same time as the cash register rings. You bring your attention back to him and he’s smiling like this is his favorite place in the fucking world. “Come on, Virgin.”
You look behind you and the bald man doesn’t seem to be bothered by the nickname, or he’s so old he just doesn’t hear it. You follow Wooyoung to the farthest cage, still confused enough that you don’t know what question to ask first. He’s holding a bat, a helmet, everything scuffed, clearly worn.
You choose to not ask a goddamn thing. “I’m not putting that on my head,” you eye up the helmet hanging off his fingers. It’s still somehow bright red, even if it’s covered in streaks of black and white, a line of black electrical tape stretching over the front.
“Oh, yes you are,” he says sternly, pushing the helmet straight into your chest. It sends you backward a step, but instinctively your hands wrap around it. The inside looks… used. You cringe. “My bet is that you’ll get hit in the head with a ball at least once. You need it.”
Your top lip lifts, “What the fuck are we even doing here, Wooyoung?”
“You’re gonna hit some balls,” he says, slotting the bat between his thighs. He reaches forward, stealing the helmet from your chest just to pull it down over your head. “Balls that aren’t mine, in case that wasn’t clear.”
You push your hair out of your face, scowling under the helmet. “I wouldn’t give me that bat if I were you.”
He hands you the bat automatically, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Go take your anger out on something that isn’t me.”
You take the handle cautiously and it’s heavier than you expected it to be, your eyes go wide as you fix your grip. It’s silver, or it used to be, now covered in scratches, small dents, patches where the metal has worn off, leaving asymmetrical marks of black. The handle is sticky, covered in old athletic tape, you hate how it feels in your hands. Looking back up at Wooyoung, you fantasize about how satisfying it would be to swing it at the side of his head.
You glance at the cage instead, specifically the small square of turf that’s basically nonexistent. That's probably where you stand. Like he can read your thoughts, Wooyoung points to it, “Stand there. I’m gonna put a token in, then you hit the ball with the bat. Easy enough, right?”
“How many?” you ask, walking towards the spot of nonexistent turf. He answers twenty-five as he grabs the token from his pocket, sliding it into some kind of control panel. The machine turns on and you jump at the sound of the mechanical noise until it clunks, a ball shooting straight out.
You yelp as it flies right past you, jumping backward. You whip around to Wooyoung, “What the fuck?!”
“You were supposed to hit that, by the way,” he points to the ball now on the ground, the hit saved by netting along the back wall.
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” you sneer, turning back to the machine that was making noise again. You try to fix your hold on the bat, staring at the hole the ball comes out of across the turf, but it flies past your head before you’ve even registered that it shot out. You stand straight up, turning back to Wooyoung who looks fully amused. “It’s fucking broken.”
“It’s not broken, dumbass,” he points his hand towards the machine. “You just wasted two balls. Focus.”
You push a breath through your lips, focusing. You swing the bat over your shoulder, aligning your hands, and as the ball shoots out after the clunk, you swing. And miss.
Refusing to look behind you, your lips scrunch in frustration, gripping the bat harder. You swing, it shoots past you. You actually fucking growl in frustration, and Wooyoung’s laughter follows.
You refuse to feel embarrassed. Turning around, you sneer, “You think this is fucking funny?”
“Extremely,” he’s grinning, leaning up against the side wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Keep your eye on the ball, Virgin.”
“It’s too fucking fast!” you shout just as another ball whips past you. You jump again, and his snorted laughter just pisses you off more. “This is fucking bullshit, and you’re an asshole.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he muses from behind you. “Keep your legs shoulder-width apart and bend your knees.”
“I’ve played Wii Sports, thanks,” you huff, but as you look down at your feet, you need to spread them. And bend your knees more. Fixing your stance, you stare at the machine again, and for the sixth goddamn time, you miss.
“Nineteen left, in case you can’t count.”
“I can fucking count!” you shout back, ignoring how quickly his laughter follows.
“Relax your arms, Virgin. Keep your body solid, but let your arms be loose.”
You don’t change a thing as you miss the seventh ball. Jaw locking, you brace your core, relaxing some of the tension in your arms. On your eighth swing, you feel a little resistance, you can hear the ping of the ball just slightly connecting with the metal of the bat.
You stand straight up, eyes wide. “Oh my god.” Turning to see where it landed, watching it roll along the floor, you ask him, “Did you hear that!? Did you see it!?”
“Try hitting it next time.”
“I’ll fucking kill you,” you bite back. “I’ll hit you with the fucking bat, with my shoulders squared and my grip fucking loose you bitch—” Another ball swings past. “Fuck you, look what what you did. You made me miss another one!”
You can hear his smile as he says, “You missed the one before it, too.”
“I fucking hit it!” you yell back, fixing your stance again. You don’t even graze the tenth ball, and your shout of anger reverberates through the entire fucking building.
“You’re swinging too late,” Wooyoung’s tone is direct, guiding. It wouldn’t help even if it was nice.
“No fucking shit,” you shoot back.
“Swing earlier, then.”
You stand straight up, brows tied together as you turn around to look at him. “Why are you acting like my fucking coach? Do you want to come do it yourself?”
He pushes off the wall, uncrossing his arms, “I played for fourteen years. Ball.”
You turn just as the ball shoots past you. “Fuck!”
He comes up beside you, holding his hand out for the bat. You hand it to him, then the helmet as you ask, “You played in high school?”
“Four to eighteen,” he explains as you switch positions with him, backing up to where he stood leaning up against the wall. You can only assume his stance is perfect. Knees bent, knuckles lined up along the bat, fingers flexing and unflexing along the handle.
“Why’d you stop?” you wonder, letting your head rest against the wall. From where you stand, it’s like slow motion, the sound of the machine, the muscles in his back flexing as he swings, his biceps, his forearms… he hits the ball perfectly. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
He laughs, stepping backward, “I quit because I didn’t want to play in college. Everyone thought I would, but I was over it. I’m a finance bro now.”
When he pulls the helmet off, you push off the wall, taking it from his hands to put it back over your head. “Finance bro doesn’t really suit you.”
He hands you the bat, “Yeah? What would suit me, then?”
“A master’s degree in sex education,” you quip. He huffs a laugh and you smile, too, because you know that joke was fucking funny. You quickly realize you didn’t learn a thing from watching him as you line yourself back up, and he knows it too when you miss another goddamn ball.
“You’re still doing it wrong, Virgin.”
You know. Yet you bite back anyway, “Wooyoung, I literally just fucking copied you.”
“You were watching me,” there’s amusement in his tone, accompanied by the truth of it. “Not watching me.”
You feel heat in your ears, you blame it on the helmet. Feigning ignorance, you mutter, “That’s what I was supposed to be doing.”
You swing again.
“Swing earlier.”
You loose a steadying, cool breath, and swing earlier. The following crack through the building confuses you until you feel the vibration in your arms, watching as the ball soars through the cage.
“I hit it?” You whip around to face him and he’s already smiling. Running straight to him, you scream, “I fucking hit it!”
You don’t even process that you’ve wrapped yourself around him, that he’s laughing with one arm around you. “I’m a fucking professional. Draft me for the fucking NHL.”
He lets you go, laughing harder, “That’s hockey, Virgin.”
“Who fucking cares?” you shout, pointing back toward the cage. “I hit the fucking ball!”
He nods his chin toward it, “Go do it again.”
So you do. In the last remaining ten balls, you successfully hit six, and even though it’s out of twenty-five, you feel like a goddamn professional, ready for the big leagues. What was only supposed to be one round quickly turned into two, trading places with him just to scoff and berate him for his skill. Your palms sting, your arms ache, the helmet is glued to your fucking forehead, at one point your hoodie was thrown in the corner, sweat sliding down your spine. Your body is tired, but your mind is alive; you aren’t ready to go home yet.
“Thanks, Mr. Choi,” Wooyoung gives baldie a wave on your way out, and you thank him quietly from behind Wooyoung in the midst of pulling his hoodie back over your head. It had stopped raining at some point while you were inside but the air is still heavy with humidity, the cool air meeting the warm pavement leaving a thick layer of fog on the ground.
“Spooky,” you mumble absentmindedly, watching the fog rising as you walk toward his car. “Are you hungry?”
His hair is frizzy now, curling at the ends, golden skin flushed with exertion from slamming the last eight balls across the cage. He shrugs, one hand for the handle, “I could eat.”
“Well, I’m hungry,” you shoot him a look from across the roof of his car, one that says I was only asking you to be nice. “Get your wallet out, Mister Rich.”
He’s smiling by the time you sit in the passenger seat. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
“Nope,” you answer plainly in a single huff of breath. “Where are we going?”
He turns his key in the ignition, and the engine comes to life beautifully in a smooth, effortless sound. You wish your car sounded like that right now.
“There’s a diner up the road,” he offers, pressing the clutch, throwing the gearstick into first.
“Wow,” you scoff. “Just a diner? Mister Rich is taking me to a measly little diner?”
He shakes his head, upshifting when he pulls onto the main road. You fuck with the screen in the center of his dash, swiping through the different apps, pulling up Spotify. You ignore Unscripted’s logo as you scroll up, looking for his liked songs, shuffling them.
“Risky,” he mumbles, brows raised when you look over at him. “All my liked songs? Do you know how many liked songs I have?”
Something rock starts pouring through the speakers, it’s soft, easy, the perfect song to fill the cabin of his car. “This one’s nice,” you shrug, settling back into your seat. When he pulls into a parking lot right after, you huff a laugh. “You weren’t joking when you said around the corner, huh? You’re very precise with your distance calculation.”
“I’m very precise with a lot of things,” he responds coolly, and you think it might be the third time today that he’s beat around the bush with intentionally vague language. You know just how precise he is with a very certain thing.
You don’t comment on it, you let the silence speak instead as he pulls into a parking spot, killing the engine. The diner is cute, older than the batting cage place, maybe. Checkered floors, booths, red stools lining the counter, everything about the space is warm and inviting. The hostess barely looks up from her phone as she tells you where to sit, pointing to a table two booths down from the entrance.
Your stomach growls the moment a menu lands in your hands. Feeling heat in your cheeks, you comment on it before Wooyoung has a chance to, “I literally have not eaten a singular thing today.”
“Don’t order the entire menu,” he eyes you over the top of his menu. “I’m not wealthy enough to satisfy the kind of hunger I just fucking heard.”
You can’t help your grin as you open your menu, landing on breakfast foods upon opening it, forever your favorite. It’s nostalgic for you, it reminds you of home, it’s always been a diner staple no matter what time of day it is. Lifting your eyes to look at the man across the cream-colored table, you wonder if he has a diner staple. If there’s anything on the menu that reminds him of home.
It’s kinda weird, you think. Sitting across from him in a diner, of all places, and not feeling the familiar Wooyoung-induced rage in your chest. You’ve never been around him for so long, other than the night you spent together in the bedroom of a frat house, this is different. A nice kind of different, though, like tonight exists only to make you reconsider everything you’ve ever thought about him. The shield, the hookups, the arrogance, you’ve never had a reason to think about Wooyoung beyond sex or wit, but sitting across from him reminds you that there’s a person inside him, too.
He can feel your gaze. Without looking up, he asks, “Do you want to take a picture?”
“Maybe,” you lower your menu, head tilting. “I’ll show it to the rest of your frat, let ‘em know you’re capable of interacting with a woman outside of a bedroom.”
He mimics you, lowering his menu, brows furrowed. It’s clear he remembers when you said the opposite of those words verbatim the night in your apartment. “I’ve always been capable of being friends with women.”
Your laugh is obviously sarcastic. “Sure.”
He almost argues back, but he’s cut off by the waitress who says absolutely nothing about the sheer amount of food you order. Wooyoung, on the other hand, as soon as she walks away he’s on your ass about it. “Do you think I’m made of money?”
“Definitely,” you nod, bringing your glass of water up to your lips. “Bands and a bitch-ass attitude.”
His laughter is obnoxious, dripping in amused disbelief as he retorts, “Bitch-ass attitude? Are you sure you’re not projecting?”
“My attitude has been fixed and cured,” you lower your water back to the table, brows high.
Without missing a beat, he quips, “Yeah? And who fixed it?”
“Some rich asshole with a bitch-ass attitude,” you muse, and you can’t fight the smile that curves your lips. He smiles, too, and there’s a pause between you before you both snort your laughter. You feel it more, the absence of rage, the fact that there’s absolutely nothing forming beneath your skin, you feel light. When has being around Wooyoung ever felt fucking light?
“Can I ask you a question?” Your chest feels tight as the question forms on your tongue. He nods, brows lifted, tongue swiping along his upper row of teeth beneath his lips. “Why did you come get me?”
“I already told you.”
“You said it’s because I called,” you start, leaning forward, crossing your arms over the table. “But you were fucking someone and you didn’t even tell me you were fucking someone, you just came as soon as I called.”
His brows furrow. “What answer are you looking for here, Virgin?”
“An honest one.” You don’t know what kind of answer beyond that. “Why’d you come get me?”
“Because you called me,” he repeats, voice tight like he doesn’t know how else to say it.
Your lips flatten. “That’s not a fucking answer.”
“That is the fucking answer,” he argues. You say his name like you’re threatening him. He sighs, deflating back into the booth. “What else was I supposed to do? It was storming, your car died, and you called me.”
Your lips scrunch to one side, “You could have said no.”
“Why the fuck would I say no to you?”
“Because we’re barely even friends!” you argue, exasperated. “I barely know anything about you, yet you came to get me as soon as I called.”
“You’re making it out to be more than it is,” he shakes his head, picking up his own water. There’s sarcasm lacing his tone as he continues, “Would you rather me say it would break my fragile heart to leave my friend’s girlfriend in a dead car during a storm? Is that the answer you’re looking for?”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” you just about growl. “That’s how you look at me? I’m suddenly reduced to being Yunho’s?”
His face morphs into utter, sheer fucking disbelief. “You’re the one who literally just said we’re barely friends!”
You can’t answer. You don’t even have a witty response. “Okay, fine. You’re right.”
“Then what the fuck are you mad about?”
You run your hands over your face, “I’m not mad, Wooyoung.”
“You asked me a question and now you’re getting pissed the fuck off at every single answer I give you. What do you want from me?” When you look up at him, you can’t answer. He huffs out a punched, hollow laugh. “Right, almost forgot, you don’t know what you want. Why does there have to be more? Why can’t you just leave it for what it is?”
“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” you sneer. “You don’t accept any answer I give you about anything and now you’re asking me to accept your bullshit answer.”
His lips tighten in a line. Your grin might be actually fucking evil.
“Answer,” you taunt, even nodding your chin toward him as you lean back in the booth. “You’re obsessed with explaining me to me, Jung Wooyoung. Explain yourself instead.”
“I–” his lips part, then close. Instead, he blurts, “Ask me something then. Something different than why I came to pick you up.”
You sit with it for a second, then you’re forced to sit with it longer as your food arrives. Seeing it in front of you, a display that could probably feed a family, even if you’re starving it feels absurd and you can’t help but fucking snort. Wooyoung has a grin on his cheeks, too, one he’s obviously trying to hide, looking up at you through his brows, acting like he’s focused on his own food.
“You’re helping me finish all of this,” you announce, rearranging your plates.
“I don’t even think the two of us could finish all of it,” he’s shaking his head as he says it. “Just wasting my money for fun.”
You hum your amusement, reaching for the syrup, pouring the perfect amount over your plate. Picking up the knife, you cut into your stack of pancakes while asking, “Why didn’t you kiss me back?”
You lift your eyes to see him looking at you surprised, confused, his mouth full of food. “Hm?”
“I asked.” You drop the knife back onto the table as if your cheeks aren’t on fire. “Your turn."
He finishes chewing, swallowing before he answers just as plainly, “I did kiss you back.”
Like asking wasn’t humiliating enough. “Okay, then you stopped. You left. Why?”
He fucks around with his food before answering, his tone even. “You didn’t want to kiss me.”
“Here we fucking go again,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head. “How did I not want to kiss you if I kissed you? What sense does that make?”
“You were trying to prove me wrong, Virgin. You didn’t kiss me because you wanted to kiss me, you kissed me because I backed you into a corner,” he explains while not even looking at you. He keeps playing with his food, finishing his sentence by taking a bite.
Your ears are so fucking hot they hurt. “I thought– I assumed you would jump at the– why did you care what my intentions were? I kissed you.”
“You think I didn’t know you were using it– using me to win the argument?” his mouth is full as he asks. “I wasn’t gonna fuck you just so you could prove a point.”
“You fuck people you don’t even know,” you argue, even if you aren’t sure why you’re arguing.
“I fuck people who want to fuck me,” he says with certainty. “That’s the difference.”
You don’t know why you’re still talking. “Maybe I wanted to fuck you.”
“You didn’t want to fuck me,” his voice lowers. “You wanted to win.”
Your jaw clenches, “Why do you care so fucking much?”
“I have my own rules, believe it or not,” he tightens his lips, raising his brows. “I don’t really take well to being a pawn anymore.”
“A pawn?” your head jerks forward with the question, offended. “I wasn’t using you.”
“You kissed me to make yourself feel better,” he shrugs, taking another bite. “That’s pretty much the textbook definition of pawn-ism, no?”
“I think this is the definition of dramatic,” you quip, brows tied together. “What do you mean by ‘anymore’? Were you once emotionally available enough to actually have a girlfriend?”
He huffs amusement through his nose, “Nah. When my parents split up, I was in the middle. I was sixteen– it’s a long story. It was ugly.”
You see him stiffen after the revelation, his body going rigid, staring at his plate like he can’t believe the words left his mouth, like he can’t bring himself to look at you. Your stomach drops, you weren’t expecting an honest answer.
“Well,” you start, picking up your fork again. “I still think calling yourself a pawn because I kissed you is dramatic. What if I just wanted round two?”
“Everyone wants round two,” he looks up through his brows, and it’s relieving to see a glimmer of amusement. “You’re not special.”
“Sure,” you muse. “That’s why you stopped getting–and let me repeat it verbatim–the skin sucked off your dick to come pick me up.”
“You’re a pain in my fucking ass, Virgin,” he gripes, pointing at you with his fork. “Shut the fuck up and eat your breakfast.”
You’re giddy as you shove your fork into a pancake, a smile on your cheeks as you house it down. You swear it tastes better now, as do the rest of the four sides you ordered along with it. At one point Wooyoung poked into your food, his plate already cleared, and your bickering picked right back up where it left off because naturally, you knew the two of you could finish all the food, even if he doubted you.
Mister Rich he is, Wooyoung slid his card over the counter at the front, making you impossibly more giddy that he did it without complaint. Your belly full, your limbs growing achier by the minute, by the time you get back in his car, you’re ready to go home. Not his home, though, you need your own bed, you need your shower, you need to wash the rain and the sweat and the Wooyoung off of you.
For the first time in three hours, you check your phone. You didn’t notice that you left it on the floor of his car, only finding it after it dawned on you that you haven’t seen it in hours. Before pulling up your stats or the orange app that beckons to you, you check your messages.
There’s six from Yunho, and you can’t believe you haven’t thought about him once.
yunho: handy manny what is that
yunho: ok i just googled it thats actually funny as hell
yunho: im so sorry i fell asleep after class
yunho: i just saw u called, are u ok? isnt ur shift over by now
Enough time had passed for his newer messages to have a time stamp written on the screen between them.
yunho: ok now im worried
yunho: i called u three times pls answer asap before i report u missing
“Oh, fuck,” you mutter under your breath, fingers typing at lightning speed.
you: im so sorry my car died wooyoung picked me up
you: im alive omg im sorry i didnt text u
“What’s wrong?” Wooyoung asks, eyes sliding over your screen. “Oh, Yunho?”
yunho: fuckkk im so sorry i didnt answer
yunho: thank god he picked you up
yunho: wyd? are u still with him?
“Fuck,” you grind out harshly, again. “He’s so fucking nice.”
Wooyoung huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that’s like, his entire attraction.”
“You forgot the tall part, and the big dick part, and the angel sent from heaven part,” you add.
Wooyoung doesn’t respond, one hand turning the wheel, the other upshifting as he pulls out onto the main road.
you: yes we just got food
you: im gonna go home tho if thats okay with u
you: im so fucking exhausted
yunho: of course sunshine
yunho: ill come get you in the morning and then we can go look at your car
you: thank you <3 yes pls
you: see u in the morning
You sigh, slapping your phone against your denim-covered thigh, sinking back into the passenger seat, looking straight through the windshield. Your head turns to the side, “Can you take me home? Like, to my place?”
“You don’t wanna see your tall, big dicked angel sent from heaven?” Wooyoung teases.
Your eyes thin out. “I’m tired, I’ll see him in the morning. He’s gonna fix my car.”
“Of course he is.” It sounds like a jab, but there’s no irritation in his tone, nothing malicious. It’s the truth, because of course Yunho’s first objective would be to fix your car as soon as he found out you’re safe and sound.
Picking up your phone, ready to open Spotify, you catch the sight of Unscripted’s logo still on the wide screen on his dash. Your lips scrunch to one side, debating before you ask him, “Why do you listen to Unscripted?”
“I don’t,” he answers quickly, irritation returning tenfold to his tone.
You pop a brow. “You know I can see it on the screen, right?”
He takes his hand off the gearstick just to swipe it off the screen. It shows what’s playing now instead, the same rock song as before. “Look at that, it’s gone now. Magic.”
He’s so fucking stupid that you laugh. Instinctively, you quote, “Yer a wizard, Harry.”
He looks at you wide-eyed for a second before erupting into laughter, body folding forward, into his steering wheel. “Shut the actual fuck up.”
You laugh with him, mainly because his laugh is funny, your quote was so innate you weren’t even trying to be funny. Looking at him, his wide grin, seeming so unshielded, so free… a door is opened that you’ve deliberately kept closed since that first night with Yunho.
The laughter dies down, and you let the feeling die with it. “Okay, but seriously,” you press again. “Why do you hate Unscripted?”
He pulls up to a red light, downshifting until the car comes to a full stop. He looks at you expressionless as he says, “I think she’s full of shit.”
Your top lip lifts. Monotonous, you rebut, “Really?”
“She is,” he shrugs like it’s obvious. “She says all that personal shit, but won’t say who she is. Seems like there’s a reason for it.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want the entire campus to know her personal business,” you argue.
Upshifting, pressing on the gas, he fires back, “Maybe she doesn’t want the entire campus to know it’s not real.” Your stomach feels heavy, and it’s not the food. Before you can get the chance to respond, he’s already continuing, “I can respect the need for privacy because she’s a woman, but I don’t think she’s hiding from all the douchebags on campus that would harass her. I don’t know.”
Your brows furrow, “Then who else?”
“The people who know her,” he responds simply. “The people who would know it’s not true.”
Your head shakes, brows tied together, stomach souring with every word he speaks. “But it is true. She’s gone to your parties, she was there with us–”
“Some of the shit she talks about I can believe,” he waves a hand between you. “It’s the way she talks about it. I just don’t believe the persona or whatever the fuck.”
You hate that you ask, “What persona?”
“I have sex, I have a lot of sex–”
“Wow, ground breaking journalism happening–”
“Listen. Who she is aside, I have a lot of sex, but I get a lot of shit for it. I caught chlamydia over a year ago and I’m still berated for it almost every fucking day. She has a lot of sex and she’s praised for it. She avoids consequence because she’s anonymous, and it just feels really fucking fake to me.”
Your lips scrunch. “That’s actually fair. Double-standard.”
“It’s usually the opposite,” he leans back in the driver’s seat, downshifting as he turns onto your street. “It’s never a man who gets shit for fucking, but for some reason, I do.”
“Maybe it’s because that’s all anyone knows about you,” you say quieter, almost like you aren’t sure if you really want to say it. “I once told you that you curated your own reputation.”
He makes a face, one that says yeah, I know. “My reputation is what it is, Virgin. Nothing I can do about it now.”
“That’s not true,” you argue, brows scrunching. “You proved today that you can have a friendship with a woman. That’s a step in the right direction, no?”
Pulling up in front of your house, he throws the gear into park and shoots you a blank stare. “What’s the use of a step in the right direction if I’m never going to take another step?”
“Why can’t you?”
His head tilts, debating. “I can, I just won’t.”
You turn in the seat, facing him. “Because…?”
“I don’t want to be responsible for how someone else feels,” he says simply, only his head turned toward you. Then his lips curve, “I don’t want to end up in a sex-less marriage like the one you were about to get yourself into, Virgin.”
You scoff through a smile, “Asshole.” Unclipping your seatbelt, you bend one knee up into the seat as you say, “I think you might have a fucked up view on relationships, Mister Rich.”
His brows raise, lips tightening. No shit. “If you’re happy, your partner is happy. If you’re sad, then you’re bringing down your partner, too. Everything you do, you have to be conscious of the other person. If they give something up for you, if they move for you, if the relationship fails and it’s not your fault, it’s your fault anyway because you’re the only person to blame.”
Your brows raise at the rant. “Can I ask?”
He’s quick to answer, “No.”
“Can I at least point something out?” your head tilts, smile playing on your lips. He sighs, and to you, that’s a yes. “You just spent, like, four hours out of your Wednesday night to make someone you’re barely even friends with feel better.”
“That’s different,” he argues.
“Yeah?” you ask, smile growing. “How about all the times I asked you for advice, and you gave it? Or when you came to my apartment because clearly something was so wrong that I left the Penny?”
His face stays flat. “What are you getting at, Virgin?”
“Nothing,” you shrug, voice light, high-pitched like the word is a song. “Just noticing and realizing things.”
“Oh,” he laughs the word, finally turning to face you. “You figured me out, huh?”
His car is too small for him to be this close to you. You can still smell him, the storm, you can taste every single word, every emotion that’s passed between you tonight. Grasping onto nonchalance as hard as you fucking can, you shrug, “It’s not as hard as it seems.”
His eyes drop, but they’re back on yours before you can register it. “You think so?”
Your heartbeat picks up, you can feel it knocking on your breastplate, begging you to pay attention to it. You can’t look away from him, you’re stuck as your chest fills, as your breath turns shallow. Your eyes drop to his pretty, full lips, lips you’ve kissed before, lips you want to kiss again.
You don’t think you’ve ever been more honest with Jung Wooyoung than when you tell him, “I want to kiss you.”
He says your name like it’s a warning, like you’re nearing dangerous territory. You let him see it, the want in your face, your eyes. He watches, letting you see the debate in his.
His voice is almost airy as he says, “You wanted to kiss me last time, too.”
“Last time, I wanted to be right,” you whisper. “I want you, Wooyoung.”
He clenches and unclenches his jaw like he’s fighting his own instincts. He turns, sinking back into his seat, muttering a rough “Fuck” under his breath. He runs his palms over his face, sorting his fingers through his hair, and he doesn’t look back at you as he says, “Yunho’s my friend, and he likes you.”
Your body blooms with warmth, but it’s embarrassment instead of the heat you wish was washing through you. You feel still as you uncurl your body, reaching for your purse, your keys, your water bottle. “Right,” you mutter, almost automatically, as if your brain has shut off entirely.
He speaks as you reach for the door handle. “What are you doing?”
You look back, confused. “Leaving?”
“Why are you leaving?” he sits up a little, face twisted with enough emotion you can’t pinpoint it.
“Hello?” You look around as if you’re missing something. Embarrassment twists into frustration, “I just finally fucking told you what I wanted and you rejected me.”
“Because you’re dating my friend–”
“I’m not dating him!” you nearly explode.
“You’re exclusively together,” Wooyoung says matter-of-factly. “Don’t get out of the car thinking that I don’t want you, because I fucking want you. I can’t do that to Yunho.”
“Goodnight, Wooyoung, thank you for tonight,” you say in one big shoved together breath, and climb out of his stupidly fucking low car. He’s in the middle of calling your name when you slam it behind you, forcing yourself to turn on your heel and walk up to your apartment.
Your brain feels like static with every step. You can’t piece together words, thoughts, you can’t function all the way up to your door, opening it just for all the lights to be on. Food is spread across the coffee table, the TV is on, Yunjin’s laptop is open on the couch, her phone right beside it.
Her face is grave. You glance at the TV, the Unscripted logo, your own fucking voice pouring out from the speakers. Your body feels like ice. This is it.
She doesn’t even let you close the door behind you before she’s asking, “Is it you?”
synopsis: you think you might be dating an angel on earth. but it’s easy to be led astray by the temptation of an old fling.
warnings: MDNI, ~10k words, pwp not proofread, fem reader, toxic wooyoung, emotional cheating, lots of cursing, mentions of smoking and drinking, switch wooyo & switch reader (?), nasty unprotected sex (mentions of hair pulling, slapping, spit, f oral, leg humping, cum eating, orgasm control, cream pie, praise & degradation, ‘baby’ and ‘pretty’ as pet names, dirty talk, choking, etc.), you make every bad choice possible, seonghwa’s a sweetheart.
notes: this is a reupload from much earlier in the year, the longest fic i’ve ever written. it was an idea i posted and then scrapped because i couldn’t get it to work how i pictured. but after months, it’s finally done. special shoutout to @minkieater and @beforethesunisrisingup for their encouragement on the original post 💘
you are content. if you ignore the messages you receive from an unknown number, how an anonymous account has been the first to view your story, and the embarrassing number of times you check his profile daily.
the calls and the stalking are both him. there's no one else it could be, and he's too obvious. only because he wants to be, and you know that too. he's always been one for dramatics.
so you ignore it. it's easy to, at first, with a shiny new boyfriend: seonghwa. unfairly handsome, well-built, and so sweet you almost feel undeserving. he's slightly older than you, yet so much more mature than the men you've met. and for the first time, it feels like someone wants to take you seriously.
his timeline is steady and his patience is unnerving. flirting lasted two weeks before he asked you out, you went on dates for two months before he asked to be your boyfriend, and now you're hoping it's only another two minutes before he does something more than kiss you.
because if he wanted to fuck you, he would, right? he would subtly hint at it and tease you until you admitted that you want him just as badly. he would kiss you breathless and laugh as you chased his lips. he would want you to initiate, to take unapologetically. that's what you were used to. that's how your brain had been wired, through a system that rewarded your greed.
if you were naive enough to answer the text messages blowing up your phone, that itch could be scratched. you would not have to do more than give him a look.
seonghwa's leather couch shifts under his weight as he angles his body towards you, "you're quiet tonight. is everything okay?"
"i'm stressed,” you lie, putting your phone on the armrest and hoping he can’t see the brightness of every notification through your privacy screen.
his gaze is tender as he studies your features. you’re not sure what he’s looking for, but he finds it and hums in understanding.
hands sneak under the blanket and hook themselves around your legs, pulling them onto his lap, “is this okay?"
you nearly roll your eyes at how careful he is, but the worried curve of his pillowy lips makes it hard to be annoyed, “yes. hwa, you can touch me, you know?”
"i know,” he agrees, flashing you a pretty smile, “but i don't wanna make you—”
"—if i were ever uncomfortable, i would tell you.”
he hesitates before nodding, his hands just barely grazing the underside of your calves in slow motions, “good. what's on your mind?"
"i have… a lot of pent-up energy i want to take out,” you reply, fighting the urge to guide his hands higher, closer to where you need him.
there’s a second of silence as his adam’s apple bobs, and your eyes trace the movement.
"maybe we could, uh, go on a walk?" he asks, almost like it hurts to get words out.
his slender fingers are a little firmer on your skin, but just as slow, and you want to claw at the leather underneath you. you need it to be tonight. unlike him, you feel your patience running thin, and you’re so far gone that you could settle for dry-humping and messy kissing.
“do you need me to beg for it?”
"what?"
you exhale sharply, shoving the blanket to the side, moving your legs off his lap, and straddling him in a few swift movements. he startles, hands retracting to his sides as you settle down on him.
a frown etches itself onto your features and you take his hands in yours and guide them up your thighs, past your hips, and up your sides. his skin is soft on yours, and you nearly shiver as you lean closer, “please, i need you. please. do something, i can’t wait.”
"don’t beg,” he breathes out, struggling to look you in the eyes, “you never need to beg me for anything.”
your hands move off of his and you feel his grip on your sides loosen, but you can’t settle for that. not anymore. so you lean closer until his lips meet yours.
the kiss is charged with unbridled want, and your body doesn’t lag. as soon as he begins kissing you back, your hips begin to grind against his, the fabric of your shorts catching against his sweats.
his lips part in a moan at the feeling, and for the first time, he takes initiative by moving a hand from your waist to bring you closer by the nape of your neck. it’s different from his usual hand against your cheek, and his slipping restraint fans the flame building in your guts.
but he makes no other move— he doesn’t lean into your touch, his hips don’t grind up against yours, and he doesn’t even try to guide your movements by your waist. it’s more like he’s letting you use him rather than indulging in you.
“fuck,” he murmurs as he moves away from your lips, a strangled huff slipping past his mouth. his eyes trail down to where your hips meet his and his eyes squeeze shut. “fuck, you’re making this really difficult.”
rarely did he curse around you, if at all. but you found yourself becoming addicted to the expletives dropping from his pretty mouth, taking them as signs that he was affected by you. it makes you dizzy, the knowledge that he’s trying his hardest to be respectful and failing.
“seonghwa,” you say, slowing down your movements on his lap, “don’t you want me?”
there’s a moment of hesitation as he stares at you like you’ve just slapped him, “of course i do. this isn’t about what i want, it’s about… you’ve told me about the guy before me. i don’t want to make you feel the way he did.”
well, maybe not emotionally. because you might die if seonghwa couldn’t make you feel how he did physically.
your breathing quickens at the mention of the guy who’s surely still blowing up your phone. you resist the urge to glance at the device resting on the armrest of the couch.
seonghwa continues, his expression sincere as his hand moves away from under your shirt. he places it over yours where it rests on his chest for leverage, “believe me, it hurts me to say no. but i want to do this right. i want it to be special, for you to be completely sure of me. i want trust and connection and… i don’t want you to think i only want this from you. can you wait a little longer?”
embarrassment, hot and stinging, rushes through your body as you abruptly stop moving. you could feel him, hard underneath you, and you’d be impressed with his restraint if it wasn’t stopping you from getting what you wanted.
“okay,” you agree with a nod, climbing off of him with averted eyes, “yeah, i’ll wait.”
he looks at you with what feels like pity in the moment, a hand circling your wrist, “i’m not rejecting you, angel. i respect you, and i care, and i really want to show you that rather than tell you. is that okay?”
maybe you should be flattered. he isn’t treating you like a piece of meat, like something to be claimed and then tossed. but your nerves feel like they’re on fire with need and you can’t help the frustration building up. “that’s okay. thank you, seonghwa.”
“you don't have to thank me,” he replies with an easy smile, as if the past few moments didn’t happen, you aren’t dripping, and his pants aren’t straining against his hard-on, “you deserve better than a quickie on my couch on a random night.”
you aren’t sure if he’s right. but you mirror his grin until the moment he drops you off at your place with a kiss to your temple.
for the first time since your failed attempt at initiating sex, you check your phone. it’s another one of those nights, apparently. there are weeks of radio silence. some days you only get a view of your profile and no texts. others you get a single call while you sleep. but tonight, it’s one the ones where he spams your phone. you read only the last few.
unknown number | are you still with the guy?
unknown number | the one with the long hair
unknown number | i stalked his profile
unknown number | he seems nice? good for you
unknown number | too nice though
unknown number | bet he doesn’t fuck you how you like
unknown number | probably doesn’t know how to handle you
unknown number | or how fucking greedy you are
unknown number | don’t pretend you don’t miss me
unknown number | bet you even kept our videos
unknown number | i kinda wish i had sometimes
he stopped texting around an hour ago. and it might be the frustration, but you respond for the first time in months.
you | who is this?
the reply is immediate.
unknown number | fuck
unknown number | i knew it
unknown number | hi baby, it’s been too long
unknown number | answer my calls
the regret doesn’t even reach you before you’re typing back.
you | stop spamming
you | i’m content with him
he sends a thumbs down reaction to both messages.
unknown number | no thanks
unknown number | and ‘content’ is funny
unknown number | not happy?
unknown number | probably not pleased, i can tell he doesn’t know
there it is. how easily he knows exactly what to say to get under your skin.
you | doesn’t know what, wooyoung?
that one message changes the conversation entirely. he stops typing and takes longer to respond. when he does, it’s an audio message. you regret playing it as soon as you hear the honeyed voice coming from your speakers.
“got tired of typing,” he murmurs, taking a deep breath before continuing, “but i’m glad you’re not pretending anymore.”
you nearly pause the message and toss your phone, but you hear that familiar laugh and your thumb hesitates.
“you know, i promised myself i wouldn’t go stalk his page. but i couldn’t help myself tonight. i’m a little drunk. you can probably tell, huh? but what the hell is your type? we’re nothing alike,” you hear the sounds of him typing on a keyboard before he continues, “graduated from a good university, close to his family, models for his friends' clothing brand— wow. i’m almost happy for you.”
as always, he wants a reaction. you bite the inside of your cheek.
“if you’re listening at this point, he must not be as good as he seems, huh? what is it? bad breath? does he make you split the bill?” he giggles at his own jokes and you shake your head as if he can see you, “but i know what’s more likely. i bet he can’t handle you. not like i can.”
it ends there. abrupt, like he accidentally cut himself off and sent it anyway. you keep the message out of muscle memory and wince when you realize he’ll see you saved it.
unknown number | wow
unknown number | i thought you wanted to be left alone?
you | i do
unknown number | so go ahead and block me
you | i do what i want
unknown number | i know that better than anyone
unknown number | it’s my favorite thing about you
you don’t reply. another few minutes go by before he sends another audio message.
“do you remember the time…” he interrupts himself with breathless laughter, “the first time you asked me to come over and not the other way around? i remember. i think about it all the time, don’t you? up until then, you acted like it wasn’t mutual. and after that, you started calling me over like i was getting paid for it.”
there’s a small pause. you hear fabric shifting around, “you started using me like a fuckin’ toy. i loved it. i loved it cause you were just as mean as i needed. god, it was hot.”
your neck heats up at the memories. how he would smile unabashedly at you as you used him to get off, with no concern for his own pleasure. animalistic.
“i still don’t understand why you cut me off and gave me a speech about using you. that’s such bullshit,” he says, tone melting into something lower, “you caught feelings and you were embarrassed. pushing blame onto me doesn’t erase that.”
your phone pings with a good night text from seonghwa and you swipe it away as you keep listening.
“i did kinda take advantage of the fact you liked me. a little, i won’t lie. but it was so easy with you. there wasn’t any pretending, no dinner as boring foreplay, you were straight to the point. i miss that. you. your skin and how good you smell. and i can’t believe i’m missing out on it over some guy who would probably feel sick if you told him half of what we’ve done.”
your stomach sinks at his comment, the way he laughs it off like it means nothing. the worst part, you like it. you clench at the desperation climbing into his voice the more he speaks, the way he’s so direct about his desire.
“if you didn’t block me, i’m assuming you still have our videos. i wonder if you watch them and get off to them,” his voice wavers, “fuck, i‘m already hard thinking about it. call me. call me anytime, whether you’re done with that guy or not. i’ll come over like i used to. everything could be like it used to be.”
the message ends there. you have two minutes to keep the memo, and you nearly do, just to replay the last part and hear the whine in his voice that he tries to suppress. but the message disappears and you’re in the same exact spot on your bedroom floor, face warm and panties even wetter than before.
wooyoung doesn’t say anything else. not another call or text, doesn’t even like a message.
he’s put the ball in your court.
and he’s right, you have the videos. as proof that you weren’t crazy, that he had murmured a few ‘i love you’s while his hips were pressed against yours. that it had been real and not something to scoff at like he did when you asked for more.
“what more could you want?” he’d said, and you stopped replying to his texts soon after. you fell back against his mattress a few more times out of weakness, but you finally gathered the strength to leave. you met seonghwa only a month later.
the first message you received when you posted your new boyfriend was from that anonymous account. ‘you’re quick,’ is all they said.
too quick, you think. seonghwa’s name glows on your screen and you ignore it.
right now, you’re so worked up you would do anything to get off.
the easiest way? the videos saved in your hidden folder in your camera roll. whether you chose his favorite, with you in doggy and a close up of where you were connected, or yours, where he had you in a mating press with his lips against yours the entire time, was completely unimportant.
guilt would eat you alive anyway.
the texts stop coming in. the mysterious spam calls and the views on your stories disappear. in their place comes an all-consuming force: regret.
it’s only been a week since you’d received those voice messages from wooyoung and gotten off to his voice. you had scrolled through your hidden folder like a lunatic, watching short clips and long videos that told stories that hurt to remember as much as they hurt to forget.
the earliest video he’d recorded spontaneously when you were both so turned on you during a house party that you could barely think straight. that night is too fresh in your mind; it had started with you grinding on a strange man to prove a point. it ended with wooyoung’s hand pressing your face against the cold marble of a bathroom sink.
another short clip not long after, focused on the bounce of your hips against his, your reflections in his full length mirror barely visible. he had a crazed look in his eyes, the look you mistook for affection no matter how many times he’d reminded you it wasn’t.
you hate first few videos. taken around the beginning of the year when you’d started hooking up. the way he talked to you was clipped, like he knew nothing about you other than how good you felt around him. most of them cut off right below your neck, with your face down and the focus of the video on your ass or the arch of your back. his groans were strained, and his hands were as shy as they could be for someone like him. it wasn’t the man who would hold your hand as he ate you out or the man whose thumb would graze the peak of your cheekbone as he pleaded against your lips for ‘one more’.
the videos dated in july were once your favorites. they were slower, more sensual. if you try hard enough, you can will yourself to believe that he meant every word that dropped from his lips. wooyoung, the man who used to fuck you like he was in a hurry to leave before the sun set, was almost delicate during the summer you spent together. your hand would wrap around his neck, and the tanned skin of his cheeks would cave in with those deep dimples you’d learned to love. he would hold you impossibly close to him, head tilted back, awaiting a string of spit from your lips. his tongue would clean up the tears trailing down your face after his hand came down too harshly between your legs. neither of you were below begging. it’s why you went well together.
perhaps the intimacy he constructed was one you weren’t meant to indulge in. when mumbled ‘i love you’s filled the minimal space between you, you should have ignored them, the way he ignored every request for him to stay the night. the illusion was supposed to remain unaddressed; he was always going to deny that he meant anything he said. wooyoung’s words were worth as little as your self-respect. because even when he’d laughed in your face, clarified his lack of intention, and pushed you away, you crawled back into his bed. too many times to count. more than you are willing to admit to yourself.
even now, your thumb hovers above the button that could delete the entire album of videos you’ve kept. it would take two clicks, but the idea of losing that evidence terrifies you. so you chicken out, tossing your phone to the side in frustration. it bounces on your mattress once before landing on the smooth wood of your floor with a soft thud.
when you lift the device back up, the screen is shattered.
wooyoung is counting down the days. his calendar is full of circles and marks in black pen. friends’ birthdays, due dates at work, parties to attend. the winter is full of events and holidays, but none as important as the date he has marked in red. one week ago, the day you’d finally caved in.
it’s not like he’s obsessed with you or anything, but you hurt his pride back in august, when you’d ended things. he thought you were bluffing. that you’d come back on a late night like always, too ready for someone who had cussed him out hours earlier. but you didn’t.
he was stuck in complete silence from you. he’d texted and called to no avail. he even considered showing up unannounced, but that was desperate. desperation wasn’t the role wooyoung took in your exchanges.
a few days passed, then a few weeks, and before he knew it, you had a new toy to keep you busy. namely, park seonghwa. he was admittedly handsome and well-off from the looks of his profile. the kind of guy that gets you flowers just because. the kind that writes you sappy messages while you sleep. the kind that meets your parents and friends with shaky hands because he cares and he wants to make a good impression.
everything wooyoung isn’t.
to say wooyoung is jealous would be an overstatement. sure, if he could choose his life, he wouldn’t mind ending up like seonghwa. but wooyoung had taken too many left turns along the road for that to ever happen.
he tried to move past you. called a few girls over, kicked them out afterwards, like he used to.
it didn’t work. not for long, anyway. the foggy nights would tide him over for a few days, keep him off your profile and away from your contact. but the feeling never lasted.
as he looks through your profile for the hundredth time, he isn’t sure what exactly is keeping him there. he decides it must be the hit to his ego. the fact that things ended before he decided he was done.
a little ‘s’ captions a highlight you have pinned, and wooyoung scrolls through it. it’s like all the typical couple’s highlights– dinner dates, flowers, sunsets– boring. so unlike you.
he wonders if the smiling man has any idea he exists and hasn’t even been blocked. he wonders what kind of story you told him about your past relationships.
all he knows is that seonghwa has probably seen your posted pictures as often as he has. probably jerked off to them and felt shame afterwards.
wooyoung can’t relate to that feeling. not even now, as he undoes his belt buckle, glancing at the calendar next to his desk.
he gives it another two weeks before everything falls back into his hands.
the late autumn afternoon is particularly silent. only wind rushes against your windows, creating a small howl that you’d find creepy if your mind wasn’t so preoccupied with figuring out the exact shade of white paint on your ceiling.
your room is a complete mess, pairs of pants strung across the back of your desk chair while two large trash bags hold old clothes you’re not sure you’re ready to let go of.
you know you’re spiraling. there’s an unfinished bowl of oatmeal too close to the edge of your nightstand, probably already gone bad with how long it’s been sitting there. you can’t remember if you even checked that you turned off the stove before frantically deciding to deep clean your closet. but you decide to stay on the ground rather than check.
with a frustrated swipe of your hand down your face, you feel around the ground to find your phone. when your fingers reach the cold device, you pause. who could you even call and tell all your worries? you had impulsively ghosted your therapist after they doubled their prices. that wouldn’t work.
so you scroll through your contact list, ready to give up and post anonymously on a forum, before you reach a name that pulls you out of your stupor.
cee, your previous roommate. the girl who had seen you sob over expired ice cream after one of those weeks at work. the one who gave you a live demonstration of her first time when the electricity went out and the two of you were bored out of your minds. nothing was considered oversharing with her.
you bite the inside of your cheek, hoping the time difference in her new city won’t kill your chances at reaching her.
“cee,” you mutter in relief as the line picks up, placing your cracked phone next to your ear, “i really need your advice.”
cee scoffs on the other end of the line, “whoa, no ‘hello’? ‘how are you’?”
“sorry, hi. i saw you post that you got promoted, and i forgot to congratulate you. seriously, congrats. you deserve it. uh, how’s the city? your girlfriend?”
there’s a soft laugh on the other end of the line before she replies, “thank you, but you’re rambling. we can catch up later. what’s the matter?”
your veins rush hot blood through your limbs, “this might be really tmi.”
“girl,” she replies, completely unimpressed, “please, spare me. spill, now.”
“okay. well, you know seonghwa, right?” an enthusiastic hum vibrates through your speaker, “and… wooyoung?”
there’s a moment of silence before you hear a quiet ‘yeah’.
she doesn’t need the backstory. she was with you the night you met wooyoung outside a house party in january. he smiled like he’d won something when you accepted his coat to put over the dress you’d insisted on wearing despite the threat of snow. she’d bumped into him in your shared living room when he was sneaking out after a late night. she’d seen you delete his number and unfollow him on everything after a pep talk.
you talk about everything from july onwards: meeting seonghwa through a mutual friend and clicking instantly. the social media stalking and the insistent calls. the cute romantic dinners and personalized bouquets. back and forth, like a ping-pong game.
cee doesn’t stop you, only interrupting for clarification when you mumble or trail off. when you’re done, there’s a moment of silence on her end.
“so… you have your dream guy, but you’re stuck on wooyoung,” it sounds more like a question than a statement, but she schools her tone, “okay. i mean, he is practically a rebound.”
“he is not!”
silence.
“okay,” you concede, scratching the side of your face, “sorry, i don’t know why i’m getting defensive. he’s… you’d really like him.”
“he sounds like a dream,” cee offers, and you can picture her pressing her lips together as she contemplates how forward she should be. “but… maybe not a wet one?”
you feel ashamed at how easily that pulls a laugh out of you, “it’s not like i don’t want him, but it’s discouraging to be rejected so much. and like… he wants me too. he said so. just not now, i guess.”
“uh-huh,” she hesitates before continuing, “there’s something you’re not telling me, though.”
“...i told him about wooyoung.”
that seems to appease her worry, “okay, good, that’s honest. maybe that’s why he’s being careful.”
“it is,” you pause, “this is so embarrassing but… last week, i tried to initiate. we were making out, and i started grinding on him, and he was really into it until he kinda stopped me and told me he wanted to wait. that he didn’t want me to think he was like wooyoung. and that i deserved to have something special. more than a quickie.”
your ac whirrs quietly in the background as you wait for a response. you wish you could see her face right across from you, twirling a curl around her finger, and watch her brown eyes give away her every thought. desperately, you want someone to agree with you mindlessly, but you need her honesty.
“am i supposed to root for wooyoung here, or..?”
“you’re not supposed to root at all, i need you to tell me what to do.”
her tone is a little harsher than you expect, “you need to stop self-sabotaging and stay with someone who actually gives a fuck.”
“but listen… wooyoung texted me that night. like non-stop. i was so overwhelmed with everything that i actually answered.”
cee shrieks, and you send her the screenshots as proof. she reads the texts and the transcript of the first voice message in complete silence, and you take the chance to fill the line with the most humiliating part of your story.
“he’s right. i have every single video, and the whole situation with seonghwa had me really frustrated, so i went back and watched them and i… you know?”
“oh my god. wow, this is bad. like really, really bad.”
“i know, i know,” you groan, head tipping back as you spread your body on your wooden floor, “i don’t know what to do.”
“i love you so much, but i think you need to,” you hear her fumble her words for a few moments before she sighs, “step back. break up, heal fully from that piece of shit, and move forward. delete those fucking videos. i’m so serious. the dick could not have been that good.”
you let the last statement linger and she inhales sharply.
“seriously?”
“yeah,” you mutter, nodding to yourself, “i didn’t even know i could squirt until he—”
“okay. okay, let’s not get nostalgic. delete the videos. tell seonghwa most of the truth. that you’re not fully healed and you don’t want to string him along, and… leave out the ‘i masturbated to old sex tapes with the man you hate after you blue-balled me’ part.”
the rest of the conversation is a blur as your mind wanders to the exact words you’ll say to your boyfriend’s face. you can only hope they make it past your lips, regardless of how shiny his eyes might look or how deeply he furrows his thick brows.
seonghwa always smells like jasmine and something softer, a comforting scent that always lingers on his clothes. it surrounds you like an embrace as you step into the living room of his apartment, one tiny lamp in the corner of the room giving you just enough light to guide you into the space.
“you okay?” seonghwa asks too sweetly, his eyes studying your features. the pad of his thumb swipes gently across your cheek to get your attention, mimicking the motion of wiping away a tear that isn't there. not yet, anyway. “talk to me.”
you inhale sharply at the kindness of his touch, the warmth you didn’t deserve. “sorry, i probably scared you coming by so late, but… it’s bad, seonghwa.”
he nods, never one to invalidate your words. the clock ticking behind you calls his attention: 2am. not a likely time for him to be up. but with the sight of your frown, he suddenly feels awake. “maybe it is. i still want to help.”
there are a few moments of hesitation. your mind is at war with itself, and it doesn’t help that he holds eye contact patiently, like he’s waiting for something he knows won’t arrive. but he tries, and that might be the worst part.
the words feel heavy on the tip on your tongue. you turn them over, taste the bitterness, try to swallow them and keep them buried. another swipe of his thumb right underneath your eye coaxes them out.
“we should break up,” you blurt, head tilting away from his touch.
“what?”
the small lamp flickers, the buzz filling the split second of silence, “we need to break up. this is so unfair to you. it’s really, really unfair and it’s wrong of me to keep you around for myself when i know i’m not over everything.”
his lips part with a soft interruption, “hey. slow down, you need to breathe. three deep breaths, okay?”
your eyes flutter with surprise. as if that wasn’t the response you were expecting. kindness. worry. him.
you follow his instructions without a second thought, but the expansion of your lungs feels tight, nearly uncomfortable as your heart thrums wildly in the same confined space between your ribs.
“okay,” he continues once he’s counted three inhales, “there you are. sit.”
“no, seonghwa—”
“i’m gonna get you water,” his voice drops to a near whisper, “and you’re gonna wait for me on the sofa, okay?”
“okay.”
after what feels like an eternity, he returns with a mug in his hands. it’s the mug you’d made when you went on a pottery class date, the one with your initials scrawled on the bottom. the water is cool as it passes down your throat, doing its job at soothing your nerves.
seonghwa sits beside you, keeping his hands to himself as he watches you take small sips in between breaths. he tries to appear calm, but his hand trembles slightly as he threads it through his silky hair.
the mug clinks softly against his wooden coffee table, and you talk. you tell him most of the truth like you’d planned. you tell him how you’re overwhelmed, not fully healed from your recent past. you explain that you need time, that it’s not anything he’s done, and that you want to stay on good terms. you wonder if he thinks you only say that to keep him as an option.
he’s nodding in acknowledgment the entire time, searching your features as you run out of breath trying to get everything out at once.
“i’m sorry, angel,” he fixes the strap of your tank top neatly over your shoulder, distracted for a second before he meets your eyes again, “i rushed you, didn’t i?”
you shake your head in firm disagreement, but he continues before you can get a word in.
“i got too excited. i overwhelmed you when i knew exactly what you were still processing. what still hurts you,” the corners of his pink lips turn down. “i thought i could help. but i should’ve given you time. i should’ve kept my feelings to myself for your sake, let us be friends a little longer. i was selfish and too quick.”
selfish.
“what the hell is your problem?” san scoffs when wooyoung stands up with so much force that the couch creaks as it shifts a few inches.
the latter holds his hand up, eyes jumping around his phone screen like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. he reloads the page once, twice, and a third time just to be sure.
the highlight with the little ‘s’ is gone.
“san, get out,” he practically commands, turning to his friend when he remains seated on the leather couch.
the larger man frowns, nose scrunching in distaste, “are you high? this is my place. i told you not to smoke before coming over, i hate the smell.”
“shit, you’re right,” wooyoung grabs his jacket off the back of the cushions, “and i’m not high, fuck you. i quit months ago.”
san pouts at the harsh words, voice tapering off, “i know. you quit because of that girl.”
“what?”
“you quit around the time you were messing around with that girl. you stopped being so antsy all the time. but you never even told me her name,” his arms spread onto the back of the couch, watching as wooyoung’s hand freezes around the doorknob.
“that’s not true.”
“okay.”
“you don’t believe me?”
san shrugs like it doesn’t concern him in the slightest, “i know what i saw. we all do.”
the room feels smaller as wooyoung takes a few steps back into the studio apartment, “who’s we? what the hell does that mean?”
“everyone, woo. i mean, all the guys watched you freak out in real time when you got blocked or whatever.”
he can’t gulp down the defensiveness climbing into his words, “i did not get blocked.”
a fragile kind of quiet invades the room. the two men stare at each other, neither making any move to continue the conversation. it was a dead end anyway, it always was when this topic came up. the word ‘fling’ was practically banned within their friend group.
a sharp beep interrupts the moment, and san looks up to the smoke detector on the ceiling before muttering to himself, “oh, that needs new batteries.”
wooyoung nods, hand landing back on the doorknob as he adjusts his jacket under his arm. he feels like he’s waiting for permission of some kind, the cool metal under his palm doing little to battle the excessive heat his skin radiates.
san seems to contemplate something before deciding against it, popping his neck with a smile, “sounds like you.”
“oh, fuck off. i need to make a call.”
“to who? the hiring manager at jongho’s office?”
“i’m not working in a cubicle at a company i don’t care about. it’d be bad enough to have jongho as a coworker,” wooyoung’s eyes narrow as he waves in dismissal.
the smoke detector beeps again and san glances at it momentarily, “you could use the stability. working commission forever is a little crazy.”
wooyoung raises a brow at his friend’s concern, “i do well for myself.”
“because you’re hot and the old rich ladies love younger men. but you don’t actually care about luxury coats and bags, either. you’re just afraid of being tied down to something.”
“i like fashion. i could work in fashion for a while, it’s exciting. it keeps me on my toes.”
“but you don’t love it.”
wooyoung looks off to the side, at the mirror hanging right by the entrance. his eyebrow piercing glints softly, and he adjusts it before turning the doorknob, “i don’t think you’re talking about work anymore, and i hate when you start talking in metaphors, so i’m leaving.”
“make the right call, wooyoung.”
the other side of the line is surprisingly silent when you pick up. there’s static noise, fabric ruffling momentarily, and then a soft breath.
“finally.”
the three syllables make you nauseous, and you pull your phone away from your ear, opting to set it down on your pillow. just after a thorough shower, you’re already feeling gross.
the honeyed voice continues, “i was right.”
your stomach flips. there are so many things he could be talking about. maybe he’d somehow found out what you’d done after those voice messages a little over a week ago. maybe he was reminiscing about one of the many times you cussed him out without letting him get a word in. “what?”
wooyoung huffs, eyeing his calendar, “nothing. when did you break up?”
“today,” you answer before you can help yourself. “you knew that, though.”
“mhm. how are you holding up?”
“i broke up with him,” you explain, as if that answers his question.
“i assumed. doesn’t make it any less difficult. you were content with him.”
you feel a familiar flutter deep in your chest as he uses your own words against you, a teasing lilt in his voice. “what do you want, wooyoung?”
“i can’t check up on you?”
“a bit late for that.”
he laughs, short and surprised, and you imagine the dimples hollowing his cheeks. your skin buzzes with anticipation, like he’s conditioned you to react to his voice. “ouch. i honestly am calling to hear your voice, though.”
your room starts to feel too hot, and you peel your robe off your body, throwing it to the foot of your bed before responding, “why won’t you just let this die?”
you’re baiting him. you want to hear him confirm that all those words he’d said in the heat of the moment weren’t in vain. that this was still salvageable, somehow. that it mattered.
wooyoung doesn’t know the answer to that question himself. he takes another look at his calendar before shrugging, picking at the lint on his pants, “isn’t that a mutual decision?”
“i did my part, i told you to leave me alone.”
he takes a few seconds before retorting, “you’d also tell me to slow down, all while pushing back onto me. you like to lie.”
“i’m not a liar.”
he exhales softly, “yeah? what’d you tell seonghwa?”
perhaps you answer him immediately because of the fact that he’s infinitely worse than you. anything you’ve done wrong once, he’s probably done a million times over. “that it isn’t his fault, and i need time.”
wooyoung chuckles, light and airy like you remember, “wow. what a speech. i almost believed you too.”
you grit your teeth, hating how his words make your chest rise and fall a little quicker, “it’s true.”
“partially,” he murmurs, “but it doesn’t really matter what you told him. what matters is you picked up.”
“only because i guessed that you’d keep spamming my phone if i didn’t.”
he hums, deep in his chest, “that’s a good guess.”
you lie down, turning to face the pillow where your phone is still resting. you close your eyes, pretending he’s there with you, like one of those rare nights he’d stay back and talk. you wonder if his hair is still half-bleached, if his brow ever settled down after the piercing he got, or if he’s marked his tanned skin with any new tattoos.
he takes your silence as a cue to keep pressing, “do you remember what i told you when we last spoke?”
you don’t open your eyes, the pad of your thumb brushing idly over the waistband of your underwear, “to call you.”
“that’s what you took from our conversation? not the part where i told you i missed you?”
a grin pulls at your lips, “that’s only partially true.”
“it’s fully true, for both of us. i know you miss me too.”
it hits you right then that wooyoung is nothing like seonghwa. he always sounds sure of himself, never hesitates to call something out the way he sees it. even when he’s wrong, he has a way of convincing you otherwise. but he’s not wrong this time, not when you feel arousal pooling in your lower abdomen.
so you do as he taught you all those months ago. you allow yourself to shamelessly take, to trail your hand down without a doubt, because he hated hesitation more than anything.
“no,” you manage to keep a steady tone as you push the cotton to the side, “i don’t. i need you to stop—”
he interrupts, “i know what you need. let me come over and show you.”
you cringe internally at his interruption, but the urgency in his voice sends another thrilling wave through your body, “we’re done, wooyoung. we’ve been done for months.”
“doesn’t mean i’ve forgotten anything,” he notes, taking a deep breath, “please. please, i’ve been waiting for you.”
you squeeze your eyes a little harder, hips involuntarily twitching to meet your hand’s pace. you’re building a torturous pace, the kind he’d use when he wanted you to snap at him. as much as he liked your disgruntled reactions, he always refused to give in, wanting to take his time taking you apart.
you think back to the middle of spring, the night he kept his mouth on you for hours, unwilling to move away until you admitted that you no one else compared to him.
“are you… touching yourself?” wooyoung asks, his voice trailing into a warm laugh before it stops, like the realization hits him just as hard as the embarrassment hits you. “oh, fuck, you are.”
your heart races, stopping your movements as you straighten up on the bed. how could he possibly tell? “what are you talking about?”
“you are,” he replies decisively, not a hint of doubt in his voice, “i knew you were desperate, but this is almost sad, baby.”
“don’t call me that.”
“then deny it.”
you can’t. because you know he can probably imagine you accurately enough, and it bothers you to no end. how he always acts like he knows you, because he does. there’s a few shuffling noises on his side, and you apparently take too long to respond because he takes your silence as an affirmation.
“you didn’t come,” he says matter-of-factly, “should i help you? guide you over the phone like i used to? or is your door unlocked? can—”
“stop, wooyoung. you’re hearing things. i shouldn’t have picked up. go fuck one of your friends and stop calling.”
“don’t blame this on me. no one forced you to stuff your hand in your panties while i talked. that was all you,” his tone is sharp, his words drowning out his footsteps. he echoes his question from earlier, a little firmer this time, “is your door unlocked?”
there’s a certain sense of comfort in fucking wooyoung. you never had to shave, you could fuck him with dried drool on the side of your face after a nap. he never cared so long as he could get your lips on him, and it was nearly reassuring to see how much someone could crave you in every form.
so when he shows up mere minutes after you hang up, you let him in. you don’t think he’ll even turn to look at the empty water bottles littered on your wooden floor or the dishes piled up impressively high in your sink, not when he’s busy getting as close to you as humanly possible.
“hey, look at you,” he rasps, running his hand through hair that’s longer than you remember. you hug your robe a little tighter around yourself as he makes a show out of looking you up and down, asymmetrical eyes burning through you. “even prettier than i remember.”
“just do what you’re here to do, wooyoung,” you reply, not stepping back when he begins to crowd your space.
a crooked smile pulls at his lips, and he’s quick to abide. one hand settles on your waist, tugging you closer, while the other wraps around the back of your neck.
but that’s too easy. and you’ve been too easy for much too long, so you decide against it last minute, just as he’s dipping down for a kiss. your hand covers his mouth, and you push back just slightly.
“apologize.”
the one word floats in the air between you, weightless with how quietly you said it.
wooyoung doesn’t fight it. he meets your eyes, taking a half-step back before slowly sinking to his knees.
“i’m sorry,” he says, brown eyes still pouring into yours, “for everything.”
he emphasizes his words by sliding his palms to the backsides of your legs, just above your knees. he moves closer, enough to rest the side of his face on the fabric that covers the top of your right thigh.
“i said things i didn’t mean,” he adds, sharp jaw dragging against cotton, “i would take everything back, if i could.”
you stare for a few moments, taking in the sight of the beautiful man groveling at your feet. his hair obscures his eyes a bit, the underside no longer blonde. you push the strands away from his forehead, using that as leverage to pull his face away, “and?”
“and i’m gonna make it up to you,” he responds hurriedly, eyelids lowering slightly as you tilt his head further back.
he’s basically saying nothing, and you know it. his apology is a string of words you want to hear, but not an acknowledgment of guilt. it makes you angrier, more determined. for what? you aren’t sure.
the look in his eyes stirs something deep in your chest, and you surprise yourself as you put your right leg further out in front of you. he looks confused for a split second before his hand leaves your left thigh to undo the small knot keeping your robe together.
“no,” you reprimand, moving his hand away, “you get my leg.”
for the first time since you’ve met him, wooyoung seems genuinely taken aback. “what?”
you don’t repeat yourself and hope your silence comes off as firm, not nervous.
he swallows, eyes flicking from your face to your exposed leg. there’s a moment of hesitation before he readjusts himself, positioning your shin right between his legs. then, he tentatively grinds up against your skin. the friction of his sweatpants against your leg burns just slightly, but you decide it’s worth it when you see his jaw clench.
his movements start off slow, but soon enough, he’s full-on humping your leg. muffled expletives drop from his full lips, chest heaving when you use the grip on his hair to pull his forehead away from your side.
“you’re fucking pathetic,” you say over his lewd noises. shameless, just like everything else about him, and the thought only spurs you on. “calling me, texting me, stalking my account. did nobody wanna fuck you? i bet they wouldn’t, after seeing this.”
you’re not even sure where all your words are coming from. they’re dropping from your lips like they’re rehearsed, with venom and confidence only he could get out of you. he chokes on a groan, hips moving like they have a mind of their own, “no— no, just you. i missed you. didn’t you miss me? fuck, our saturday nights?”
he’s smiling dazedly, so close to the edge he can practically taste it, but you yank his head away from you before letting go of his hair. “get up, wooyoung.”
you move your right leg back, enjoying the way his whole body folds towards you as you rip his pleasure away. he places his hands over his knees, leaning his weight forward as he stares up at you, “what? can you give me a second to catch my breath? i—”
“stand up,” you cut him off, stepping closer when he does as he’s told. “fuck me, and go home.”
he doesn’t need to be told twice, lips on yours in record time. it’s messy and full of unspoken frustration, but it’s yours. familiar in all the wrong ways as he strips out of his sweater.
the walk to your room is short, and he manages to tug your robe off your body before climbing over you on the mattress. you’re bare underneath, and he hums in approval as he tugs his slacks down, “i’m trying not to finish just from seeing you again.”
“shut up,” you lean back on your elbows, giving him a disapproving stare that only serves to humor him.
he frees himself from his boxer briefs, leaning down so that he’s lining up with your entrance. you take a deep breath in sheer anticipation, and he appeases you with a slow kiss, “you’re already so wet for me. you can take it, baby.”
you relax against the mattress as he continues kissing you, two fingers spreading you open for him. he slides between your folds a few times before pressing in with a moan against your lips.
“fuck, hold on,” he props himself up, watching as you hold your legs up for him. he screws his eyes shut, the view below him sending sparks of heat down his spine. “i’m close, from earlier.”
if anyone else were to finish prematurely with you, you would absolutely complain. but this was wooyoung, the man who would rather die than have a partner of his go around saying they were left unsatisfied.
so your legs come down, wrap around his waist, and pull until he’s buried in you to the hilt.
wooyoung’s eyes fly open and find yours, a small laugh tumbling out of his lips, “you’re… fuck, squeezing me like crazy. relax.”
“just fuck me already,” you retort, hands traveling up his toned torso, tracing the tattoo on his ribs, “it doesn’t matter.”
his brows pinch when one of your hands pulls him closer by the base of his neck, “i’m gonna come inside if you keep—”
“then do it,” you challenge, heart leaping when he wastes no time and begins to thrust into you shallowly.
a moan of his name slips past your lips as he adjusts his angle, thrusts becoming more pointed as his mouth sucks a mark into the underside of your jaw.
“i know,” he mutters against your skin, but the words sound more like provocation than comfort, “that’s it, baby, don’t run from it.”
your bare chest meets his when he hits the spot only he’s managed to find, and your head tips back at the intensity of the feeling, “you’re so good, right there.”
“yeah? you’re so pretty, i bet he wishes he knew this body like i do.” the words get lost somewhere in the heated space between you, and wooyoung picks up his pace. he brushes his lips against your cheek when you complain, “just a little more, yeah? i need…”
he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before you’re squeezing the sides of his neck hard enough to rip a whine from his throat. he only gives two more pumps before he collapses on you, panting against your neck.
a few moments pass before his weight comes off you, and he carefully pulls himself out. even as he’s softening, he twitches at the sight of your mixed arousals dripping out of you.
one of his hands holds the back of your thigh up, pushing it closer to your torso, as his other hand spreads you further.
a groan rumbles in his chest as he leans down, tongue licking a broad stripe up to your clit. he glances up to gauge your reaction, smiling when you immediately cover your mouth with your palm.
“uh-uh,” he tuts, kissing the inside of your thigh before climbing back over you. his larger hand holds your jaw as he kisses you, tongue swiping against yours. you can taste him and then yourself distinctly on his tongue, but the exchange muddles everything into one tangy mess. “see how good you taste with me? how good we taste together?”
the playful smile on his features reaches his eyes, and you’re almost convinced he isn’t aware how brutally those words made your heart twist. he pushes you up the bed when you nod in absentminded agreement, settling on his stomach with your legs thrown over his shoulders. “hurry, woo.”
“don’t rush me,” his hands pry your legs further, and when he’s satisfied, he places his strong forearm right over your waist. “i said i’d make it up to you, so i’m taking my time.”
he places a gentle kiss on your clit, the kind of action that had confused you just months earlier. it’d made you think your arrangement was much more than it ever was. even now, you couldn’t help but clench around nothing at the view.
“such a sensitive pussy,” he mumbles to himself, blowing air right on your center before diving in. the tip of his hooked nose presses against your clit as he uses his tongue to tease your entrance. “and so pretty, too.”
after so long without stimulation, your body suddenly feels like it’s on fire, abdomen muscles tensing desperately under his gaze. he laps you up eagerly, moaning when you do, sucking on your clit rhythmically.
he slows down when your breathing picks up, groaning at the desperate bucks of your hips.
“fuck, wooyoung, i was close,” you grumble, giving up on scooting closer to his mouth when his arm pushes you down.
he bites the plush skin of your thigh gently, meeting your gaze with a defiant glint, “i know, but it’ll feel better if i build it up.”
you shake your head in annoyance, not caring whether he’s right or not, “i don’t care. i wanna come.”
“you want to? or you need to?” he questions, slowly inching closer, until he’s close enough that you can feel his breath fan over you.
you know what he’s fishing for, the answer he’s pulled from you before. it means something completely different now, but you say it anyway. “i need you, wooyoung, please.”
“that’s it,” he praises, leaning back down to give you exactly what he knows you need. the pressure of two fingers curling right on that spot that makes your breathing tremble, his tongue brushing repetitive motions on your clit. “there’s my baby. so good for me.”
heat climbs up your back much quicker this time around, your jaw slack as you suck in quick breaths and exhale the moans you can’t suppress. your legs nearly close around his head, but he doesn’t stop, instead opting to hold his tongue out for you to use.
your hand rushes down to rest on the back of his head, pushing him impossibly closer, and he moans openly into you. the vibrations tip you over the edge as you orgasm with a force you hadn’t known before him. hot, white pleasure shoots through all of your nerves. your legs kick up, and your back arches all the way off the bed.
wooyoung continues licking stripes over your cunt as you catch your breath, enjoying the melody of his name dropping from your mouth. it takes the better half of a minute for your body to fully relax, and he rubs a soothing hand on the flesh of your ass while he waits.
when you finally come down, you feel exhausted, body limp against the sheets beneath you.
“i got you,” he whispers, getting up to make his way to your restroom. the clean towels were still where you kept them months back, and he wet one with warm water before making his way back to you.
he cleans you up gently, cooing when he brushes over a particularly sensitive spot just to see you jolt.
you sit up when he’s done, watching closely as he tucks himself back into his boxer briefs, “are you staying?”
he looks up, “do you want me to?”
your shoulders rise and fall, “it’s up to you.”
he considers the offer for a moment. he feels your stare, the way your eyes trace over his features like you’re seeing him for the first time.
slowly, he nods, dimples deepening with purpose, “yeah, sure.”
the wooyoung you knew never stayed the night. not once. if he was drunk, he’d call a ride. he never cared how late it was. he drew a line at actually sleeping in the same bed.
so your heart soars at the change. you almost mention how easy it would be to just put a label on what was already a relationship. but you decide to talk about it in the morning, when your eyes aren’t shutting involuntarily.
now, he lies back on your pillow, holding you close as your head rests on his shoulder. and when he’s sure your breathing has evened out, he places a kiss on the crown of your head.
reaching over the bed, careful not to disturb you, he grabs your phone. it’s cracked, but the password is the same, the one he’d memorized by looking over your shoulder.
he opens your photo library, scrolling down to the hidden folder. it’s what he expected, all videos of you and him, save for a few screenshots of important passwords.
he contemplates deleting them himself. brushes the thought away. that was for you to deal with.
then, he opens the camera app, making sure to get your face in frame as he snaps a picture. the screen loads as it attempts to take a clear picture in the dark. when it’s done, wooyoung checks it, and a satisfied smile carves into his features.
“cute,” he whispers to himself, catching himself staring at it for a beat too long.
from the start, it was clear how this would end. or more so, how he was going to end things. on his own accord, with his pride in tact.
yet the talk about stability and being tied down still linger in his head as he glances at your closed eyes. but wooyoung doesn't like doing things he doesn’t need to do, and a relationship is at the top of his list of things he doesn't need. he hardly even wants one as is.
it doesn’t matter how pretty you look knocked out on his chest, breath warming his skin.
you have options anyway.
wooyoung can only choose himself.
with a quick tap of his fingers, he’s opening your messages. he scrolls a bit before his eyes land on the contact he wants. seonghwa.
it only takes four clicks to send the picture he took. he doesn’t follow up with any text, sure that it speaks for itself.
and just as easily as he walked through your door that night, wooyoung slips out.
hes fucking crazy 😭😭😭😭😭😭 hes so fuckinf hot 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 i need him so bad im going insane. i love this fic so bad and the revamp had my dick hard and my toes curling I CANT BEKIEVEEEEEE I CANT BELIEVE after the phone call w cee i read the rest with my face like this 😧
tea u are so talented, thank u for writing my favorite version of wooyoung ever, i love him crazy & an asshole & morally so so wrong. i love u. ur brain. i need to kiss
🫧 mingi x fem!reader x wooyoung
🫧 im dabbling in watersports — this is not a fic to better my writing skills this is just me exploring a kink lol, all smut no plot ‼️ (this is basically me saying my bad if this isn’t great, tips and feedback do be appreciated tho. #scared)
🫧 that being said, smut minors dni, watersports!!! piss kink!!! piss drinking, they were drinking but not drunk, p in v, oral (both), unprotected creampie (my bad), threesome obvi, degradation, lmk if i missed anything, nasty shi below! | ➡️ wc ~5k | i love u @hyunsvngs
“if we’re gonna play this dumbass game with you, can you at least ask a good question?” your face already scrunched in annoyance morphed to sheer disgust when the aftertaste of your soju shot hit the back of your throat, making your body shake with a quick tremor. the sound that left your throat wasn’t any prettier than the face you made.
sitting in the middle of your living room, a coffee table separating the three of you littered with shot glasses and soju, you, mingi and wooyoung were now onto the games portion of your night. one bottle finished and another halfway there, wooyoung had suggested the idea, starting with truth or dare, which quickly turned into twenty questions. truth or dare was too childish, as per mingi, but any game played with soju on your tongue would end up raunchy, as if the three of you were fresh out of high school.
twenty questions at twenty five– easily raunchy. childish indeed. still fun.
wooyoung pouts, “okay, fine.” he smiles after a second of thought, mischievous and evil, the most wooyoung smile ever. his eyes dance between you and mingi, “what’s something you want to do but have never done?”
you and mingi answer simultaneously.
mingi, with his entire chest, “skydiving.”
you, without a moment to think of anything else, “watersports.”
mingi whips his head to the side to stare at you, eyes wide, jaw agape, utterly horrified. wooyoung breaks out in laughter, loud and obnoxious, his head dipping back as he clutches his stomach. all you could do was smile, genuinely amused, because the reactions you received were exactly what you assumed they’d be.
“watersports,” mingi reiterates, like he didn’t hear you right the first time. you nod, and he shakes his head like what he’s thinking couldn’t be what you’re thinking , “like—”
“piss, min,” wooyoung is breathless now, clutching his stomach, “she’s talking about pee.”
“you’re lying,” is the first thing mingi responds, almost defensively, but in his defense you’ve never once mentioned this to him in your months of sleeping together. your best-kept secret in the corner of your mind you thought was well guarded, you guess almost two bottles of soju had melted them down to nonexistent.
but you weren’t embarrassed. you weren’t scared. you shrugged, “not lying, just curious.”
“curious about pee?!” mingi’s eyes darted back and forth between you and wooyoung, the three of you sitting in a triangle around the circular coffee table, something you did often. one or two of your friends, sometimes even all eight of them were always accounted for on the weekends, usually in your living room, always with bottles of soju between you. routine.
maybe you felt a little bad, dropping this on mingi in front of wooyoung, even if you’re all friends and have been for years. you’d only been exclusively seeing each other for a month— or was it two? you’ve been sleeping together far longer, and to be fair, wooyoung asked.
“are you kink-shaming?” wooyoung teases, his voice almost whiny, “don’t tell me you’re skeeved out by pee. it’s natural!”
you didn’t know if the flush breaking across mingi’s cheeks was from the soju or the piss-bomb, but either way, his shy, pink cheeks were so fucking cute you wanted to squeeze them. squeeze him.
“i’m not skeeved out!” definitely defensive, mingi’s voice raised in pitch, the tips of his ears going red. your smile grew, a giggle slipped from your lips and his neck snapped to you, “you’ve never told me this before, i’m surprised. not skeeved.”
“sure,” wooyoung drags out his tease, leaning back into his arms, his palms planted on the floor behind him. “what’s the freakiest thing you’ve ever done, min?”
“ooh, nice question, woo,” you jut your chin at him and his brows wiggle in excitement, as ready for mingi’s answer as you were.
mingi’s lips purse, then flatten in a line, his eyes lifting to the ceiling as he thinks. your amusement grows the longer the gears turn in his head, your smile growing, almost as mischievous as the one that stayed permanently stamped on wooyoung’s lips.
“anal?” mingi’s eyebrows were raised, eyes dancing between you both, waiting for reassurance. as if you and wooyoung were the freak-judges. maybe right now, with mingi, you were.
“giving or receiving?” you ask, and wooyoung spits out the shot of soju he’d just taken, coughing through his laughter.
mingi’s eyes narrow, “giving.”
his eyes on you like that would have made your dick jump in your jeans, if you had one. baiting him like this, you never did it, when you were with your group of friends, you typically eased the blow of their teasing, or redirected it at someone else completely. but now, soju making your tummy warm and your ears hot, teasing him was too easy, and if he kept looking at you like that, all irritated and bothered…
you could only imagine his thoughts right now, what he was thinking, what he was planning. you wondered if maybe he was thinking about pissing on you, maybe you on him, if he would ask you for it, if he would do it to you without asking. you could feel your eyes flare as his pointed gaze struck daggers into your skin— why did it feel so good?
“that’s a tuesday,” you’re committed now. there’s a small, tiny inkling of fear licking at your spine— worry that he’d actually be mad at you, but you still can’t stop. “tell us something freaky. you know what, woo, what’s the freakiest thing you’ve ever done?”
without missing a beat, wooyoung answers, “i’ve fucked twins before.”
your jaw drops, “at the same time?”
wooyoung’s smile shifts to something prideful, “at the same damn time.”
“how is that freakier than pee?” mingi asks, tone completely serious, “did both twins pee on you?”
“worse,” wooyoung lifts his shot glass to mingi and instead of mingi lifting his own, he turns to you, a shred of genuine, unbridled fear in his eyes. your hand shoots to cover your mouth as a shocked, loud punch of laughter pushes past your lips.
“i don’t think i’m gonna ask any more questions,” mingi mutters as he takes his shot on his own, you catch the single drip of clear liquid as it pours down the corner of his lips. without thinking, you crawl over, a hand on his thigh for leverage, sticking out your tongue to lick up the droplet of soju before it spilled down to his jaw.
maybe two bottles of soju had ruined your ability to be socially aware, too. mingi’s doe eyes stare into you when you pull away, attempting to read you, to figure out what was happening in your brain. you, grinning, wistfully dazed, one half of your mind deep in the fantasy within your head, there wasn’t much going on up there for him to see.
“aish,” wooyoung mutters from the opposite side of the table, his neck craning, fingers lazily tapping over the green bottle, “is this gonna turn into a me-sitting-in-the-corner-and-watching kind of situation? or should i take my leave?”
mingi’s ears dance as his jaw flexes, he stares at you, still bent over, for a good second before turning his head to face wooyoung. he swallows before answering, “neither.”
your brows furrow, but wooyoung asks the question before your lips can part, “neither?”
“you both clearly think i’m some innocent, vanilla guy,” mingi gulps, his voice slightly shaky, he plants his palms on the hardwood beneath him and sighs. “if you’re gonna tease me about my freak level, then show me.”
“what the fuck,” you blurt the curse before his words sank in, sitting back on your calves, back straight. you meet wooyoung’s eye over the table and he stares back at you, his face a mirror to yours, brows furrowed, jaw agape, body rigid. turning to mingi, ignoring his stone-hard gaze, “what do you mean show you?”
“don’t act like you haven’t fucked before,” mingi blinks, “i know all the stories. show me what i’m missing.”
“i–” you start, but close your lips as soon as the word leaves your mouth. that is the last thing you expected him to say. you turn to wooyoung, who was staying much too quiet for comfort, his face had relaxed, his brows slightly furrowed, he was thinking about it. considering it. you gasped.
“you guys cannot be serious right now,” your words are paired with a nervous chuckle, “what are you suggesting? in very clear, plain language so my soju-brain can understand it, please.”
“he’s suggesting me fucking you,” wooyoung responds, words short, his eyes on mingi, not even sparing you a glance.
“i’m suggesting you piss on him, too, actually. or him piss on you, whatever your dirty ass mind has been fantasizing about,” mingi’s smile is warped– lopsided, casual, almost. like this was a tuesday for him.
your blood runs cold but your core burns, you didn’t think mingi was necessarily vanilla, but you never would have pinned him a voyeur. you were just teasing him, anyhow, you assumed wooyoung would eventually leave and you’d spend the night tangled between the sheets, maybe a little added strength from mingi because of your teasing. you and wooyoung were ancient history, anyways– he’d never agree to fucking you now, especially not in front of mingi.
“i’m down,” wooyoung shrugs, and the noise that leaves you is something between a shriek and a gasp, something strangled, something the complete opposite of wooyoung’s easily found agreement.
“are you insane?” your eyes bounce between them, both men smiling now, something was shared in their stares from across the coffee table, a silent conversation they did not let you in on. “are you both actually fucking insane? do i need to kick you out of my apartment?”
“come on,” mingi’s head tilts, a whine to his voice, needy, like he was the one fantasizing about this. “maybe if you’re good, i’ll piss on you, too.”
your lips part at the thought of him standing over you, tall, broad, cock in hand, a steady stream pouring directly into your mouth as you sat on your knees, hands folded over your lap politely, not spilling a drop. a fantasy you’ve kept locked away far too long.
your eyes slide to wooyoung, whose mischievous smirk was more apparent now than it’s ever been, his eyebrows raised, bait. you know that look, it means, are you too pussy? he’s used it on you a thousand times, but that was years ago, a lifetime ago.
your mouth runs dry. silence fills the room. you were sure they could hear your pounding heart.
“you’ve been drinking for a while now,” mingi’s voice is light, teasing, it makes you fidget, thumbs toying with one another in your lap. when did he gain the upper hand? you shouldn’t have gotten so close to him, he uses it to his advantage, leaning in until you can smell him, lips bent in a pout, “bet you’ll have to go soon, won’t you? wouldn’t you rather do it on wooyoung’s cock?”
your breath catches in your throat, mingi smiles. wooyoung groans from across the room. the pressure in your bladder was already there, as it usually is after a drop of liquor; he knows you too well.
“wanna watch him fuck you stupid, then i wanna clean up the mess,” mingi’s voice is low, velvety, it makes your body twitch. your neck cranes toward him, the scene playing through your mind too visceral, you completely soaked by them— it all goes straight to your core, a small whimper leaving your lips, exposing you.
you hear wooyoung’s quiet snicker from across the table, reading your thoughts, “you know her too well, min.”
mingi smiles at wooyoung and it’s one full of sheer pride, “wanna show me how well you know her, too?”
your entire body is hot, pulled so taut you might snap if they didn’t do something soon. wooyoung’s beside you in a moment without another word uttered, his warm palms cradling your cheeks, eyes flaring with hunger, standing over you on his knees. “woo,” you whine when all he does is stare at you, reading you like mingi had done minutes earlier.
“you want it? wanna piss on my cock?” his question is so fucking nasty your heart skips a beat.
you nodded without second thought, leaning upward to catch his lips, and he gives in by splitting yours open with his tongue. messy from the jump, he kissed you like he missed you, tongue dancing with yours, lips smacking as his hands found your waist, pushing your back down until it met the floor. you moaned into him, fingers curling in his hair, gripping at his roots the way you know he likes, ankles hooking around his back.
he groans, hips bucking into you. “fuck,” he mutters into your mouth and you smile, maybe you missed him, too.
mingi’s forgotten by the time wooyoung has your shirt over your head, but your eyes finally meet his again as wooyoung’s lips travel to your jawline, down your neck, his spit gathering at the base of your throat. mingi’s watching with parted, wet lips, furrowed brows, hungrier than you’ve ever seen him. he’s palming his cock over his sweats slowly, watching wooyoung devour your throat, eyes zeroed in on how wooyoung’s tongue travels down to the valley between your breasts, he curses under his breath when your bra meets your shirt upon the hardwood.
you whine as wooyoung’s lips catch one of your nipples, tongue swirling, making you arch into him, fingers still tangled in his roots. “fuck, woo, missed your mouth.”
he glances upward, amusement dancing in chocolate, his lips curve in a smile while his teeth bite down softly. you hiss, followed by a choked moan, hips bucking upward into his body that keeps you caged against the floor, he giggles, “knew you’d like that.”
mingi’s brows raise as he shimmies his sweats down his hips, you could see him mentally taking notes, already an entirely new world had been opened for him concerning you. your sex life with mingi wasn’t too daunting yet, quickies after parties or desperately in your bathroom while your friends were in your living room, tired sex at four in the morning after you’d both finished work, you hadn’t exactly opened up about many of your kinks, nor have you had the time to– until now.
wooyoung’s fingers in your waistband get your shorts and panties off your legs in one swift motion, your legs opening on command, chest heaving, bladder growing heavier by the minute. jaw clenching as he settles himself between your thighs, nerves spike in your gut, reality settling in that you’ve never done this before. excited, yes, but nervous about the unknown– it wasn’t as if all you’ve had to drink today was water.
eyelids fluttering as wooyoung’s nose makes contact with your clit, you’re reminded that neither have them, and you’d still drink them dry– both of them. your back arches as a lewd moan spills from your chest, wooyoung’s tongue slipping between your folds, lips sucking around your clit harshly. you had two hands in his hair, nails clawing at his scalp and he whined into you, hips jerking into the floor beneath him.
“missed tasting you, fuck,” he curses into your core, face buried so all you could see was the black hair on his head, “so fucking sweet.”
you cry out as his tongue flicks at your clit, working you into a rhythm, pleased when he feels your hips buck against his face after a few minutes of repetition. “woo,” you mutter nervously, the pressure in your tummy too heavy, more than an impending orgasm.
his eyes flick upward, cockily asking, “gonna cum already?”
“mhm,” you nod your head, chest rising and falling rapidly, “gotta pee.”
he licks his lips slowly, eyes sliding upward to mingi, who responds, “take it to the bedroom.”
standing up on shaky legs was hard enough, walking to your bedroom with your tummy so heavy was almost unbearable. you’re fidgeting when mingi eases you into his lap, the edge of your ass on the mattress with your back pressed to his chest, toes tapping against the comforter, fingers poking at his thighs. wooyoung settled between your legs, his jeans long gone, cock hard, red and leaking, standing tall against the muscular area between his hips. it’s been so long since you’ve seen him so bare, you bite your lip taking in the sight of his toned abdomen, his cock, feeling a form of nostalgia easily overtaken by arousal.
“so pretty,” wooyoung’s cock lands on the area just above your clit, using one knuckle of his pointer finger through your folds, spreading your wetness all over. you gasp, hips jerking, making his cock catch on your clit which elicits a moan straight from your gut. wooyoung smirks, “and so fucking desperate.”
mingi’s hands slide up your tummy, landing on your chest, your tits cradled in his callused palms, your head falls flat against him, mind muddled, too many sensations to focus on one. mingi tucks his head into your neck, his teeth catching on your earlobe, “how you feelin’, baby?”
you whine, nails clawing into his thighs, “gotta pee, wanna cum, want him inside.”
wooyoung spreads his cock along your folds slowly, just to make it all worse, and your body grows hotter, chest tighter. he notices the strain, the side of his lips curling upward, “gonna cry for it?”
“please,” you gasp out, hips bucking, and mingi takes your nipples between two fingers, pinching. you cry out, a desperate sound, irritation growing the more they ignored the tightness in your bladder, “please, wooyoung, fuck me.”
“a little more,” his cock catches on your entrance and your waterline fills with hot, wet tears, it was more than need now. if he didn’t split you open on his cock, if he didn’t let you empty yourself on him you were sure you’d explode.
“there you go,” mingi cooes, his breath hot on your ear as a single tear spills down your cheek. he leans closer to lick it up just as wooyoung starts pushing inside, and the moan that leaves you is so loud you were sure the entire building heard you.
“still so fucking tight,” wooyoung shakes his head, his arms clinging onto the headboard behind mingi, his figure looming over the both of you. “open up for me baby, can’t fuck you like this.”
“can’t!” you whimper, shaking your head, “gotta– gotta pee s’bad.”
the smirk on wooyoung’s face is downright malicious as he glances over your head at mingi, your eyes rolling back as he pulls out again, fucking back into you in one quick motion. your body is locked, fingers slicing crescents into mingi’s thighs, bottom lip tucked tight between your teeth, you need release.
mingi drops a hand from your chest down between your thighs, two fingers spreading your folds, wooyoung’s hips jerk when he feels mingi’s fingers on either side of his cock, the sensation making you feel tighter, his moan is strangled, one hand dropping from the headboard to land on mingi’s shoulder.
mingi keeps his face tucked into your neck, “relax baby, let him fuck you, then you can let go, okay?”
your moans are muffled by your lip stuffed into your mouth, but you try relaxing your muscles, and wooyoung’s sigh of relief is immediate. “yes,” wooyoung moans, high pitched, languid, “so good, missed this pussy, can’t wait to feel her soak me.”
you clench around him and he curses, mingi uses his hand between your thighs to circle around your clit, and wooyoung picks up his rhythm while his strangled whimpers tangle with the sound of his hips smacking yours. faster, harder, your back is repeatedly bumping into mingi’s hard chest as wooyoung fucks into you ruthlessly, the perfect pace. tears are streaming down your cheeks now, cries pouring from your lips, but mingi licks up every single one, muttering praise into your ears, how you’re taking wooyoung so well, how good you look beneath him…
the pressure is too much. how wooyoung drills into your cervix over and over, your cries grow in pitch, short breaths to focus on not spilling over, the tight pull in your tummy was too overwhelming, you were too full.
“go ahead, baby,” mingi’s words are coated in candy, sweet and encouraging, “make a mess for me, make a mess on wooyoung’s cock.”
you tried– tried letting the band snap, tried letting go, the mental block was rigid. tears pour down your cheeks, babbles of god knows what leaving your lips, your head too fuzzy to focus.
“come on,” wooyoung encourages roughly, angling his hips so his cock slams against that spongy spot inside you, and your body gives you no choice but to give in.
relief isn’t the word for the amount of liquid that pours out of you every time wooyoung pulls back. each thrust is accompanied by a spray, soaking wooyoung’s abdomen, the sheets below you, your thighs, mingi’s thighs– you were everywhere, a sopping puddle below you, covering the two men who were sandwiching you. a high pitched shriek rips from your throat in alleviating embarrassment, you can’t believe you were doing this, you can’t believe this was happening–
“oh my god,” mingi’s groan is so low and raspy it zaps up your spine like electricity.
a slower stream now, wooyoung’s moans are looped together as he keeps fucking into you, piss still spraying him, his eyes stayed zeroed in on where you met. “baby,” wooyoung gasps, picking up speed again as mingi’s circles on your clit grow tighter, “do that again, you’ve gotta have more in you, fuck– give me more, please, soak me, holy fuck.”
“so fucking dirty,” mingi whispers into your ear, you were barely conscious enough to hear him, brain so clouded you were somewhere distant, knowing nothing but the pleasure they gave you, “you loved that, didn’t you? wanna cum around his cock after you just pissed all over it?”
you moan out a yes, the word slurred into sounds of lust, the vibration of his chuckle bleeds into your back. “cum for me,” wooyoung urges, “i’m so close, cum with me, c’mon. missed this pussy coming around my cock.”
your body locks as the pressure blows, soaking wooyoung all over again as your orgasm lights you up like a christmas tree. strangled moans leave your lips as you go limp against mingi, body spent, pussy still fucking leaking like you’ve been drinking for three days straight.
“holy shit,” wooyoung croaks before he pushes all the way inside, hips stuttering until rough, staggered breaths push through his lips, ropes of cum filling you up. you moan with him at the feeling, the fullness, the wet, sloppy sound of his hips hitting yours— it’s embarrassing and dizzying and so fucking hot.
“that was so fucking hot,” mingi is heaving behind you, you’d barely noticed until now, same with how his cock is pressed into your back. kissing the side of your head, he praises, “good job baby, you did so good for us.”
you’re mumbling again, reaching for wooyoung who leans down and presses a kiss to your lips. “so sexy,” he whispers against your mouth, “wanna taste you.”
you gasp as he pulls out, immediately laying on the wet mattress to lick a stripe up your folds, quick, as if he was running out of time. mingi shuffles from behind you, letting you lay flat on your back, crawling around you just to lift one of your legs, making room for himself.
so nasty, so absolutely fucking disgusting the way they were ravishing you, as if you didn’t just piss yourself, as if wooyoung didn’t just come inside you. they held you close, one of their arms hooked around one of your thighs so you couldn’t pull away, stuck there, a whimpering mess, overstimulated and spent.
“let me taste,” your voice is raw, “my turn to taste you.”
the two of them stare up at you from between your thighs and you swear you’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
weaker now, your voice small, embarrassed, you squeak, “‘m thirsty.”
they move in such synchronicity you wonder if they’d planned this all along. mingi moving to the bathroom, turning on the shower, wooyoung scooping your limp body in his arms to bring you there. he plants you on the toilet while the shower heats up, and you’re pouting, confused.
“thought you were gonna pee on me? why are we getting in the shower?”
“it’s a special shower,” mingi plants a kiss on your forehead, smiling softly.
wooyoung giggles from behind him, “a golden one.”
the two of them, so opposite. now standing naked before you, you take in their differences, mingi’s muscle mass compared to wooyoung’s lanky, toned build. even personality, where mingi was soft and reserved, wooyoung was blunt and unforgiving, they made the perfect pair. you wondered how you didn’t think of this sooner.
you’ve never been so thankful for your spacious shower until now. on your knees, water hitting your back, both of them standing before you, they looked so fucking huge it made your thighs clench. with your hands folded on your lap, eyelashes fluttering, jaw agape, you tried your hardest to take in every detail as they pumped their cocks in front of you.
“you want it?” mingi stared down at you, brows raised, lips parted, the stature of someone who practiced dominance often.
you nodded profusely, “please, please give it to me, want your piss, wanna taste it.”
“so fucking disgusting,” wooyoung chokes on his laugh, “never in my life would have expected you to be on your knees in front of me, begging me to piss on you.”
the degrading words only made your cunt throb.
“what other nasty shit do you have hidden up there?” wooyoung asks before cutting himself off with a low groan, fingers squeezing his cock, “open up.”
your jaw is pried open as he squeezes the base of his cock, a steady stream pouring from the tip, you catch it swiftly, moaning as the warmth of it fills your mouth. you slip a hand between your parted thighs, eyes rolling back as he moans desperately, swallowing every time he fills your mouth.
when his stream is reduced to droplets, mingi grabs you by the hair, pulling you towards him instead, cursing when your hands brace against his thighs. he holds you by the cheeks as your lips wrap around his cock, grinning, “my dirty girl, fuck. take it, and don’t waste a fucking drop.”
one of your hands slides down between your thighs again as he fills your mouth up fast. sucking down every last drop, you’re moaning around him, and when he stops pissing you begin bobbing your head, tongue wrapped against the underside of him, listening to every whiney moan that leaves his throat.
“fuck yes, just like that,” his chin dips back, one hand in your hair, “drink my cum like you drank my piss, so fucking nasty.”
you take him as deep as you can, nose pressing against the patch of hair at the base of him, and a strangled noise leaves his throat as his hips stutter against you, thrusting slightly, gagging you.
“take it,” he warns, then whines, “take it all, baby.” his load shoots down your throat, you taste the saltiness, much like the stream of piss, you think he might have still been pissing, too. but you take it all until he’s pulling you off of him by the hair, then lifting you until you’re standing; if you could call it standing, the way you’re limp in his arms.
wooyoung is behind you in a flash, helping you up, holding you steady.
“jesus christ,” you mutter, head lolling back against wooyoung’s chest, and the two men chuckle, wooyoung’s hands squeezing your hips once.
blinking your eyes open to see mingi, he’s already grabbing your body wash, eyes focused on you. he lifts a brow when he notices your gaze, “how was it? everything you fantasized about?”
your lazy grin tells him enough. his head drops in a low chuckle and wooyoung presses a kiss to the side of your head, mumbling, “i don’t remember you being so fucking nasty.”
you shrug, tilting your head to look at him, his wet hair splattered across his face, eyes warm, comforting. “you seemed to be into it.”
“you pissed on my cock, who wouldn’t be into that?”
both of your heads turn to mingi, who’s eyes bounce between you like you were putting him on the spot. “hey,” he tilts his head in defeat, arms lathered in sticky dates bubbles falling to his sides, “i never said i wasn’t into it.”
your smile grows, and the one on mingi’s face matches yours, “i also never said this was a one time thing.”
unscripted, the podcast that talks about everything sex, is the bane of wooyoung’s existence. he hates her snarky voice, her tips that he can guarantee are baseless, he hates that all of his friends are jumping on the fucking bandwagon when wooyoung can give them the same goddamn advice from experience. never in a million years would he guess that the person behind the voice, the girl in a sexless, boring, long-term relationship, is you.
summary: she was a one night stand until he saved her life now they’re bound for eternity
warning: dom yunho, sub reader, oral, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, spitting, choking, squirting, breeding, creampie, mentions of death
genre: dark romance, supernatural, smut
pairing: prince of hell yunho x afab human reader
word count: 6.1k
chp 2
masterlist
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The apartment door practically slammed open. The hinges creaking loudly in the old exterior as rain poured outside and thunderous booms echoed as flashes of lightning decorated the sky. It was as if mother nature herself was lashing out at what was happening.
“Fuck…” His lips moved to her neck as tossed his jacket off and lifted her, pinning her to the wall. “I need to taste you.” Normally, Yunho wouldn’t beg. Being a 400 year old demon prince, he’s used to getting what he wanted but something about her…. he’d drop to his knees if he had to. “No one is stopping you.” She smirked and a deep, primal growl rumbled from Yunho’s chest the second those words left her lips and his grip on her thighs tightened, fingers digging into her thighs as he pulled her harder against him. “Where’s your bedroom?” he demanded, voice low and rough like gravel dragged over silk.
“Down the hall… across from the bathroom,” she breathed, barely finishing before he was already moving. He carried her like she weighed nothing, long strides eating up the distance while she stayed pressed to his chest and her legs locked around his waist. The door to her bedroom swung open with a kick and he dropped her onto the mattress and started following her down immediately to claim her mouth again in a bruising kiss as his hands worked fast but deliberately to yank the ripped jean shorts down her legs and tossing them aside before he peeled the black tank top she had on upward, exposing smooth skin inch by inch. The bra came next, unclasped with a flick of his fingers, not that she could see that, and dragged it down her arms.
Yunho didn’t rush the reveal. He lowered his mouth to her breasts, kissing the swell of each one before his tongue dragged slow, wet circles around her nipples. He sucked one between his lips, teeth grazing just enough to make her arch, then switched to the other, nipping and leaving faint red marks that would darken later as his hands slid under her, lifting her body higher up the bed until her head rested against the pillows. “Ride me,” he growled, the command vibrating through the air between them and in one swift motion he hooked his fingers into her panties and stripped them off before dragging her forward until her thighs straddled his face.
He held her there with an iron grip on her hips, mouth opening wide to devour her pussy. His tongue thrust deep inside her without warning, fucking into her with wet, obscene sounds while he growled against her. “Fuck, this pussy… best I’ve ever tasted,” he rasped between licks, the words carrying centuries of experience she couldn’t possibly understand. He sucked her clit, tongue flicking rapidly until her thighs shook and she came hard on his face but Yunho didn’t let her lift off. He kept her pinned, licking every drop clean with long, slow strokes until she whimpered from oversensitivity. Only then did he release her, pulling her down his body while his mouth trailed kisses across her stomach and sides.
He sat up just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, then shoved his pants and underwear down, kicking his shoes off in the process and let her look. Her eyes dropped immediately to his dick, thick, heavy, and already leaking at the tip. It twitched under her gaze, veins prominent along the length. She reached for him without thinking, sliding off the bed to kneel between his legs, reaching and wrapping her hand around the base, stroking upward in a slow glide before her tongue followed the same path, licking from balls to tip with deliberate patience.
She barely had time to open her mouth before Yunho’s hand caught her jaw. “Open,” he ordered and she obeyed, watching as he leaned down and spat directly onto her tongue and watching her swallow the offering before he released her and she dove back in, lips stretching around his dick as she took him deeper, pulling off only to drag her tongue over his balls, sucking one gently before returning to fuck her own mouth on him. Spit ran down her chin, the wet sounds filling the room along with his low groans but just as his breathing grew ragged, Yunho pulled her off by the hair.
He dragged her back onto the bed, kissing her hard while his hand slipped between her legs. One finger pushed inside her soaked pussy, curling against her walls. “So fucking wet… all for me.” He pulled his finger free and held it up between them and she leaned in without hesitation, sucking it clean making Yunho’s grin sharpen. “Good girl.” She kissed him again, desperate now. “I need you inside me.” Another growl tore from his throat before he flipped her onto her stomach, one hand running down the length of her spine before gripping her ass hard enough to leave prints.
His dick slid between her cheeks, dragging slowly, then lower to tease her clit with the head. Then without further warning he thrusted in deep in one smooth stroke, burying himself to the hilt making her cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets as her walls stretched around him, clenching tight as Yunho moaned low, hips already rolling. “Fucking made for me,” he hissed, starting slow and deep before gradually increasing the pace. Her begging came soon after, broken pleas, “harder….. please…. faster…” and he gave it to her, pounding into her with bruising force, the bed frame slamming against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts.
One hand fisted in her hair, yanking her upright against his chest and he held her there, fucking up into her relentlessly while his free hand slid around to rub her clit. The orgasm hit her hard making her shake violently, screaming as she squirted around him. But once again Yunho didn’t stop. He kept driving into her through the aftershocks until a second rushed climax tore through her, leaving her limp and gasping. He eased her down onto the mattress, pulling out only to flip her onto her back, eyes raking over her flushed body, settling on her soaked pussy. His thumb brushed gently over her swollen clit. “Can you still keep going?”
Breathless, she met his gaze. “If you don’t get back inside me and come… you can go to hell.” Yunho’s grin widened, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. She had no idea how literal that statement was. He spread her thighs wide, tapping his dick against her sensitive clit a few times. “Knock knock,” he teased, voice dripping with heat before he sank back inside her in one long thrust and her legs wrapped around his waist instantly, pulling him deeper.
He moved slower at first, savoring the tight heat of her and the way her walls clenched him, one hand sliding up to wrap around her throat and her own hands followed, gripping his wrist as he began pounding into her again. She squirted again, the wet gush soaking his him and the sheets beneath them making Yunho groan in approval, hips never faltering. “I’m gonna have to have you again… and again… and again… fuck…” He was pussy drunk, completely addicted to the way she clenched around him, to every sound she made. How she begged him to come inside her, voice hoarse and desperate making Yunho tighten his fingers just slightly around her throat. “Yeah? You want me to breed you? Ruin you for anyone else?”
He released her neck and folded her legs back into a deep mating press, folding her nearly in half. The new angle let him drive even deeper, pounding into her with brutal precision and all she could do was whimper his name, overwhelmed and crying from the intensity as her final orgasm crashed through her just as Yunho buried himself to the hilt and came hard, flooding her with him and stayed locked inside her through every pulse, grinding deep until he was empty.
When he finally collapsed beside her, both of them were breathless, bodies slick with sweat as she curled into his chest without thinking and he pulled her closer, already feeling the hunger stir again despite the exhaustion. They were ruined completely, thoroughly and already wanting more.
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Monday arrived wrapped in a deceptively perfect California afternoon. The storm that had rattled Los Angeles for two nights and had vanished without a trace, leaving behind endless blue skies and sunlight that bounced off the glass towers downtown. Traffic crawled below in its usual symphony of impatient horns, helicopters drifting lazily overhead chasing whatever celebrity scandal had become today’s headline, and somewhere down on Sunset Boulevard, people carried on as though the world had never stopped spinning.
From the floor to ceiling windows of a luxury penthouse overlooking the city, Yunho watched it all in silence. He’d owned the apartment for nearly seventy years. Before that, it had belonged to another building entirely. Before that, there had been nothing but empty hills. He’d watched Los Angeles grow upward one decade at a time until the skyline barely resembled the city he’d first wandered into centuries ago.
His fingers rested loosely around a crystal glass filled with whiskey, though he’d barely touched it. The amber liquid caught the afternoon light as he leaned one shoulder against the window, silver hair falling across his forehead. He looked every bit the successful businessman any human would expect to find living in a place like this. Only the faint pulse of infernal magic humming beneath his skin betrayed what he truly was.
His thoughts, much to his irritation, had wandered somewhere else entirely however. A tiny apartment. Rain hammering against old windows. A woman with absolutely no sense of self preservation. He could still hear her voice after she’d told him to go to hell if he didn’t get back inside her and the corner of his mouth twitched upward despite himself. “Ironic,” he muttered beneath his breath. Four hundred years. Thousands of faces. Kings. Queens. Artists. Warriors. Lovers whose names had long since been forgotten by history. Yet somehow… the woman who worked nights at a club in Los Angeles had managed to occupy more of his thoughts in forty eight hours than most people had in decades.
Ridiculous.
He pushed away from the window, draining the rest of the whiskey before setting the glass on the marble counter. He should’ve gone back already. There wasn’t any reason to remain on Earth. Not really…….
a familiar ripple rolled through the room, invisible to any human eye as the air bent inward as though reality itself had exhaled. Yunho didn’t bother turning around. Instead he sighed. “Let me guess…” he said dryly. “Dad thinks I’ve been up here too long again?”
A soft chuckle answered him. “You always know it’s me.”
Yunho finally looked over his shoulder to the demon standing in the middle of the penthouse as though he’d always belonged there. Seonghwa. Unlike Yunho, Seonghwa made no effort to pretend humanity fascinated him. Everything about him carried quiet refinement. His black coat fell perfectly over tailored clothes, not a wrinkle to be found, and his posture remained impossibly straight. There was an ageless elegance to him, the kind earned only after centuries of existing. Six hundred years had sanded away any impulsiveness he might’ve once possessed, leaving behind someone whose calm could make even the oldest demons uncomfortable. He was one of the few beings Lucifer trusted without reservation. Which, in Hell, was saying something.
Yunho folded his arms across his chest. “So?”
“So…” Seonghwa replied with the ghost of a smile, “Lucifer doesn’t particularly care how long you’ve been on Earth.”
“He doesn’t?”
“No.”
“Huh.”
“He does, however, require your assistance.”
“There it is.”
Seonghwa ignored the comment with practiced ease. “There’s a man in Laguna Beach.” Yunho groaned before Seonghwa had even finished. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I literally know what you’re about to say.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“He wants fame.”
“He does.”
“He thinks selling his soul is easier than developing talent.”
“He does.”
Yunho pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate these.” Seonghwa’s lips threatened another smile. “I know.”
“They’re always the same.”
“They usually are.”
“They never ask for something interesting.”
Seonghwa tilted his head slightly. “What would you consider interesting?” Yunho walked toward the kitchen, opening the refrigerator more out of habit than necessity before closing it again. “I don’t know. World peace. The cure for cancer. Maybe someone wants to become the greatest violinist in history.”
“And instead?”
“They want followers.”
“Millions of them.”
“They want money.”
“Lots of it.”
“They want everyone to love them.”
“And nobody ever specifies why.”
Seonghwa gave a single approving nod. “You’ve conducted enough bargains.”
“I’ve conducted too many.” Silence settled between them for a moment before Yunho glanced toward the skyline again. “What’s his name?” Seonghwa reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a small leather bound book. Not paper. Human skin. The pages turned on their own before stopping halfway through and he glanced down briefly. “Ethan Holloway.” Yunho sighed as Seonghwa started reading. “Twenty seven. Aspiring musician. Convinced social media algorithms are personally conspiring against him.” Yunho looked at him flatly. “You’re making that last part up.”
“I wish I were.”
A reluctant laugh escaped Yunho before he shook his head. “And what exactly does his infernal majesty need from me? Surely someone this… uninspired could be handled by a lesser collector.”
“He requested you.”
That made Yunho pause. “He… requested me?”
“He specifically asked for the Prince of Hell.”
Now that was unusual. Humans almost never knew enough to make requests like that. Yunho’s expression sharpened ever so slightly. “Why?” Seonghwa closed the ledger. “Because he believes the Devil’s son grants better bargains. And because the internet has become… surprisingly creative.”
Yunho stared at him. “You’re telling me conspiracy forums have reached Hell.”
“They’ve reached everyone.”
For the first time that afternoon, genuine amusement lit Yunho’s face. “That’s unfortunate.”
“It truly is.”
Yunho slipped on a black jacket draped over the back of a chair, adjusting the cuffs with practiced ease. “Fine.” His keys disappeared into his pocket. “I’ll meet our future celebrity.” Seonghwa gave a single nod before adding, almost casually, “And afterward…”
“Hm?”
“Lucifer would like you to return home.”
Yunho hesitated only briefly before looking toward the glittering city stretched beneath the afternoon sun. Something in his chest resisted the idea. He couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t duty keeping him here. It wasn’t curiosity. At least… that’s what he kept telling himself as his gaze drifted, unbidden, toward the neighborhood where one very ordinary woman would probably be getting ready for another shift at the club in a few hours and frowned. “Yeah,” he murmured quietly, more to himself than Seonghwa. “Afterward.”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Lunch with Tiffany was never cheap. That was the first thought that crossed Y/N’s mind as she stepped out onto the rooftop terrace overlooking downtown Los Angeles, one hand shielding her eyes from the bright October sun while the hostess led them toward a table near the glass railing. Six months ago, she’d have talked Tiffany out of it entirely. Today, she’d stopped trying. Tiffany had expensive taste, an appreciation for rooftop restaurants with menus that didn’t list prices until the bill came, and an irritating habit of insisting she was treating whenever Y/N complained.
The city stretched endlessly beyond them, sunlight glinting off skyscrapers that seemed close enough to touch. Down below, traffic crawled through the streets in familiar LA fashion, horns occasionally drifting upward on the warm breeze. It was almost impossible to believe that for two nights rain had flooded the streets and thunder had rattled windows hard enough to wake half the city. Y/N slid into her chair and opened the menu for all of three seconds before immediately closing it again. “Every single time you bring me somewhere like this,” she muttered, setting it back on the table, “I become painfully aware that we do the exact same job and somehow have wildly different bank accounts.”
Tiffany didn’t even bother looking up from across from her as she adjusted the oversized sunglasses resting on top of her red hair. “The difference is I don’t buy coffee every morning.” No. The difference was her daddy was a big time lawyer and gave her money whenever she wanted.
“I buy one coffee.”
“You buy three coffees.”
“They’re emotional support coffees.”
“They’re financial mistakes.”
“They’re necessities.”
“They’re why you’re still living in that shoebox apartment.”
Y/N clicked her tongue. “I liked you better five minutes ago.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Fair.”
The server appeared to take their drink orders before disappearing again, leaving the two women alone beneath the shade of a cream colored umbrella. For a few minutes the conversation stayed comfortably ordinary, bouncing from work gossip to complaints about Saturday night’s crowd at the club. They laughed about one of the bartenders nearly dropping an entire tray of drinks on a bachelor party, rolled their eyes over a regular customer who’d once again insisted he knew the owner and briefly debated whether the new DJ had somehow managed to make every song sound exactly the same.
Then Tiffany’s expression changed. It was subtle. One eyebrow lifted and her smile turned knowing as she folded her hands together on the table and looked directly at Y/N. “So…” Y/N sighed before Tiffany had even finished the word. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I absolutely do.”
Tiffany leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Then answer it.”
“I’m not answering a question you haven’t asked.”
“You’ve been brushing it off for two days.”
Y/N reached for the glass of water the server had just set down, taking a long drink that accomplished absolutely nothing except delaying the inevitable. “I haven’t been brushing anything off.”
“You disappeared Saturday night.”
“I left.”
“You left,” Tiffany repeated slowly, “with the hot blonde.” Y/N stared into her water for another second before finally letting out an exaggerated sigh. “His name was Yunho.” Tiffany blinked once. Then twice. Then pointed a finger across the table like she’d just solved the easiest mystery of her life. “You slut.” Y/N rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Oh, please.”
“You fucked him.”
Y/N opened her mouth to deny it but instead she bit down on her bottom lip and the corners of her mouth betrayed her almost immediately, a grin creeping across her face despite every attempt to suppress it making Tiffany’s eyes widen. “Oh.” Y/N looked away toward the skyline, shaking her head to herself. “Oh,” Tiffany repeated, this time with enough realization in her voice to make Y/N laugh quietly under her breath as Tiffany gasped dramatically, one hand flying to her chest. “Oh… he gave you the good dick.”
Y/N nearly choked on her water. “Oh my God,” she hissed between laughs, looking around to make sure nobody nearby had heard. “Would you keep your voice down?”
“I knew it.”
“You knew nothing.”
“I know that smile.”
“There is no smile.”
“There is a massive smile.”
Y/N rubbed a hand over her face, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the amusement away. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re annoying.”
“I’m still right.”
Y/N let out another sigh, this one quieter, before resting her elbows on the table. “It wasn’t supposed to be… memorable.”
“But?”
“But…” A small laugh escaped her. “He was…” She searched for the word. “Different.” Tiffany didn’t interrupt this time. “He actually listened when I talked. Like… genuinely listened. Didn’t spend the whole night trying to impress me. Didn’t brag about himself. Didn’t act like buying me a drink meant I owed him something.” She absentmindedly traced the condensation on her water glass with her fingertip. “We just… talked.”
“And then?”
“And then we went back to my place.”
Tiffany nodded knowingly. “And?”
Y/N shook her head with a quiet groan. “And now I can’t stop comparing him to every other guy I’ve ever slept with, which is incredibly inconvenient.” A laugh burst out of Tiffany before she reached across the table and patted Y/N’s hand. “Honey…”
“What?”
“I don’t think your problem is that the sex was good.”
Y/N frowned.
“I think your problem is that you actually liked him.”
Y/N immediately scoffed. “No.”
“No?”
“It was one night.”
“But?”
“There isn’t a but.”
Tiffany simply gave her a look and Y/N held it for exactly three seconds before looking away toward the skyline again. “He is probably the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” she admitted under her breath and hesitating a moment before admitting. “And definitely the best sex I’ve ever had.” Tiffany leaned back in her chair wearing the most self satisfied grin imaginable. “I knew it.”
“I hate that you knew it.”
“No,” Tiffany said with a laugh as their lunch finally arrived, setting steaming plates between them. “You hate that some ridiculously gorgeous stranger walked into your life for one night… and somehow ruined every man who comes after him.”
Y/N reached for a fry, pointing it accusingly across the table. “I am never telling you anything again.”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The black charger purred to a stop, the engine falling quiet beneath the distant chorus of traffic and the occasional impatient blare of a horn. Yunho stepped out a second later, shutting the driver’s door with a soft click before adjusting the cuff of his black jacket. The afternoon sun hung high overhead, warming the sidewalks just enough to erase any lingering memories of the storm. His day had been, thankfully, uneventful. As expected. Ethan Holloway had proven to be every bit the cliché Seonghwa had promised.
The aspiring musician had answered the knock on his apartment door with bloodshot eyes, two days’ worth of stubble, and the unmistakable scent of desperation clinging to him stronger than cheap whiskey ever could. Yunho hadn’t even bothered pretending to be human for long. One moment he’d been standing in the cramped Laguna Beach apartment. The next… his body dissolved into a swirling cloud of black smoke that rolled across the living room floor like ink spilled into water before reforming directly behind the stunned man again. The glamour had slipped just enough. The polished black horns curling from either side of his head, eyes black. A smile that was just a little too sharp. Humans always believed in the impossible right before they signed their souls away.
The contract had appeared between his fingers with a flick of his wrist and Ethan had barely read a single sentence. “You’ll make me famous?”
“I will.”
“Worldwide?”
“If that’s what you desire.”
“And all I have to do is sign?”
Yunho had smiled. “Everyone always asks that question after they’ve already decided.” The pen touched the paper and infernal ink spread across the page. The bargain sealed itself with a pulse of crimson light before vanishing into black embers. Another soul accounted for. Another lifetime traded for a dream. Yunho had offered a polite nod, dissolved once more into smoke, and reappeared beside his car overlooking downtown Los Angeles before Ethan had even realized he’d forgotten to ask what happened when his time eventually ran out.
People rarely cared about consequences while they still believed they had decades left to worry about them. Now he intended to reward himself. He glanced across the street toward the restaurant, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as he slipped his keys into his pocket and stepped away from his car, waiting at the crosswalk as the pedestrian signal remained stubbornly red. Then… he felt it. Not heard. Not saw. Felt. Ancient magic brushing against his senses like the first cold breeze before a winter storm.
Yunho’s smile faded as he slowly turned his head and saw standing perfectly still on the sidewalk directly outside the restaurant was a woman dressed in robes darker than midnight itself. No human acknowledged her existence. People walked around her without realizing they were doing it. A businessman passed so close his shoulder should’ve collided with hers, yet somehow drifted harmlessly aside at the last possible second as though reality itself refused to allow contact. Her hands rested calmly before her. Her hood was lowered with dark hair framing a face that looked neither young nor old. At her side rested the long obsidian handle of a scythe.
A Reaper.
Yunho exhaled through his nose. “Well.” The Reaper’s eyes shifted toward him with no surprise in them. Only recognition as Yunho shoved both hands into the pockets of his coat before glancing toward the restaurant, then back at her, a snort escaping him. “Please tell me this place isn’t going to burn down.” The Reaper remained silent. “At least not until I get my order,” he continued with a dramatic sigh. “They have my favorite fries here.”
The reaper remained silent until, almost imperceptibly, one corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile but more…. the acknowledgment of a joke she’d heard from him a hundred times before. “You always make light of it.”
“I’ve had four centuries to work on my material.”
“And it hasn’t improved.”
“Ouch.” The pedestrian light changed and people urged into the crosswalk around them. Neither immortal moved as Yunho tilted his head slightly. “So…”
“So.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re standing outside a restaurant in the middle of the afternoon.”
“I am.”
“Which means somebody inside has an appointment.”
“Yes.”
“Soon?”
She nodded once and Yunho sighed again, this time with genuine disappointment. “Damn.” His stomach chose that exact moment to remind him why he’d stopped in the first place and he looked longingly toward the restaurant. “Any chance I can still grab the fries first?”
“No.”
“Cruel.”
“It’s my profession.”
“I thought your profession was escorting souls.”
“I can do both.”
Yunho clicked his tongue. “I liked you better three hundred years ago.”
“You’ve never liked me.”
“I tolerated you more enthusiastically.”
For the first time, something resembling amusement flickered across the reaper’s otherwise unreadable face before it vanished almost immediately and her gaze drifted toward the restaurant entrance. Yunho followed it, though from where he stood all he could see was the steady stream of patrons coming and going beneath the awning. Then the first tremor. It was so slight that most people mistook it for a passing truck but Yunho didn’t.
The vibration rolled beneath his polished shoes like something enormous had shifted beneath the earth itself. The pavement quivered once, barely enough to ripple the puddle collected near the curb after the storm, before settling again into uneasy stillness as his head lifted. But the reaper didn’t move. She simply watched the restaurant with the same unreadable expression she’d worn since he’d arrived. “That wasn’t normal,” Yunho murmured.
“It has begun.”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Three floors above the street, Y/N and Tiffany had just stepped away from their table. Lunch was over, the bill reluctantly paid after Y/N spent a solid minute complaining about the price of fries that somehow cost eighteen dollars. “I’m telling you,” she muttered as they crossed the rooftop patio toward the stairwell. “If somebody serves me ketchup in a porcelain bowl one more time, I’m starting a riot.” Tiffany laughed, nudging her shoulder. “You still ate all the fries.”
“They were really good.”
“They always are.”
Y/N pulled open the heavy stairwell door, the cool concrete replacing the warmth of the rooftop as they began making their way down. They’d barely reached the first landing when the second tremor hit and the entire stairwell lurched sideways with a deafening groan of twisting steel. “What the….” The lights flickered violently and concrete dust rained from the ceiling as a deep, thunderous rumble rolled through the building, growing louder by the second.
The handrail shook beneath Y/N’s grip then everything began moving. The floor. The walls. The stairs. The entire building swayed with terrifying force as people screamed. “It’s an earthquake!” someone yelled somewhere below and Y/N’s eyes widened. “Tiff!”
“I’m here!”
She grabbed Tiffany’s wrist without thinking. “We have to get out. Now!” The two women stumbled down the stairs together as the building bucked beneath them. Every step became a fight for balance. Somewhere above them, glass exploded and the sound echoed through the stairwell as a woman cried and someone else shouted for their child.
The shaking only intensified as they burst through the second floor exit into the restaurant below and into complete chaos. Tables overturned. Wine bottles shattered across the floor. Ceiling lights swung wildly overhead as people shoved toward every visible exit, trampling chairs beneath their feet in blind panic. “This way!” Y/N shouted over the noise, still pulling Tiffany behind her as another violent jolt ripped through the structure making a support beam overhead crack with a sound like a gunshot.
The floor dipped beneath their feet as a section of reinforcement steel tore free from the ceiling, driven downward with horrifying force. Y/N barely registered the movement. One second Tiffany was beside her. The next….. the beam crashed between them and the impact threw Y/N backward as splintered wood and concrete erupted through the dining room. “Tiffany!” Her voice caught in her throat because the steel had struck Tiffany before either of them could react.
For one impossible, frozen heartbeat, neither woman moved. Y/N simply stared as her mind refused to understand what her eyes were seeing. “Tiff…” Another explosion of cracking concrete ripped through the floor beneath her feet and the building groaned. The sound finally snapped her back to herself. “No…” The section of floor beneath Tiffany began collapsing inward and Y/N stumbled forward. “Tiffany!”
Another violent shake sent a rain of glass cascading from every remaining window as the room tilted and the floor split open. Survival took over and Y/N stumbled backward just as the ground where she’d been standing disappeared into darkness. She turned and ran. Not because she wanted to. But because there was nothing else she could do. She reached the massive floor to ceiling windows overlooking the street below, desperately searching for any way out.
The city had become complete pandemonium. Cars sat at impossible angles. Traffic lights swung overhead. People flooded the sidewalks. The pavement rippled beneath the city as skyscrapers swayed against the skyline and windows burst outward. People poured from surrounding buildings as Yunho’s gaze shot upward back to the restaurant. The glass facade reflected the chaos until…..
Y/N.
His stomach dropped. “No.” Beside him, the Reaper finally spoke, voice remaining calm despite the world collapsing around them. “Should a demon preserve that which fate has harvested… the savior shall forever carry the burden of the saved.”
Yunho’s jaw tightened. “I know.” The words came out through clenched teeth. He knew every syllable. Every consequence. He knew exactly what would happen as above them, the building gave one final, deafening groan before the entire western side began folding inward and Y/N disappeared behind a wall of collapsing concrete.
Yunho moved. His body dissolved into a violent cloud of black smoke that tore across the street faster than the eye could follow. The glamour shattered. Silver hair whipped around glossy black horns as infernal shadows exploded through the collapsing floors and he reformed inside the dying building. Concrete rained around him and steel screamed as the floor vanished beneath his feet. Then he saw her, stood frozen, trapped between the collapsing wall and the shattered windows, staring at him in complete disbelief. There was no time. He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulled her tightly against his chest.
Then everything disappeared into darkness. The building collapsed. Thousands of tons of steel and concrete crashed into themselves in an earth shaking roar, swallowing the restaurant in a cloud of dust that rolled through downtown like a tidal wave as half a block away, black smoke erupted from empty air and Yunho and Y/N stumbled onto the cracked pavement together.
Y/N’s knees nearly gave out as she clutched at the front of his jacket, coughing through the dust, every breath shaking. For several long seconds she couldn’t process what had just happened. The screams. The collapse. Tiffany. Then she looked up. Really looked and he breath caught. “Yunho?” He didn’t answer. His gaze had already lifted beyond her shoulder….
The reaper still stood untouched by dust. Untouched by chaos as she inclined her head once. “The Covenant has witnessed.”
Yunho shut his eyes and his shoulders sagged with the weight of four centuries pressing down all at once. “Fuck.” Dust rolled through the ruined street in suffocating waves, swallowing the afternoon sunlight until everything looked washed in gray. Sirens had already begun somewhere in the distance, their cries growing louder with every passing second, while the screams of survivors echoed from every direction and Y/N still clutched the front of Yunho’s jacket with trembling fingers. “Yunho?” His attention remained fixed on the reaper. The Covenant had witnessed. Four hundred years. Four hundred years of never once crossing the line. Gone. Just like that.
A sharp hiss escaped Y/N. “Ow…” She released his jacket, grabbing at her left wrist as a searing heat exploded beneath her skin. It wasn’t the sting of a cut or the ache of a bruise. It was deeper. Like molten metal had been poured directly into her veins. “What the fuck…”
Yunho’s head snapped down. “No…” The word barely left his lips before he felt it too. Not pain. Recognition. The inside of his own wrist ignited with the same infernal heat as Y/N cried out, staring in disbelief as impossibly thin black lines began spreading beneath her skin. They branched outward like living ink, twisting and weaving together with unsettling precision. But the lines didn’t stop. They curved. Folded. Connected. Until an elegant symbol slowly revealed itself.
A single black horn.
Its shape unmistakably echoed the royal horns now curling from either side of Yunho’s head. It sat over the pulse of her wrist as though it had always belonged there. “No…” Yunho whispered again as his own wrist burned brighter. He looked down just in time to watch another design emerge beneath his own skin. Not a horn. A feather. Long. Elegant. Its delicate barbs etched in the same flowing black lines that formed Y/N’s mark.
Human.
Demon.
The symbols stared back at one another from opposite wrists like two halves of the same ancient promise. Then came the runes. They spiraled outward around each mark in perfect circles, ancient infernal script carving itself into flesh with molten golden light as Y/N watched in horror. “What… what language is that?” Yunho couldn’t answer. Because he could read every word. Every single one. By blood preserved… Another rune burned itself into place. By fate denied… More appeared. Two souls… The circle completed itself.
…bound beyond death.
The final rune flared so brightly it forced both of them to shield their eyes and for one blinding heartbeat, the symbols glowed like liquid gold before the infernal script dissolved. The light vanished beneath their skin, leaving behind only the completed marks, matte black, as though they’d been tattooed there years ago. Silence enveloped them. Even the sounds of the collapsing city seemed impossibly distant as Y/N slowly lowered her wrist, staring first at the strange black horn etched over her pulse… then at Yunho.
Really looking at him for the first time since he’d pulled her from the collapsing building and her eyes traveled upward. Past the silver hair she’d spent two days thinking about. Past the face she’d convinced herself she’d never see again. Until they stopped on the glossy black horns rising from his head and her breathing caught.
She looked from the horns… to the mark on her wrist and back again. “What the hell is going on?”
Yunho didn’t answer at first. His gaze remained fixed on the horn branded into her skin, the reality of what he’d done settling over him with crushing finality. The reaper’s form was already beginning to dissolve into drifting ash, her duty complete. And before the last trace of her disappeared, Yunho heard the faint whisper of robes carried on the wind. Then… nothing. Only then did Yunho let out a slow, weary breath as his eyes finally lifted to meet Y/N’s. “The keyword…” he said quietly, a humorless smile touching the corner of his mouth despite everything….
