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21+ | she/they

[binniebb]

home // p.sw.

summary: sometimes love is inevitable as fate. but will it be enough for you to break free from societal expectations?

◦ pairing: greaser!seonghwa × soc!reader, oc x reader ◦ genre: strangers → lovers, 1950's themed ◦ rating: mature 18+, mdni ◦ wc: ~15k ◦ tw: [emotional partner abuse/neglect, possessive behavior, depictions of violence, smoking, references to alcohol use, classism/social ostracism, family conflict/estrangement, let me know if there's more <3] ◦ warnings: [smut, creampie, p in v sex, fingering, breast play, pregnancy talk, slow-burn, angst, fluff, pining, seonghwa and reader down bad for each other]

a/n: here it is y'all! first ateez fic. i love the fifties aesthetic so much so this was so fun to write. obviously this is more western themed. i'm not familiar with korean history, so pls keep that in mind <3 as always, enjoy! and pls like, comment, and reblog if you do.

. . . .

You stand just behind your boyfriend’s shoulder, hands folded neatly, smiling when you’re supposed to. He and his friends talk over you like you’re furniture, laughter loud and careless. Every time one of them bumps into you, no one apologizes. You’re proof of something, not a person.

Yeong-su’s hand rests at your waist, fingers tight enough to remind you who you belong to.

Then the air changes.

Leather creaks. Boots scrape pavement. Conversation stutters as a group of greasers cuts across the edge of the lot, cigarette tips glowing in the dark. Your boyfriend stiffens. His friends scowl openly, muttering insults they wouldn’t dare say in front of their parents.

You’ve learned not to look.

But you do anyway.

Park Seonghwa walks among them, jacket hanging loose, hands in his pockets like he has nothing to prove. His gaze lifts — and finds you.

It isn’t hungry. Isn’t mocking.

It’s quiet. Knowing.

For one suspended second, he sees past the letterman jacket, past the grip at your waist, past the role you’re playing. He sees the strain in your smile, the way your shoulders are tight like you’re bracing for something. Like he understands the bullshit without you having to say a word.

When he looks away, the laughter crashes back in.

But you don’t feel the same anymore.

Your boyfriend laughs again, louder than before, like he needs to fill the space Seonghwa left behind. His hand tightens at your waist, thumb pressing in warning, and you realize he noticed. He always notices when your attention slips.

“What were you lookin’ at?” he asks, tone casual, eyes sharp.

“Nothing,” you say automatically, because that’s what you’re good at. Nothing answers. Nothing feelings. Nothing wrong.

One of his friends snorts. “Those greaseballs don’t know their place.”

Yeong-su nods, jaw clenched, pride wounded by someone who didn’t even look at him. He starts talking again — about a game, about a party, about himself — and the circle closes back in. You smile when prompted. You nod when expected.

But your chest feels tight.

Across the lot, Seonghwa pauses near the curb. One of his friends says something low, amused, but Seonghwa doesn’t laugh. He glances back once, quick and dangerous, just to make sure you’re still standing.

You are.

Barely.

Yeong-su steers you away, already planning the rest of your night without asking. As you’re pulled along, you steal one last look over your shoulder.

Seonghwa is gone.

But the way he looked at you — like he knew, like he cared — lingers longer than the grip on your waist. And for the first time, you wonder what it would feel like to be seen without being owned.

The lot empties out, leaving behind a few scattered cars and the hum of distant music. Seonghwa leans against his, arms crossed, cigarette dangling from his lips as he watches the jock and his girl walk away. His friends mill around, talking shit and laughing, but Seonghwa stays still, eyes narrowed on the retreating figures.

Woo-young claps his shoulder, making him tear his eyes away from the pair. “Diner tonight?” He asks, searching his friend’s face. “You good?”

Seonghwa nods, flicking his cigarette to the ground. "Yeah," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. "I'm good." He pushes off from the car and joins his friends, falling into step beside Woo-young. But as they walk away, he can't shake the image of that girl—her stiff posture, the way she looked at him like she was drowning. It sticks in his mind, a quiet ache he doesn't understand.

. . . .

The diner is the kind of place everyone in town claims as theirs, even though it’s never really been neutral ground.

Bright fluorescent lights buzz overhead, washing the front half of the room in a clean, unforgiving glow. The socials take up those booths by instinct. Letterman jackets slung over vinyl seats, polished shoes hooked around chair legs, voices loud and confident as if volume alone grants them ownership. Someone feeds a coin into the jukebox, and a love song crackles to life, tinny and cheerful, completely at odds with the tight feeling in your chest.

You slide into the booth beside Yeong-su, smoothing your skirt over your knees. He’s already halfway through a story, arm thrown across the back of the seat like it belongs there. Like you belong there. When the waitress stops by, Yeong-su orders for both of you without looking, rattling off your usual like it’s proof of how well he knows you.

You don’t correct him.

You rarely do.

The back of the diner feels different, dimmer, as though the lights lose their nerve before they reach it. That’s where the greasers sit, leather jackets creaking as they move, boots scuffing the tile. Cigarette smoke hangs low around their booth despite the NO SMOKING sign, curling lazily as if it knows no one’s going to challenge them. Their laughter is rougher, edged with something defensive — men used to being watched.

Your gaze drifts there before you can stop yourself.

Seonghwa sits half-turned in the booth, one arm draped over the cracked vinyl, grease-stained fingers wrapped loosely around a coffee mug gone cold. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t showing off. He’s listening, eyes distant, like he’s thinking about something far beyond the diner walls.

When his gaze lifts and finds yours, it feels like a held breath.

The noise dulls — not gone, just muted — until it’s only the hum of lights and your own pulse. Seonghwa doesn’t stare or smirk. He just looks at you, steady and open, like he’s taking stock of something important.

His eyes flick briefly to Yeong-su’s arm stretched behind you, fingers curled possessively at the edge of the booth. Something shifts in Seonghwa’s expression. Not anger, not jealousy. Recognition.

So that’s how it is.

Yeong-su leans closer, laughter loud, shoulder knocking into yours. “You hear that?” he asks, already turning back to his friends before you can answer.

The waitress returns with plates, and Yeong-su slides yours closer, cutting into it without asking. The scrape of a fork against porcelain makes your jaw tense.

From the back booth, someone laughs low. Seonghwa finally looks away, attention pulled back to his friends, and the moment loosens, just slightly.

But it doesn’t disappear.

One of Yeong-su’s friends mutters something about “grease trash,” eyes flicking toward the back. Yeong-su smirks, says nothing, pride flaring brighter than decency.

Your stomach twists.

You glance back once more. Seonghwa’s eyes meet yours again, softer now, brows drawn just enough to ask a question without words.

You okay?

Outside, an engine revs, promising motion, escape, something else entirely. When Seonghwa stands and shrugs on his jacket, the back of the diner seems to dim further in his absence.

Yeong-su keeps talking, unaware that something has shifted so subtly he’ll never see it coming. But you feel it, sitting beneath the buzzing lights, boxed in by laughter that isn’t kind.

The distance between the front and back booths isn’t just about where you sit.

It’s about who gets to breathe.

And for the first time, you wonder what it would feel like to choose differently.

Seonghwa pushes back from the booth a few minutes later, chair legs scraping softly against the tile. One of his friends says something under his breath, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth, but Seonghwa barely reacts. He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a cigarette, and rolls it between his fingers like he’s thinking through something carefully.

Then he stands.

Leather creaks as he shrugs the jacket fully onto his shoulders, dark hair falling into his eyes. His Converse clad feet scuff quietly against the floor as he heads for the door, casual in a way that isn’t careless. Measured. Deliberate. The bell above the diner entrance jingles when he pushes it open, letting in a sharp breath of night air that cuts through the warmth.

You don’t mean to watch him.

You do anyway.

Just before he steps outside, Seonghwa glances back.

Not at the socials. Not at the room.

At you.

It’s not obvious enough for anyone else to catch, but you feel it like a hand at your spine. His gaze is steady, unflinching, dark with something that makes your chest tighten. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t challenge. He just looks at you like he’s checking in. Like he knows exactly how hard it is to sit where you’re sitting.

Then he’s gone.

The door swings shut. The bell settles.

Yeong-su feels it instantly.

His arm tightens along the back of the booth, fingers digging into the vinyl behind you. “What was that?” he asks, voice light but sharp around the edges, eyes locked on the door Seonghwa just exited through.

You blink. “What?”

“That greaser,” Yeong-su says, scoffing. “Why was he lookin’ at you?”

“I don’t know,” you reply automatically. Too fast. Too practiced.

Yeong-su lets out a short laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You sure about that?” His thumb presses into your side, just enough to remind you it could hurt if he wanted it to. “Guys like him don’t just look.”

One of his friends snorts. “Probably thinks he’s got a shot.”

Yeong-su straightens, pride flaring like he’s been personally challenged. “Not a chance,” he says. “He doesn’t know his place.”

But his eyes drift to the window.

So do yours.

Outside, Seonghwa leans back against the brick wall of the diner, one heel propped behind him, cigarette lit and glowing faintly in the dark. Smoke curls up around his face as he exhales, shoulders loose, expression calm. Out there, under the flickering streetlight, he looks untouchable in a way Yeong-su never has.

Yeong-su notices where you’re looking.

His jaw tightens.

“You stay here,” he says abruptly, already sliding out of the booth.

“Yeong-su—”

The bell jingles again as he storms outside.

Cold air rushes in with him. Seonghwa barely moves when Yeong-su steps into his space, only shifts his weight, cigarette still between his fingers. The silence stretches, thick and electric.

“You got a problem?” Yeong-su snaps.

Seonghwa lifts his gaze slowly, taking Yeong-su in from letterman jacket to polished shoes. He exhales smoke to the side, unbothered. “Didn’t know I needed one.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Yeong-su says, chest puffed out. “You were lookin’ at my girl.”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightens just slightly. “She’s not property.”

That’s when Yeong-su shoves him.

It’s not hard enough to knock him down, but it’s meant to humiliate. The cigarette drops to the pavement. Seonghwa doesn’t stumble. He just steps back once, Converse scraping, eyes darkening.

“You should walk away,” Seonghwa says quietly.

Yeong-su swings.

Seonghwa blocks it, fast and controlled, fist catching Yeong-su’s wrist before it lands. The sound of impact echoes too loudly in the night. They grapple briefly — anger versus restraint — until Seonghwa shoves Yeong-su back hard enough to make him stumble.

Yeong-su shoves him again, harder this time, both hands to his chest, like he needs the contact to prove something. Seonghwa’s shoulder hits the brick wall behind him with a dull thud.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Yeong-su snarls, crowding his space. “You don’t get to look at her. You don’t get to think about her.”

Seonghwa straightens slowly, rolling his shoulder once like he’s testing it. His voice stays calm, almost quiet. “You’re makin’ a scene.”

“That’s rich, comin’ from you.”

Yeong-su swings again.

It’s sloppy. Angry, overconfident, but fast. Seonghwa ducks just in time, the punch grazing his cheek instead of breaking his nose. He feels it anyway, a flash of heat across his skin. Before Yeong-su can recover, Seonghwa drives his shoulder into Yeong-su’s ribs, knocking the air out of him with a sharp grunt.

They crash into each other, shoes skidding on pavement. Yeong-su grabs fistfuls of Seonghwa’s jacket, hauling him forward, forehead slamming into Seonghwa’s temple. White flashes explode behind Seonghwa’s eyes, but he doesn’t go down. He’s used to pain, used to fighting just to stay standing.

Yeong-su throws another punch, this one landing square against Seonghwa’s jaw.

The sound is sickening.

Seonghwa stumbles back a step, tasting blood. Something dark and cold settles in his chest. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes lifting slowly to meet Yeong-su’s.

“That all you got?” he asks.

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Yeong-su charges, tackling him at the waist. They hit the ground hard, breath knocked loose, bodies tangling. Seonghwa’s back slams against the concrete, stars bursting in his vision. Yeong-su straddles him, raining down punches. Wild, furious, unrestrained.

One lands on Seonghwa’s cheek. Another clips his eyebrow. A third glances off his shoulder.

Seonghwa finally snaps.

He grabs Yeong-su’s wrist mid-swing, twists hard until Yeong-su yells, then bucks his hips and rolls them over. Now it’s Seonghwa on top, knees digging into Yeong-su’s sides, one hand fisted in his collar.

“You think this is strength?” Seonghwa growls, landing a solid punch to Yeong-su’s mouth. Blood splatters across the pavement. “You think scarin’ her makes you a man?”

Yeong-su spits blood and laughs, feral. He hooks his leg and flips them again, using his size, his weight. Seonghwa’s head cracks against the ground, a sharp pain blooming at the base of his skull.

“Shut up!” Yeong-su roars. He swings again.

This time, Seonghwa blocks it clean, forearms burning from the impact. He headbutts Yeong-su hard, once, twice. Yeong-su recoils, dazed just long enough for Seonghwa to scramble up.

They stagger to their feet, both breathing hard, faces already swelling, knuckles scraped raw. Yeong-su lunges again, but Seonghwa sidesteps and drives a fist into Yeong-su’s stomach. Yeong-su folds with a choked sound. Seonghwa follows with a punch to the jaw that sends Yeong-su sprawling backward into a trash can.

Metal clatters. Lids roll.

For a second, there’s only heavy breathing and the hum of the streetlight overhead.

Then you’re there.

“Stop!” you shout, voice cracking as you push between them.

Yeong-su wipes his mouth, eyes blazing with humiliation and rage. “Get out of the way.”

“No,” you say, hands shaking but planted firmly against Seonghwa’s chest. “It’s over.”

Seonghwa freezes instantly at your touch, fists unclenching like he’s pulling himself back from somewhere dangerous. He looks down at you, eyes still dark, chest heaving—but there’s concern there, too. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

That’s when Yeong-su tries to swing again — desperate, ugly.

Seonghwa sees it.

He moves fast, shoving you aside just enough to shield you as Yeong-su’s punch grazes his shoulder instead. Seonghwa retaliates without hesitation, a sharp, controlled blow that knocks Yeong-su flat onto his back.

“Stay. Down,” Seonghwa says, voice low and deadly.

Yeong-su lies there, chest heaving, pride shattered, eyes flicking to the diner windows where silhouettes have gathered. He curses under his breath, scrambles up, and staggers away into the dark without another word.

Silence crashes down hard.

Seonghwa turns to you, blood at the corner of his mouth, bruise already darkening under one eye. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I didn’t want you seein’ that.”

You stare at him, heart pounding, fear and adrenaline tangling tight in your chest.

“I’m glad you did,” you say softly.

Something in Seonghwa’s expression breaks open at that. Something gentle, something careful. Under the streetlight, smoke still hanging in the air, he nods once.

And for the first time that night, standing beside him instead of behind someone else, you feel steady.

He watches you closely, chest rising and falling rapidly as he tries to calm down. He's used to being the one everyone's scared of, the one people avoid. But right now, with you looking at him like that — without fear, without disgust —I t's doing something strange to his heart. "You shouldn't be thanking me," he murmurs gruffly. "I just got into a brawl with your boyfriend." He runs his tongue along his split lip, wincing slightly at the taste of blood.

You reach down, grab your skirt, tear a piece of the pink fabric, and hand it to him. “Sorry…I don’t have a handkerchief on me,” you say softly, shrugging.

He takes the makeshift bandage carefully, his fingers brushing against yours as he does. A flicker of surprise passes over his face at the gentle gesture, something almost like awe crossing his features before he quickly schools his expression. He presses the fabric to his bleeding lip, holding it there as he watches you intently. "Pink," he comments softly, almost to himself. "Figures."

You blush. “What is that supposed to mean?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed, slightly offended.

He smirks slightly, the corner of his mouth pulling up despite the pain. "Nothing bad," he clarifies quickly, noticing your offense. "Just... you strike me as the kind of girl who likes pink things. Frilly dresses, bows, that sort of stuff." He glances down at the piece of fabric in his hand, the color bright against his rough fingers. "And here I am, bleeding all over it." He laughs softly, the sound tinged with self-deprecation. " Typical me, messing up something pretty."

You blink up at him, small and delicate. “You stood up for me. I don’t think that’s messing anything up.”

Something shifts in his expression then. Something softer, almost vulnerable. He's used to people seeing him as violent and dangerous, but you're looking at him like he's something closer to heroic. It makes his chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with the fight. "I didn't do it for points," he says gruffly, trying to maintain his rough exterior even as warmth spreads through him.

You blush, embarrassed. “I know,” you say, bowing your head, both in courtesy and to hide your downturned face. “I just want to say thank you.”

He's silent for a moment, watching you bow your head. Something about the gesture makes his heart ache—a reminder of the life you’re trapped in, always having to show deference to men like Yeong-su. When you look up again, he reaches out, gently tilting your chin up with his free hand. "Look at me when you talk to me," he says softly, his thumb brushing against your jaw. "You don't have to bow your head around me." His voice is gentle but firm, a command wrapped in caring.

You look up at him with lips parted and eyes wide with surprise. The moment is broken by his friends coming out to check on him, both shocked and amazed that he got in a fight with Yeong-su

"Holy shit," one of his friends, Mingi, exclaims, taking in Seonghwa's battered face and Yeong-su's retreating figure. "You actually fought him?" Woo-young whistles lowly, impressed. "And you're still standing. Damn." They both glance at you, curiosity and something like respect in their eyes. Seonghwa ignores them, focusing on cleaning the blood from his face with the pink fabric.

You glance behind yourself and see Yeong-su at the table, pointing outside, eyes blazing with fury. You turn back around. “Yeong-su and his friends will be out here soon. You all should probably scatter,” you say softly.

Seonghwa's friends exchange a glance, both of them nodding in agreement. They know that dealing with Yeong-su and his crew is only going to end up in more trouble. One of them claps Seonghwa on the shoulder, "Come on, let's go before those assholes come out here." He pulls Seonghwa towards the opposite direction from where Yeong-su is standing. But Seonghwa hesitates, looking back at you. "You okay?"

You shrug, smiling sadly. “I don’t know.”

His friends pause, watching the exchange with interest. Seonghwa steps closer to you, lowering his voice so only you can hear. "Come with me," he says suddenly, the words out before he can think better of them. "My friends and I are leaving. You don't have to stay here with him." His eyes search yours, intense and sincere. "Just... come with me."

And though you hardly know each other, looking into his eyes, you see only safety and comfort swirling in his dark irises. He holds out his hand silently, and you take it immediately, not sparing a glance behind you.

Seonghwa's heart skips a beat when you take his hand without hesitation. He feels a rush of something warm and protective surge through him as he leads you away from the diner, his friends falling into step behind you. Yeong-su chooses that moment to storm out of the diner, shouting something angry, but Seonghwa doesn't slow down or look back.

. . . .

The car sits a little farther down the street, tucked beneath a dying streetlight like it knows better than to draw attention to itself. The engine ticks softly as it cools, metal still warm from the drive earlier. Everything feels quieter once you’re away from the diner — the laughter, the shouting, Yeong-su’s voice all fading into something distant and unreal.

Seonghwa opens the passenger door for you without a word.

You hesitate for half a second, the habit of waiting for permission tugging at you out of reflex. Then you remember his hand, how it reached for yours, steady and sure, not pulling, not demanding.

Just asking.

You slide into the seat.

The door shuts with a solid thunk, sealing you inside the small, oil-and-leather-scented space. Seonghwa walks around to the driver’s side, movements slower now, like the adrenaline is finally bleeding out of him. When he gets in, the car dips slightly with his weight. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence isn’t awkward.

It’s fragile.

Seonghwa starts the engine, the low rumble filling the space between you. His knuckles are scraped raw where they rest on the steering wheel, dried blood dark against his skin. One eye is already swelling, a bruise blooming beneath it like a storm cloud.

“You don’t have to go anywhere,” he says quietly, not looking at you. “I can take you back. Wherever you want.”

You look at him — really look at him now, under the dashboard light, jaw tight but eyes gentle, like he’s afraid of making the wrong move.

“I don’t want to go back,” you say.

He exhales, slow and careful, like he’s been holding that breath since the moment he stepped outside the diner.

The car rolls forward, tires humming against the pavement. Streetlights pass overhead in lazy intervals, flashing gold across the windshield. After a block or two, Seonghwa’s hand leaves the wheel briefly, hovering between you. Uncertain, uncharacteristically hesitant.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About all of it. I didn’t mean for it to turn into—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just didn’t want him touchin’ you like that.”

You don’t answer with words.

You reach out.

Your fingers slide into his without hesitation, fitting there like they’ve been waiting all night. Seonghwa stiffens for a split second, then relaxes, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles like he’s grounding himself.

Neither of you lets go.

The car keeps moving, engine steady, night opening up around you like a promise. For the first time in longer than you can remember, you aren’t bracing for what comes next.

You’re choosing it.

Seonghwa slows the car as the streets begin to change.

The asphalt smooths out, streetlights brighter and closer together, houses lined up neat and polite behind trimmed hedges. White fences. Dark windows. Everything is quiet in a way that feels intentional, like noise isn’t welcome here. He eases off the gas, shoulders tightening without meaning to.

This side of town has never been his.

He parks a little crooked at the curb, engine idling low, the headlights washing over your front gate. The house looks warm even in the dark—soft porch light glowing, curtains drawn just enough to suggest someone waiting inside. It’s the kind of place Seonghwa’s only ever seen from the outside, hands shoved in his pockets, knowing better than to linger.

He doesn’t realize it’s a facade.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

“This is me,” you say gently, like you’re afraid to startle him.

He nods, fingers tightening briefly around the steering wheel. Up close, the quiet presses in on him, makes him feel too loud, too rough, too out of place. Grease under his nails. Blood dried at the corner of his mouth. A car that smells like smoke and oil sitting in front of a house like this.

He swallows. “You sure you’re okay?”

You turn toward him fully now, softness written into every line of you—your voice, your eyes, the way you’re still holding his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your thumb brushes over his scraped knuckles, slow and careful, like you’re soothing something skittish.

“I am,” you say. “I am now.”

Something in his chest loosens.

You don’t look at him like he’s wrong for being here. You don’t flinch at the bruises or the blood. You look at him like he belongs in this moment, even if he doesn’t belong on this street.

Seonghwa exhales, tension bleeding out of him in a way he didn’t realize he needed. “I don’t usually come around places like this,” he admits quietly.

You smile, small and sincere. “I don’t usually leave them.”

That earns a soft huff of a laugh from him, surprised and real. He finally turns the engine off, the sudden silence wrapping around you both. When you open the door, cool night air slips in, carrying the scent of cut grass and flowers instead of smoke.

You pause before stepping out.

“Thank you,” you say, then hesitate, eyes flicking to his bruised cheek. “For everything.”

He shrugs, but it’s gentler than before. “Anytime.”

You step onto the sidewalk, then turn back, one hand resting on the open door. The porch light casts you in warm gold, makes you look unreal. Safe. Untouched by the things that have shaped him.

And still you chose to come with him.

“Goodnight, Seonghwa,” you say softly.

“Goodnight,” he replies, watching you walk up the path until the door closes behind you.

Only then does he let himself breathe.

Sitting alone in his car on a street that doesn’t want him, Seonghwa realizes something unsettling and new: the unease is still there, but so is a calm he’s never felt before. One that lingers like your hand in his, like the quiet certainty that for the first time in his life, someone from a world this soft didn’t look at him and see damage.

And it makes him wonder how long he’s going to be able to stay away.

. . . .

The front door clicks shut behind you with a soft, final sound.

The house doesn’t stir.

No lights flicker on. No footsteps come down the hall. The quiet inside is heavier than the quiet outside, settling into your bones like it always does. You stand there for a moment with your hand still on the doorknob, listening out of habit, half-expecting a voice to call your name.

Nothing.

Your parents are either asleep or out — working late, attending something important, or simply choosing not to be home. It’s always been like this. They provide in the ways that look good on paper: a clean house, meals left covered in the oven, tuition paid on time, polite smiles at school events. Middle class. Comfortable. Respectable.

Loveless in all the quiet places that matter.

You slip off your shoes and set them neatly by the door, careful not to scuff the floor. You’ve learned how to move through this house without leaving a trace, how to make yourself small enough not to be noticed. The living room smells faintly of furniture polish and old magazines, everything arranged just so; cushions untouched, framed photographs lining the mantel.

Pictures of milestones.

Birthdays with forced smiles. Graduation photos where your parents stand a careful inch away, hands never quite resting on your shoulders. Proof that you were raised well, even if you were never held close.

You walk down the hallway, fingertips brushing the wallpaper, the familiar ache settling in your chest. Growing up, love was never loud here. No yelling, no chaos—but no warmth either. Praise was rare and conditional. Affection practical. You were taught early that being “good” was the easiest way to avoid disappointment.

So you were good.

You studied hard. You smiled politely. You dated the kind of boy your parents approved of without ever asking how he treated you behind closed doors. You learned that being chosen didn’t mean being cherished.

Your bedroom waits at the end of the hall, door exactly as you left it. Inside, the space is tidy, carefully curated. Books stacked neatly, bed made, everything in its place. You sit on the edge of the mattress and finally let your shoulders slump, breath shaking as the night catches up to you.

In the quiet, the loneliness presses in harder than any bruise ever could.

You think of Seonghwa’s hand reaching for yours without demand. The way he looked at you like you mattered without needing you to perform. The gentleness of it hits you so suddenly it almost hurts.

You lie back and stare at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe around you—empty, indifferent, unchanged.

And for the first time, you realize the ache you’ve carried all your life has a name.

You weren’t asking for much.

You were just asking to be loved.

. . . .

Morning comes early in Seonghwa’s house.

Not with an alarm clock, but with the sound of the radiator coughing to life and the distant rumble of trucks on the main road. Pale light slips through thin curtains, catching on peeling wallpaper and the edges of furniture that’s been repaired more times than replaced. Seonghwa lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, body sore in places he didn’t notice the night before.

His jaw aches when he shifts it. His ribs protest when he sits up.

He exhales slowly and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

The mirror above the washbasin doesn’t lie. One eye is bruised dark, swelling faintly beneath the skin. His knuckles are scraped, skin split, and healing rough. There’s a faint cut near his brow he must’ve missed cleaning properly. He runs cold water over his hands, hissing softly, then splashes his face like that might wash the night away.

It doesn’t.

The kitchen smells like rice and weak coffee. His mother is already up, hair pulled back neatly, factory uniform pressed despite the wear. Mi-sook moves quietly as she cooks, humming under her breath, the sound gentle and constant. Like love made routine.

Jongho sits at the table, hunched over his books, while Young-ja and Young-sook argue softly over a ribbon, their voices sleepy but warm. This house is small, crowded, and imperfect.

Seonghwa steps into the doorway, and the humming stops.

His mother turns.

Her eyes go straight to his face.

“Seonghwa,” she says softly, already crossing the room. Her hands cup his cheeks without hesitation, thumbs brushing near the bruise with practiced gentleness. “What happened?”

He stiffens out of instinct, then relaxes. There’s no judgment in her voice. Only worry.

“It’s nothing,” he starts, the same lie he’s used before.

She looks at him.

He sighs. “I got into a fight.”

Her brows knit, but she doesn’t pull away. “Why?”

He hesitates just a beat. Then, honest. “To help a girl.”

Something shifts in her expression. Concern remains, but it’s joined by understanding. Pride, quiet and restrained. She presses her forehead briefly to his chest, a gesture so familiar it tightens his throat.

“You did the right thing,” she murmurs. “But you don’t have to carry the whole world alone.”

He swallows. “I know.”

She smooths his hair back like he’s still a boy, then nudges him toward the table. “Eat. You’ll be late for work.”

Life doesn’t pause here. Not for grief, not for bruises.

His father’s photograph hangs near the doorway, taken before the war, smile steady and kind. Seonghwa catches it in his peripheral vision as he eats, the familiar weight settling in his chest. When his father didn’t come home, Seonghwa learned what it meant to step forward. Oldest son. Provider. Protector.

While his mother works long hours at the factory, he balances school and the service station—oil-stained hands, late nights studying by dim light, dreams carefully folded away for later. He wants more for them. Something safer. Something better.

They don’t have much. But Jongho’s laughter fills the house. Young-ja and Young-sook cling to his sleeves. His mother’s hand rests warm on his shoulder.

They are rich where it counts.

As he heads out the door, jacket slung over his shoulder, Seonghwa thinks of you — the softness in your voice, the way you took his hand without fear. 

The thought settles deep in his chest.

Maybe helping you wasn’t just the right thing.

Maybe it was the beginning of something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

. . . .

The morning is soft in a way that feels almost unreal.

You ride your bike slowly, skirt fluttering just above your knees, cardigan buttoned neatly despite the warmth. The pastel blue frame gleams under the sun, white tires humming against the pavement. This is the version of you the town recognizes. The one that fits. The one that looks harmless, proper, and easy to place.

Your hands are steady on the handlebars. Your heart is not.

You hadn’t planned to go this way. You tell yourself that as the service station comes into view at the edge of town, gas pumps standing like quiet sentries, the air thick with the smell of oil and metal. But your feet keep pedaling anyway, carrying you forward with a certainty you didn’t have yesterday.

Seonghwa is there. Sleeves rolled up, white undershirt clinging faintly to his back, grease smudged along his forearms. He’s bent over the hood of a car, wrench in hand, brows drawn in concentration. A radio crackles somewhere nearby, low and distant.

He straightens when he hears your bike slow. For a split second, he just stares.

You don’t belong here, not visually, not socially. Pastels and pressed fabric against oil stains and concrete.

“Hey,” you say softly, feet touching the ground as you stop.

“Hey,” he answers, voice quieter than usual, like he’s afraid of spooking you. He wipes his hands on a rag, eyes flicking to your bike, your skirt, your face. “You… you okay?”

You nod. Then you take a breath. “I called Yeong-su this morning,” you say.

Seonghwa stills. “And?” he asks carefully.

“I broke up with him.”

The words land between you, solid and irreversible.

Seonghwa’s jaw tightens — not in anger, but in restraint. “Are you safe?”

“Yes,” you say. “He was angry. But… I was calm. I told him it was over. For good.”

Something in Seonghwa’s shoulders drops, tension easing like he’d been holding it since last night. He looks at the ground for a moment, then back at you. “That couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” you admit. “But it felt right.”

The wind stirs, lifting the edge of your cardigan. Seonghwa notices how your hands aren’t shaking. How your voice doesn’t waver. He smiles. Not wide, not flashy. Just real.

“I’m glad you came by,” he says.

“So am I,” you reply.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you. The service station humming quietly around you, the town still waking up, the space between your worlds feeling a little smaller than it did yesterday.

You rest one foot on the curb, fingers curled around your handlebars, and look at him like you’re not planning on leaving just yet.

And Seonghwa, grease-stained and bruised and steady, looks back like he hopes you don’t.

. . . .

It starts with small choices.

You ride your bike past the campus quad where the socials sprawl across the grass, laughter bright and performative, eyes lingering when they see you pass and don’t stop. Instead, you keep going — past the diner, past the record shop — until you find the familiar cluster of leather jackets gathered near the edge of town.

The first time you show up alone, conversation stalls.

Pastels among black leather. A cardigan where there are chains. You feel it. The pause, the curiosity, but not a single one of them tells you to leave.

Seonghwa looks up from where he’s sitting on the hood of his car, sunlight catching in his hair. His mouth quirks, just slightly. “You lost?”

“No,” you say, steady. “I think I found the right place.”

That earns a few surprised laughs. Someone scoots over to make room. Someone else offers you a soda without comment. You sit, skirt smoothed beneath you, hands folded the same way they always are.

No one asks you to change.

Days turn into afternoons, afternoons into evenings. You sit with them at the back booth of the diner now, knees brushing cracked vinyl, jukebox songs warbling through the air. The waitress raises a brow the first time, but nothing happens. The world doesn’t end. The greasers talk around you easily, teasing each other, arguing about engines and music and nothing at all.

They treat you like you belong.

You still wear your skirts and soft colors. You still laugh gently, still say please and thank you, still tilt your head when you listen. And somehow, instead of sticking out, you fit—like a bright thread woven into something rough and honest.

Seonghwa is always nearby.

Sometimes your shoulders brush. Sometimes his knee nudges yours under the table. Sometimes he hands you a cigarette you never light, just hold it between your fingers while he smokes, eyes watching you like he’s memorizing the way you exist in his space.

“You know,” he says one night, leaning closer, voice low, “you’re gonna ruin our reputation.”

You smile sweetly. “What reputation?”

He laughs, real and surprised. “Fair.”

The flirting sneaks in quietly.

His hand lingering at your lower back when he helps you off the hood of a car. Your fingers brushing grease from his cheek without thinking. The way he looks at you like you’re something precious he doesn’t want to break, but also something he wants very badly.

“You always this brave?” he asks once, watching you argue back at one of his friends without backing down.

You glance at him. “Only when I feel safe.”

His expression softens in a way that makes your chest ache.

Somewhere between shared sodas, late-night rides where you sit side-saddle on his car hood instead of behind Yeong-su’s expectations, and laughter that doesn’t cost you anything, you realize something quietly revolutionary: You didn’t have to become someone else to be chosen. They chose you anyway.

And Seonghwa — grease-stained hands, soft eyes, steady presence — looks at you like he’s already fallen, just waiting for you to notice.

The socials stop waving when they see you.

You don’t notice at all.

. . . .

It all explodes over dinner.

Not loudly at first, just tight voices and sharp questions, the kind that pretend to be concern until they aren’t anymore. Your father folds his newspaper with deliberate care. Your mother’s eyes are already cold, calculating.

“We’ve been hearing things,” she says. “About the people you’ve been associating with.”

You know what she means.

“The greasers?” your father snaps before you can answer. “Do you have any idea what that looks like?”

Your chest tightens. “They’re just people.”

“That’s not the point,” your mother cuts in. “And Yeong-su’s mother called this afternoon. She was very confused.”

You swallow. “I broke up with him.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.

“You did what?” Your father rises halfway out of his chair. “That boy was respectable. He had prospects.”

“He hurt me,” you say, voice shaking but real. “And I’m done pretending that doesn’t matter.”

Your mother laughs, short and disbelieving. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Something breaks.

They talk over you then — about reputation, about embarrassment, about how much they’ve done for you. Words stack on top of each other until you can’t breathe.

“If you keep this up,” your father says finally, face red with anger, “you can find somewhere else to live.”

The threat lands heavy and final.

You don’t remember grabbing your cardigan. You don’t remember opening the front door. You just know the night air hits your face and suddenly you’re walking, then stumbling down the sidewalk, tears blurring everything.

At the corner, shaking, you stop and use the phone booth. Your fingers tremble as you lift the receiver. You dial slowly, deliberately, each number clicking back into place with a sound that feels too loud in the quiet booth. Your heart hammers as the line rings.

Once.

Twice.

“Hello?” Seonghwa’s voice answers.

“Seonghwa,” you sob. “I—I don’t know where to go.”

“I’m coming,” he says instantly. No questions. No hesitation. “Where are you, baby?”

You tell him.

The line clicks dead.

You walk back out, knees giving out as you sink onto the curb, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to keep from shattering completely.

Headlights appear minutes later. Too fast. Impossibly fast.

Seonghwa’s car screeches to a stop. He’s out of it before the engine fully dies, running toward you like the world might end if he doesn’t reach you in time.

“Hey—hey,” he says, dropping to his knees in front of you. “I’ve got you.”

You collapse into him.

He gathers you up without effort, arms solid and warm, one hand cradling the back of your head as you cry into his chest. He smells like oil and soap and something achingly familiar.

“They said they’d kick me out,” you choke. “They hate me.”

Seonghwa’s grip tightens. Not possessive, but protective. “They don’t get to do that to you. Not tonight. Not ever.”

He lifts you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, carrying you back to his car, shielding you from the cold, from the street, from everything that’s ever made you feel unwanted.

As he buckles you in, he rests his forehead briefly against yours. “You’re not alone,” he whispers. “You hear me?”

And for the first time, even through the tears, you believe it.

. . . .

The car is quiet once you stop crying.

Not empty, just hushed, like the night itself is listening.

Seonghwa drives without rushing, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting near you like he’s ready to reach over again if you start to shake. Streetlights pass in slow intervals, painting gold across the windshield and then taking it away. Your chest still aches, but it’s a duller pain now — tired instead of sharp.

After a while, you speak. “I don’t want to go back there.”

He doesn’t pretend not to understand. His jaw tightens, but his voice stays gentle. “You don’t have to. Not tonight.”

You stare out the window, watching houses blur past. “I could go to my aunt’s,” you say quietly. “She lives out of state. She’s… kinder. I could write her. Or call. I could leave.”

The word leave hangs heavy in the car.

Seonghwa’s fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road, but you see the way his throat moves when he swallows. “How far?” he asks.

“Far,” you admit. “Different everything.”

He nods once, like he’s bracing himself. For a moment, he says nothing, and you think that’s the answer. That this is where your paths split — soft girl from a quiet house, greaser boy from the wrong side of town, one night of bravery not enough to bridge the distance.

Then he exhales. “You could stay with me.”

You turn toward him, startled. “Seonghwa—”

“I mean it,” he says quickly, glancing at you now, eyes earnest and a little scared. “I’ve got my own room. It’s small, but it’s yours if you want it. My family wouldn’t mind. My mom—she’d make space. She always does.”

“But your house—” You hesitate. “There’s barely enough room.”

He smiles faintly, sad and soft. “We’ve never had much. But we’ve always had enough.”

The car slows as he pulls onto a quieter street. He parks beneath a tree, engine ticking as it cools, and finally turns fully toward you. “I’m not sayin’ it has to be forever,” he adds carefully. “Just… until you figure things out. Until you’re steady again.”

You search his face — bruised, tired, open in a way that makes your chest ache all over again.

“You’d really do that for me?” you whisper.

Seonghwa shrugs, embarrassed, eyes dropping briefly to your hands folded in your lap. “I already am.”

Something inside you breaks, not painfully this time, but like ice thawing. You nod, once, then again, tears threatening but different now.

“Okay,” you say. “Just… for now.”

His smile is small, relieved, real. He starts the car again, and as he pulls back onto the road, the night feels a little less endless.

You don’t know what tomorrow looks like.

But for the first time, you’re not facing it alone.

. . . .

The house is smaller than yours, tucked close to the road like it’s bracing itself against the world, but it’s warm in a way you feel immediately.

Light spills from the windows, yellow and lived-in. When Seonghwa opens the door, voices drift out first: laughter, overlapping conversation, the clatter of dishes. The smell of rice and soup wraps around you before you can second-guess yourself.

“Eomma,” Seonghwa calls softly. “I’m home.”

Everything pauses.

Then his mother appears, wiping her hands on a towel, eyes kind and sharp all at once. Mi-sook takes one look at your face — tear-stained, tired — and her expression softens completely.

“Oh,” she says gently. “You must be Y/N.”

Before you can respond, she’s guiding you inside, hands warm on your shoulders like she’s known you longer than five seconds. “Come in, come in. You look frozen.”

Jongho peeks around the corner, curiosity bright, while Young-ja and Young-sook whisper behind him until Mi-sook clears her throat pointedly. “Manners,” she says, though there’s a smile tugging at her mouth. “Say hello.”

They do—shy, earnest, real.

No one stares at your clothes. No one asks where you’re from or who your parents are or why you’re here so late. Mi-sook pours you tea like it’s the most natural thing in the world, presses a bowl of food into your hands even when you insist you’re not hungry.

“You’re safe here,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “That’s what matters.”

Your throat tightens.

When Seonghwa leads you down the narrow hall to his room, Mi-sook calls after him lightly, “Door stays open unless you want me checking in every ten minutes.”

“Eomma,” he groans, ears pink.

She laughs. “Behave,” she adds playfully, wagging a finger. “She’s a guest.”

The door closes anyway. 

Mostly.

His room is small but unmistakably his. A neatly made bed, textbooks stacked carefully on the desk, a jacket hung on the back of the chair. It smells like soap and clean laundry, nothing like the oil and smoke you associate with him outside. It feels… intentional. Earned.

You sit on the edge of the bed. And then everything caves in. The tears come fast and ugly, sobs ripping out of you like you’ve been holding them back your whole life. Your hands cover your face, shoulders shaking as the weight of tonight, of everything, finally lands.

Seonghwa doesn’t hesitate. He sits beside you and pulls you into his arms, holding you close, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist like he’s anchoring you to something solid. You cry into his chest, fingers fisting in his shirt, and he lets you—no rushing, no shushing. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, over and over. “You’re okay. You’re here.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” you choke. “I don’t know how to be on my own.”

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly, forehead resting against your hair. “Not right now. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

You cling to him like the promise itself might keep you upright.

Outside the room, the house hums softly. Life continues, steady and warm. And inside, held in Seonghwa’s arms, you realize something terrifying and beautiful all at once: This is what it feels like to be wanted without conditions.

And for the first time, you let yourself stay.

. . . .

Your parents’ house looks smaller in the daylight.

Too neat. Too quiet. Like it’s holding its breath.

You stand in the entryway with Seonghwa beside you and two of his friends hovering a few steps back, hands shoved into pockets, jackets zipped up despite the warmth. They don’t sprawl or joke or touch anything they shouldn’t. They’re careful, more careful than anyone has ever been in this house.

Your parents sit rigidly in the living room.

Your mother’s lips press into a thin line when she sees who you’ve brought. Your father doesn’t bother hiding his disdain, eyes flicking over leather jackets and worn shoes like he’s tallying up offenses.

“I won’t be staying here anymore,” you say. Your voice shakes, but you don’t back down. “I’m moving out.”

A sharp laugh. “With them?” your mother asks coolly. “This is what you’ve chosen?”

Seonghwa doesn’t move. Neither do his friends.

They help you pack quietly — boxes lifted, drawers emptied, your life reduced to what you can carry. When your father mutters something about “trash dragging you down,” one of the boys stiffens, but Seonghwa gives a subtle shake of his head. They keep working. Dignified. Unbothered.

It hurts worse than yelling would.

At the door, coat on, box in your arms, your mother finally speaks directly to you. “Don’t come crawling back when this blows up in your face,” she says. “Girls like you always do.”

Your breath catches.

Before you can respond, Seonghwa steps forward, not between you and them, but beside you.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t sneer.

“Mr. and Mrs. Y/LN,” he says evenly, meeting their eyes, “I won’t disrespect you in your own home. But I need you to know something.” His hand finds yours. Steady. Public. “She won’t be hurt again. Not by anyone. Not while she’s with us.”

The silence stretches tight. Your parents don’t reply. They don’t have to.

You walk out with your head high, sunlight warm on your face, Seonghwa’s grip sure and grounding. Behind you, the door closes.

Final.

Outside, one of the boys lets out a low whistle. “Damn,” he mutters. “That was clean.”

Seonghwa just looks at you. “You okay?”

You nod, tears burning, but this time, they’re not from fear.

They’re from freedom.

. . . .

Life doesn’t transform all at once. It settles.

The days with Seonghwa’s family fall into a rhythm so natural it almost scares you how quickly your body learns it. Mornings start early in the small house—radiator ticking, kettle whistling, Jongho shuffling sleepily through his books at the table. Mi-sook hums as she cooks, the same soft melody every morning, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned neatly back.

She never asks you to prove you belong. Instead, she hands you an apron.

“Cut the onions like this,” she says, guiding your hands gently, laughing when your eyes water. Cooking beside her becomes something sacred — shared glances, easy conversation, the quiet comfort of being useful without being judged. When you thank her too many times, she only waves you off. “You help. That is enough.”

You do help.

You find a job at the local library. Dusty shelves, sunlit reading tables, the comforting hush of pages turning. The work is calm, steady. You like knowing where you’ll be each afternoon, like your time finally belongs to you. You bring home spare change and stories from the patrons, and Mi-sook listens like every word matters.

In the evenings, you play with Young-ja and Young-sook, braiding their hair, letting them paint your nails crooked and bright. They follow you everywhere, tugging at your cardigan, asking endless questions. No one has ever wanted your attention like this before.

Jongho sits beside you at the table after dinner, brow furrowed over his homework. You help him with his numbers, patient and encouraging, and when he finally gets it right, his smile is blinding. “You’re better than my teacher,” he says seriously.

Seonghwa watches it all quietly. He doesn’t say much about giving you his room. He just shrugs the first night, already spreading a blanket across the couch like it’s nothing. You protest. Of course you do. But he only smiles, soft and stubborn.

“You’ve had enough nights not sleepin’,” he says. “Let me handle this.”

Some nights, you wake to the sound of him shifting on the couch, and guilt curls in your chest. Other nights, you hear his quiet breathing through the thin walls and feel safe in a way you never have before.

No one here keeps score.

No one reminds you what you owe.

The house stays small. Money stays tight. But laughter fills the space between the walls, and love is woven into everything — in shared meals, in tired smiles, in the way Seonghwa’s mother squeezes your hand when she passes by.

You don’t feel like a guest. You feel like you’ve been folded gently into a life that knows how to hold you.

. . . .

Seonghwa doesn’t tell you at first.

He moves quietly, the way he always does when he’s decided something matters. Extra shifts at the service station. Long nights hunched over papers at the kitchen table after everyone else has gone to bed. Envelopes tucked carefully into the drawer beneath his clothes, money counted and recounted with practiced precision.

You notice, but you don’t ask.

It isn’t until one evening that Mi-sook clears her throat at dinner, eyes shining in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

“We’re going to see a house tomorrow,” she says calmly, like she’s talking about groceries.

You freeze. “A… house?”

Seonghwa finally looks at you then, a small, nervous smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s nothing fancy,” he says. “But it’s bigger.”

The next afternoon, you stand in front of it together.

It’s a modest three-bedroom house, set back from the road with a patchy yard and a porch that’s seen better days. The paint is chipped, the steps creak when Jongho tests them, but the windows let in plenty of light. There’s room to breathe here. Space that doesn’t feel borrowed.

Seonghwa watches his family take it in: his sisters racing from room to room, Jongho measuring walls with his eyes, Mi-sook standing very still in the doorway like she’s afraid the moment might disappear.

“I used the money I saved,” Seonghwa says quietly, standing beside you. “And what my dad left me.”

Your chest tightens.

Later that night, while boxes sit half-packed in the corner, the reality sinks in.

“You’re moving,” you say softly. “I should start looking too. Maybe the aunt I mentioned—”

The room goes silent.

Mi-sook turns first. “Why would you leave?”

You blink. “I don’t want to be in the way. You finally have space—”

Seonghwa steps closer, shaking his head. “You’re not in the way.”

Jongho frowns at you like you’ve said something strange. “You live with us.”

Young-ja and Young-sook nod in fierce agreement.

Seonghwa reaches for your hand and squeezes it gently. “We didn’t buy a bigger place to lose you,” he says. “You’re family. If you want to stay, there’s a room for you. Always.”

Tears blur your vision. No conditions. No hesitation. Just choice.

You nod, voice too thick to speak.

And for the first time, standing in a house that hasn’t even been moved into yet, you understand what home really means—not walls or rooms or money saved, but the certainty that you are wanted exactly where you are.

. . . .

The house feels different at night.

Not quieter, just fuller, like it’s holding everyone gently instead of pressing in on them. Boxes are stacked against walls, lamps plugged in wherever there’s an outlet, the air smelling faintly of dust and fresh paint and something hopeful.

Mi-sook retires early to her room upstairs, exhausted but smiling. The girls disappear into their room, already whispering and giggling like it’s a sleepover that never has to end. Jongho shuts his door with careful pride, claiming his space for the first time in his life.

And then there’s the basement.

It’s large, open, unfinished in places—but warm. A studio, really. One side carved out into a sleeping area, the other already crowded with books, clothes, and a small table pushed against the wall. A single window near the ceiling lets in a stripe of moonlight.

You set your box down slowly. “I can still take the couch if—”

Seonghwa laughs softly, cutting you off. “You’re not sleepin’ on a couch ever again.”

You smile despite yourself.

You unpack together, easy and domestic in a way that makes your chest ache. You hang dresses beside his jackets. Fold sweaters into the same drawer as his shirts. It feels intimate in a way neither of you acknowledges out loud.

Seonghwa leans against the bed frame, watching you. “You know,” he says casually, “you look dangerous down here.”

You glance at him. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes warm, teasing. “Gonna get me in trouble.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat. “You flirt like you don’t mean it.”

“I flirt like I very much do,” he replies, stepping closer.

The space between you shrinks without either of you deciding it should. You’re suddenly aware of everything. How close he is, the way his voice drops, the way his hands hover like he’s giving you the chance to move first.“Is this okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod.

He kisses you gently at first, like he’s afraid of startling you. Warm, careful, reverent. When you lean into it, fingers curling into his shirt, the kiss deepens just a little, enough to make your breath hitch.

It’s not rushed. It’s not messy. It’s right.

When you pull back, foreheads resting together, Seonghwa exhales a shaky laugh. “I’ve wanted to do that since the diner.”

You smile, heart full. “Me too.”

Around you, the house settles. New walls, new rooms, a new life taking shape. And there, in the basement you now share, with boxes half-unpacked and the future wide open, you realize something quietly, beautifully certain: You didn’t just find love.

You found where you belong.

. . . .

The weeks slip by softly, one into the next, until you realize a full month has passed and nothing feels unfamiliar anymore.

The house settles around you like it was always meant to be lived in this way. Mi-sook hums as she cooks in the evenings, her movements unhurried now that there’s space to breathe. The girls decorate their room with drawings taped crookedly to the walls, proud and loud about it. Jongho grows into his room like he’s claiming a future, door always half-open, books stacked higher every day.

And you stay.

You learn the sound of the house at every hour — the creak of the basement steps, the way the heater kicks on just before dawn, Seonghwa’s quiet footsteps when he thinks you’re asleep. You fold laundry together, brush shoulders in the narrow hallway, exchange smiles that feel like secrets.

Seonghwa doesn’t ask you to be his girlfriend. He just takes your hand one night while you’re walking back from the store, fingers lacing together like it’s always been that way. Later, when Jongho catches you kissing behind the garage and makes a loud, dramatic gagging noise, Seonghwa laughs and pulls you closer.

That’s how everyone knows.

The kisses are everywhere and nowhere. Stolen in the kitchen when Mi-sook isn’t looking, pressed quick and breathless against the basement wall, soft and lingering when the house is asleep and the world feels far away. Late nights turn into shared blankets, whispered stories, Seonghwa tracing circles on your back while you talk about nothing and everything.

“I love you,” he says one night, so casually it almost breaks you.

You freeze. “You do?”

He nods, eyes steady. “I have for a while.”

You don’t hesitate. “I love you too.”

The words don’t feel heavy. They feel like relief.

Days are busy. Work, school, responsibilities…but nights are yours. You sit on the basement floor with records playing low, his head resting in your lap, your fingers carding through his hair. Sometimes you talk about the future. Sometimes you don’t need to.

Four months in, the mirror shows someone new. Not different, just steadier. You are loved openly. Chosen daily. Held without conditions.

And in the quiet rhythm of this life — grease-stained hands and pastel sleeves intertwined — you realize the happiest part isn’t the dramatic escape or the grand gestures. It’s waking up each morning knowing exactly where you belong.

. . . .

Seonghwa quitting cigarettes is louder than you expect.

Not in obvious ways. No slammed doors or raised voices at first, but in the tension that follows him like a shadow. His hands stay busy. His jaw clenches more often. He paces the basement late at night, running fingers through his hair like he’s trying to peel his own skin off. Mi-sook notices. So do you.

You give him space. Extra patience. Soft touches he sometimes flinches away from before catching himself.

He keeps saying he’s fine. He isn’t.

The breaking point comes on a quiet night, rain tapping against the windows, the house wrapped in that heavy, inward kind of silence. Jongho sits at the kitchen table with a test paper spread out in front of him, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the red marks like they might rearrange themselves if he stares long enough.

Seonghwa sees the grade. His face tightens instantly.

“What is this?” he asks, voice sharp enough to make Jongho flinch.

“I—I studied,” Jongho mutters. “I just—”

“That’s not good enough,” Seonghwa snaps. “You know how hard Mom’s working. You know what this costs.”

“I tried—”

“Trying doesn’t pay bills,” Seonghwa cuts in, too fast, too harsh. “You can’t afford to mess around like this.”

You step in before you can think better of it, heart already aching for Jongho. “Seonghwa,” you say gently, “he did try. One bad test doesn’t—”

Seonghwa turns on you. The look in his eyes isn’t anger at first — it’s exhaustion, raw and ugly. “What would you know about it?” he snaps. “You grew up wealthy. Comfortable. You never had to worry about failing because there was always a safety net.”

The words hit harder than any shout.

The kitchen goes dead silent.

Jongho’s face crumples. “I—I’ll go study more,” he says quietly, already standing, paper clutched tight in his hands.

No one stops him.

You stare at Seonghwa, chest tight, throat burning. “That’s not fair,” you whisper.

He rubs his face hard, pacing, already regretting it, but the damage is done. “I’m just saying you don’t understand what it’s like when one mistake can ruin everything.”

You nod slowly, because if you open your mouth, you’ll cry.

So you turn and walk away.

The basement door closes softly behind you, but the sound feels final anyway. You sink onto the bed, hands shaking as the tears come. Quiet, broken sobs pressed into the pillow so no one else hears.

You know he’s hurting.

You know he didn’t mean it like that.

But the words still carve deep, dragging up every old fear you carry. That you don’t belong, that your softness is a liability, that love comes with conditions after all.

Upstairs, the house settles uneasily. And downstairs, in the room you share, you cry alone for the first time in a long while, wondering how something so good can suddenly feel so fragile.

. . . .

Seonghwa doesn’t trust himself to stay in the house. Not with the way his chest feels too tight, like something is clawing its way out. He grabs his jacket and keys and leaves before anyone can stop him, the front door clicking shut behind him too softly for the damage already done.

The car hums beneath him as he drives, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The road is muscle memory — left here, straight there — until the familiar neon sign comes into view. The gas station on the corner. Cigarettes behind the counter. Relief wrapped in paper and fire.

He pulls into the lot.

The engine idles.

His hands shake.

For a long moment, he just sits there, forehead resting against the steering wheel, breath coming too fast. He can already taste it. The burn, the calm, the way it would smooth the edges enough to forget the look on your face when he snapped. Enough to forget Jongho’s shoulders curling in on himself.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself.

It wouldn’t be the cigarettes fixing anything. They never did. What’s eating him alive isn’t nicotine. It’s fear. Fear that he’s failing Jongho the way his father never got the chance to. Fear that no matter how hard he works, it still won’t be enough to keep the lights on, the fridge full, the future secure. Fear that one bad choice, one bad grade, will domino into everything collapsing.

And worst of all—

Fear that one day you’ll look at him and realize loving him means choosing a harder life. That you’ll leave.

He slams the car door shut without ever going inside and turns around. The drive back feels longer.

The house is quiet when he gets home. Too quiet. He knows where you are without asking. The basement light glows faintly under the door, like it’s waiting.

He hesitates only once before knocking.

No answer. He opens the door anyway.

You’re curled on the bed, facing the wall, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for another blow. The sight of it knocks the air out of his lungs.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey… it’s me.”

You don’t turn around.

Seonghwa crosses the room in two steps and drops to his knees beside the bed, hands hovering uselessly in the air. “I’m so sorry,” he says, voice breaking immediately. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have snapped. I—God, I hurt you.”

You finally look at him, eyes red and shining. He hates himself for being the reason.

“It’s not the cigarettes,” he continues quickly, desperate for you to understand. “I thought it was. I wanted to believe it was. But it’s not.”

He swallows hard. “I’m scared. All the time. Scared I’m not enough for my family. Scared I’m messin’ everything up. And I’m scared I won’t ever be enough for you.” His voice drops. “You make everything brighter. Softer. And sometimes I’m terrified I’m gonna ruin that just by being who I am.”

Tears spill down his face now, unguarded and raw. “But I don’t believe what I said. You understand more than anyone. You see us. You choose us. I lashed out because I was drowning, not because you were wrong.”

He finally reaches for your hand, gentle like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. “Please,” he whispers. “Don’t think for a second that I don’t know how lucky I am to love you.”

The room is quiet except for his uneven breathing.

He stays there on his knees, waiting, ready to take whatever comes. Because apologizing doesn’t mean asking for forgiveness. It means owning the hurt.

And he’ll do that, every time, if it means not losing you.

You don’t let him finish waiting.

The moment his hand brushes yours, you turn fully and pull him into you — arms wrapping around his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair like you’re afraid he might disappear if you don’t hold on tight enough. He stiffens in surprise for half a heartbeat.

Then he breaks. The sound he makes is small and wrecked, something torn straight from his chest. He collapses against you, forehead pressed into your shoulder, hands fisting in your clothes as if you’re the only solid thing left in the world. You hold him without hesitation, rocking him gently, cheek resting against his temple.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”

His breath stutters. “I didn’t mean it,” he chokes. “I never meant it.”

“I know,” you say immediately, firm and sure. “I know you didn’t.”

You pull back just enough to cup his face, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes, wiping tears without embarrassment or fear. “Seonghwa, listen to me.”

He looks at you like he’s bracing for impact.

“You saved me,” you say softly. “You pulled me out of a life that was killing me slowly. You gave me a home. A family. You showed me what it feels like to be loved without having to earn it.”

His lips tremble.

“I don’t care that it’s hard,” you continue. “I don’t care that we struggle sometimes. I choose you. I would choose you again and again, even knowing everything that comes with it.”

You press your forehead to his. “You are enough. For them. For me. For yourself. Even when you can’t see it.”

A sob rips free from him then, raw and unrestrained. He clings to you like he needs proof you’re real, arms tightening around your waist. You hold him through it all, steady and unflinching, whispering reassurances into his hair until his breathing slows.

“I love you,” you say, without fear. Without doubt.

He lifts his head, eyes red, voice hoarse. “I love you too. I swear—I’ll do better. I’ll talk instead of—”

You smile softly and kiss his cheek. “We’ll do better,” you correct gently. “Together.”

He nods, pulling you back into his arms, holding you like something precious he’s finally allowing himself to keep.

. . . .

Seonghwa finds Jongho at the kitchen table, shoulders hunched over his books again, pencil moving slower than usual. The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that carries unfinished feelings. Seonghwa stands there for a moment, watching his younger brother chew on his lip in concentration, and the guilt hits him fresh.

“Hey,” Seonghwa says softly.

Jongho looks up, wary.

“I’m sorry,” Seonghwa says immediately. He crouches so they’re eye level. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

Jongho blinks. “I just… I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

The words cut deeper than any argument.

Seonghwa swallows hard. “You didn’t,” he says. “You never could. One test doesn’t decide your worth. I know how hard you try. I see it. I just let my fear turn into pressure, and that’s on me.”

Jongho hesitates, then nods, eyes shining. “Okay.”

Seonghwa pulls him into a hug without asking, holding on a second longer than usual. Jongho hugs him back just as tightly.

Later, in the living room, Seonghwa gathers everyone without making a big deal of it. Mi-sook looks at him with quiet understanding. The girls climb onto the couch beside him. Jongho lingers close.

“I just want you all to know something,” Seonghwa says, voice steady but thick. “I love you. All of you. Everything I do — it’s for us. And I’m sorry if I ever forget how to say that right.”

Mi-sook reaches for him first, pulling him into her arms like she used to when he was small. The girls pile on, laughing and clinging. Jongho wraps his arms around Seonghwa’s waist. For a moment, they’re a tangle of warmth and shared history.

It feels like home.

The next day, you go with him to the cemetery.

The air is cool, the grass trimmed neatly, the world hushed in a respectful way. Seonghwa stands in front of his father’s grave for a long time before speaking, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders squared.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly. “I promise I am.”

He tells his father about the house. About Jongho’s school. About the girls growing too fast. About his mother smiling more lately. And then—about you.

“I’m gonna take care of them,” he says, voice firm now. “All of them. I’ll make you proud.”

You slip your hand into his, squeezing once.

Seonghwa exhales, some old weight finally easing from his chest. He leans down and presses his palm to the headstone, just for a second, then straightens.

When he turns back to you, his eyes are clearer. Steadier.

And as you walk away together, hand in hand, it feels like a promise kept—not just to the past, but to the life you’re building now.

. . . .

The house is quiet by the time night settles in fully.

The basement lamp casts a warm glow across the room, softening the edges of everything. You lie on your side facing Seonghwa, knees brushing, his arm draped loosely around your waist like it belongs there.

He’s been quiet for a while.

You trace idle patterns on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, until he finally speaks.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

He shifts closer, forehead resting against yours. “I was thinkin’ today. At the cemetery. About everything.” His thumb rubs slow circles at your hip, grounding, familiar. “I don’t know when. And I don’t know how fancy it’ll be—”

You smile softly. “Seonghwa—”

“I’m serious,” he says, eyes intent, a little nervous. “I’m gonna put a ring on your finger someday. I promise.”

Your breath catches. Not from surprise, but from how right it feels.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’ll wait.”

He kisses you then, slow and sure, like sealing a vow instead of making one. The kiss deepens gently, unhurried, his hand sliding up your side, yours curling into his hair. There’s laughter between kisses, quiet and breathless, the kind that only comes when you feel safe enough to want more.

His lips trail to your cheek, your jaw, your neck — soft, reverent touches that make your heart race. You pull him closer, and he responds instinctively, careful and attentive, as if every movement is a question he wants answered honestly.

The world narrows to warmth and closeness and the shared certainty that you’re choosing each other. Again, and again.

Later, wrapped together beneath the covers, his forehead rests against yours as the lamp clicks off.

“I love you,” he murmurs into the dark.

“I love you too.”

And with that promise held between you, the night carries you gently the rest of the way.

. . . .

The months pass in a blur of shared mornings and stolen kisses, of family dinners and late-night conversations that stretch until the sun comes up. The house fills with laughter more often than not, and Mi-sook's smile becomes a constant presence, a reminder of the life they've built together. Jongho's grades improve, and the girls grow taller and more beautiful every day, their eyes sparkling with the same determination as their mother and brother.

It’s late. Everyone is asleep upstairs. In the basement, however, soft moans fill the room as you and Seonghwa are tangled half-naked together. His lips trail kisses along your neck, whispering sweet nothings into your skin, his hands roaming your body, squeezing and rubbing while you writhe beneath him.

His voice comes out hoarse, "God, you're perfect," he murmurs against your neck, sucking gently on the sensitive spot below your ear. His hands squeeze your bottom, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how hard he is for you right now. "So beautiful," he whispers. His teeth graze your earlobe, his hips pressing against yours rhythmically as if begging for more friction. "Love you," he manages to choke out before kissing you deeply again, his tongue sliding against yours hungrily.

“Hwa,” you moan, hands gripping his broad shoulders as he slides his hand beneath your arched back, unclasping the hook of your brassiere and letting it fall. He’s seen your breasts a number of times now, but he always looks at you as if it’s the first time.

His breath hitches as his eyes lock onto yours, filled with awe and desire. "You take my breath away," he whispers reverently before leaning down to press soft kisses along the swell of your breasts. His hands cup them gently, thumbs brushing over nipples that harden instantly under his touch. He takes one into his mouth slowly, sucking lightly while his other hand slides down to grip your thigh possessively. The room is filled with the sound of wet kisses and soft moans as he worships every inch of you tenderly and urgently.

“Oh my gosh,” you whisper, biting down on your fingers to keep from being too loud. Your other hand tangles in his hair. The smell of soap and something uniquely him fills your senses as he licks and sucks at your breasts.

He smiles against your skin, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. He loves making you feel good, loves hearing those soft gasps and whimpers that only he can coax out of you. His hand on your thigh slowly slides higher, his fingers brushing over your sensitive inner thigh as he continues to lavish attention on your breasts. Suddenly, he lifts his head, his eyes dark with desire as he captures one of your fingers in his mouth, sucking gently before releasing it with a pop. "Shh,"

“I’m trying,” you whimper, breathing out a laugh as he chuckles against your skin. It was always like this with him. Passionate yet comfortable. Heated yet playful.

"You're doing great," he teases, his voice low and husky. His fingers continue to trace patterns on your inner thigh, inching closer and closer to the heat between your legs. He travels lower and presses a kiss to the curve of your hip before nuzzling his face there, inhaling deeply. "You smell like heaven," he murmurs, his breath warm against your sensitive skin. His fingers finally reach your core, gently pressing against the damp fabric of your underwear. "And you're soaking wet for me, aren't you?"

“You make me like this,” you say back, breathing hard and breasts heaving as you try to calm yourself.

He groans softly, his fingers gently rubbing through the wetness. "God, I love you like this," he admits, his voice thick with desire. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, slowly sliding them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours, "I love making you wet, making you gasp, making you come undone." His fingers slide back up your legs, this time finding your bare flesh, spreading your folds gently. "You're so beautiful here.”

You spread your legs for him, gasping as he slides his fingers through your wetness, whimpering when he brushes your swollen clit.

"Quiet, baby," he warns gently, but there's a smile in his voice. His fingers circle your clit slowly, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your hips jerk involuntarily. He's learned your body so well over the months — what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes you shake with pleasure. "Look at how wet you are," he murmurs approvingly, slipping two fingers inside you slowly while his thumb presses against your clit.

You mewl, curling into him, tilting your head up to kiss him hungrily.

He kisses you back passionately, his fingers moving inside you in a slow, deliberate rhythm as he swallows your whimpers and moans. His free arm wraps around your waist, holding you close as he devours your mouth, his tongue mimicking the movements of his fingers below. Suddenly, he breaks the kiss to bury his face in your neck, biting gently on that sensitive spot again as he curls his fingers upwards, hitting that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back.

Your gasp turns into barely contained moans as he continues to finger you, gliding along your sweet spot, pulling whimpers through bitten lips from you. He’s never seen anything so beautiful as you coming undone beneath him.

"You're getting close, aren't you?" he whispers against your neck, his breath hot on your skin as his fingers move faster, deeper. He knows those sounds, and it drives him crazy in the best way possible. He adds a third finger, stretching you gently, hitting that spot over and over until your hips are jerking wildly against his hand. "Come on, baby," he encourages softly, "Let me feel you tighten around my fingers." His thumb presses harder against your clit.

Your mouth opens silently, eyes closed tightly. He leans back, seeing the calm before the storm. And then he’s leaning down, kissing you as you tighten around his fingers. Wetness coats his long digits before it drips down onto the sheets, making him moan as he feels you shake and quiver in his arms.

He swallows every sound you make, his own moans vibrating against your lips as you clench around his fingers. Seeing you fall apart like this is the most beautiful thing he's ever witnessed. Your face contorted with pleasure, your body shaking helplessly in his arms. He slows his fingers gently as you come down from your high but keeps them inside you, wanting to feel every aftershock of your orgasm against his touch.

You breathe heavily as your eyes slowly open to look up at him. He’s looking at you with pure love, eyes taking in every inch of your face. He slowly pulls his fingers out, making you whimper and close your legs at the sensitivity.

"You're so gorgeous when you come," he murmurs, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean without hesitation. Your eyes widen at the sight — the way he doesn't even think twice about tasting you, the way he moans around your flavor like it's the best thing he's ever had. "I love making you feel good," he says softly, kissing you deeply so you can taste yourself on his tongue.

You kiss him back, tongue sliding along his, teeth clashing as you both curl into each other, eyes closed and hearts racing. A man and a woman in love.

He wraps his arms around you tightly, holding you against his chest as he deepens the kiss, pouring all his love and desire into it. His heart feels like it could burst with how much he loves you—your taste, your scent, your sounds of pleasure. He knows he'll never get enough of you, not in this lifetime or the next. He breaks the kiss to press soft ones along your jaw and neck, murmuring "I love you" over and over like a prayer between each press of his lips.

And then he’s slotting himself between your legs — hard and leaking, needy and desperate to feel you wrapped around his length. He reaches between your bodies and strokes himself before slowly sliding inside you. You both groan at the feeling. You’d made love several times now, but it was always like the first time. Tight heat and hard thickness.

He takes his time, sliding in inch by inch, giving you both a chance to savor the feeling of being so intimately connected. His forehead rests against yours as he goes deeper, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He lets out a shaky breath when he's fully sheathed inside you. Home. That's what this feels like every time. Coming home after being lost for so long.

After a few moments of kissing and letting you adjust to his thick length, he starts moving slowly, both sets of eyes rolling back in pleasure.

His movements are slow, steady, deliberate, as if he's trying to memorize every single second of being inside you. His hands grip your hips softly, guiding you against him in a slow, sensual rhythm. He watches your face intently, taking in every moan, every gasp, every tiny smile that plays on your lips. He loves seeing the pleasure wash over you, knows he's the one putting that look on your face. "You feel so good," he whispers, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

He braces himself on his forearms, holding his weight off you as much as he can as he rolls his hips perfectly against you. You slide your hands up his back and curl your fingers around his shoulders, pulling him down so that his chest is pressed against yours, wanting, needing the weight of him.

He presses his body fully against yours, his chest meeting your breasts, his hips fitting perfectly between your legs. He kisses you deeply as he moves, the angle allowing him to hit that spot inside you that makes your eyes flutter closed. His hands tangle in your hair, holding you close as he loves you slowly and thoroughly — every thrust measured and full of emotion. The room fills with soft sounds of skin meeting skin and whispered endearments between kisses.

You reach up and hold his face in your hands, looking up at him. “I love you so much,” you whisper.

His heart stutters at the words, his thrusts faltering for a moment before picking up speed again. He kisses your palm before pressing his own against your cheek. "I love you more," he vows fiercely, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that makes the bed creak softly beneath you. He buries his face in your neck, breathing in your scent and murmuring those three words over and over again like a promise.

Your bodies move faster as you both approach your climaxes. He reaches down and rubs tight circles on your clit, making you bite down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.

He grunts at the sudden bite, his fingers working furiously against your clit as he feels you start to tighten around him. The combination of his touch and his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you pushes you over the edge, your entire body shaking as you come apart around him—silently screaming into his shoulder as he swallows your muffled cries with hungry kisses. Feeling you fall apart sends him spiraling right after you, his own release hitting him hard as he buries himself deep inside you with a muffled groan against your skin.

You look up at the ceiling as he buries himself in your heat, pumping his warm seed into you, marking you as his, groaning and breathing hard into your neck, hands holding you tightly against him.

He stays buried inside you, his body shaking with aftershocks as he gently kisses your neck, collarbone, jaw—marking you. He knows you're sensitive right now, so he treats you like the most precious thing in the world—his hands gently stroking your sides, your hair, your face. He pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes filled with so much love and tenderness that it makes your heart skip a beat. "I'm not pulling out,"

You laugh softly, unintentionally tightening around him. You sigh, stroking his cheek. “We have rubbers in the drawer, and you never put one on,” you say, rubbing his back, scolding him gently. “You’re lucky that this pill came out last year,” you say softly. A contraceptive pill was launched last year, which made things a whole lot less complicated for you both. Seonghwa loved feeling you with no barrier, despite the risk of pregnancy.

He smiles sheepishly, pressing a soft kiss to your nose. "I know, I know," he murmurs against your skin. "But feeling you like this…it's just too good to resist." He shifts his hips slightly, still buried deep inside you, proving his point with a slow roll of his pelvis that makes both of you shudder. "Plus, I like the thought of getting you pregnant someday," he admits softly, his voice turning serious.

“That’s the whole point of the pill, Hwa. To not get pregnant. Not now at least.”

He pouts dramatically as he rolls onto his back, his softening cock slipping out of you with a wet sound that makes both of you blush. "I know, I know," he repeats, reaching for you to pull you onto his chest. "I just love the idea of seeing you round with my baby someday." He kisses your forehead tenderly. "But I understand. We’re not ready yet." His hand rests protectively over your lower belly anyway.

You both clean up your mess. Seonghwa is a menace, and his touches and kisses almost turn into more, but he’s able to control himself, and after a shower together, you’re in bed once more, clothed and holding each other.

You lie tangled together beneath the blankets, the lamp off now, the basement lit only by moonlight slipping in through the small window. Seonghwa’s arm is wrapped securely around you, your head tucked beneath his chin, his hand warm where it rests against your back—steady, protective, real.

His breathing is slow again. Yours matches it without trying.

For a long while, neither of you speaks.

Then he presses a kiss into your hair, soft and lingering. “You okay?” he murmurs, the question tender, practiced in care.

You smile against his chest. “More than okay.”

His hand tightens slightly, like he’s grounding himself in the answer. You shift closer, fingers tracing the lines of his ribs, feeling the proof of him—here, alive, choosing you.

“Can I tell you something?” you ask quietly.

“Always.”

You hesitate, then say it anyway. “I think… I’d like a family someday. Not right now. Just—someday. One that feels like this.”

He goes still for half a second.

Then his arms tighten around you, like the idea roots itself somewhere deep in his chest. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I want that too.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. His eyes are gentle in the dark, full of something steady and sure. 

He cups your face carefully, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “I promise you,” he says, voice low and unwavering, “as long as I’m around, you’ll never feel alone again. Never unwanted. Never small.”

Tears sting, but they’re warm ones this time.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He kisses your forehead, then your temple, then your lips—slow and reverent. “I love you,” he answers. “For the rest of my life.”

You settle back into him, heart full, future wide and frightening and beautiful all at once. And wrapped in his arms, listening to the house breathe around you, you know one thing with absolute certainty.

You are home.

. . . .

a/n: let me know what you guys think! seonghwa is always so polished and put together in my head, so having him be a greaser really did something to me. tysm for reading! see you on the next one <3

[hwalentine-s]

sooo beautiful <3

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

❛need to hear❜

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY. 1.7k words, mtf mingi !! she/her pronouns for mink, lesbians <3, girlcock tehe, dom fem reader, bdsm dynamics, hand job, edging like crazy: begging to cum and saying it hurts (but she really doesn't want to), pussy pocket, nipple clamps with a chain, making out, light choking, spit, thumb sucking, fingers in mouth+finger gagging, praise kink heavy, forehead touches (we're so fucking back), creampie, pet names: momma / sweet, good, girl, baby, princess, doll.

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

Her head is already heavy with lust, dropping to rest on the back of the couch whenever you pull away from her lips. Baring her neck to you. And you dive right in.

Her cock is twitching impatiently in your palm as you nip and suck on the sensitive skin of her neck. An airy curse gets stuck in her throat, hands trembling at their place on your waist. "Momma, please..."

"What's wrong, baby?" You muse into her neck, slowly dragging your tongue up the length of it as you come up.

Her eyes are glazed. Near dumb, and most definitely ditzy. Scatterbrained. Needy. So, so, needy. "Can we do that thing I like?" Soft and ever so urgent, her breath is hot against you, grounding you to the moment.

"Mh?" You trail your finger tips along her exposed chest, stopping just short of the buds of flesh that beg for your attention. "You have to be more specific, princess."

The heated dusting of embarrassment on her cheeks makes you grin. She's so easy to tease, and she knows it. She likes being teased. Especially by you.

"Can you... can we see how long I can make it?"

Oh, sweet girl. You're going to ruin her.

"Sure we can, baby~"

─༺♡༻─

"Fuck!" Her yell of desperation is music to your ears. "Momma, please!"

"No," you say stern. Quick and unwavering as you move the slick toy along her length. The lewd, wet noises echoing around you. "You can handle it, doll."

"N-no! I'm gonna cum!"

You pull the toy away at the very last second as you see her brows twitch, earning a loud and desperate moan as she bites her lip. "Ah," you tut your tongue, slipping your thumb to her lips, "gentle with my baby."

The soft sigh from her nose as she takes your thumb in her mouth is both an apology and a thanks.

You're still perched atop her lap an hour later.

A slow, teasing build up with your hands and two little clamps on her nipples. A fast and hot shove to her peak with the lube slick toy. Four ruined orgasms.

She's starting to lose it. Her hips trying desperately to pump up into your touch. Less and less time to work her back up to that delicious peak.

"That's my good girl~" Your soft cooing brings her back down. Reminds her of why she loves this so much. So much pleasure, so much praise. "That's four. You're doing so good for me. I know you want it so bad..."

She whines around your thumb, eyes pinched shut tightly as you tease your finger tips over her aching cock.

"...But you're not allowed to cum yet."

Her jaw falls slack as you start fisting her length once again, a garbled moan stuck in her throat.

"Not until you ask me."

She wants to. She wants to ask.

But she also never wants it to end.

"I need to c-" Her words fall off into a groan as you squeeze the base of her cock before letting go abruptly all over again.

"You know that's not how we ask," you lean and give a kiss to her jaw as she throws her head back with frustration. "Do you need to calm down?"

"Just- just a second."

You kiss your way up to her lips, pecking them softly as she pants. "Open."

She parts her lips without hesitation, tongue twitching in its place. "Thank you," your voice alone makes her eager cock twitch between you. "Such an obedient doll~"

With your index and middle fingers making their way into her mouth, she can't quite respond with words — so she just stares at you with hearts in her bleary eyes.

"Breathe." You order when you notice the lack of air from her, "through your nose, baby. There you go~"

Your fingers rub on her tongue gently, sliding the spit around and watching it glisten. "So beautiful." The mumble is almost subconscious, but it's just loud enough for her to hear. She knows it's intentional. Everything you do always is.

And you know how weak she is for being called beautiful.

That's why you have such a devious smile as you feel another twitch.

"Wider," you guide her mouth until it's wide open, keeping it there as you climb further up her lap. The feeling of your hot, wet core on her girth makes her whimper as she watches your purse your lips above her own.

The way your spit lands on your fingers inside of her mouth captivates you for a moment before your body seems to snap into action.

Free hand around the column of her throat, putting the slightest bit of pressure as you all but fuck her mouth with your fingers. You can feel her gagging under your hand before the sounds resonate in your ears. "Good girl, good fucking girl, stay wide for me."

The teasing of her body, the praise, your dominance over her in every sense of the word is keeping her on edge without pushing her closer to release. It's torture. She loves it.

Gagging and moaning around your fingers every second you allow her to before you pull them away and push her slack jaw closed, bubbled and messy spit trapped in her mouth. "Swallow." You demand as you swipe your messy fingers along her lips; and she's already doing just that the second you ask.

Her mouth opens to show off her pride; tongue free of spit lolling out from her slick lips.

"Look at that," you beam, leaning and pressing your tongue to hers, swirling it slightly. A perverted take on a kiss that leaves her light headed just as much as your honey dipped words. "You know just how to make me proud~"

She lets out a heavy breath as you slip the toy over her length again. The lube is slightly cool, the movements you make are slow and deliberate. "Thank you, Momma..." It trails off in a whine as her body begs for the release it's been teased with for so long.

"You're welcome, princess. Good girls get rewarded, don't they?"

"Yes- yes!" The confirmation turns into a shout of pleasure as you speed up. "Yes! Fuck, please!"

"No." She knows what to say to get permission. She's just playing a game, and you're the perfect partner.

"M'gonna cum, gonna cum-"

"No, you're not. My good girl knows better." You push her even further by reaching down and twirling the chain attached to the clamps around your finger. There's pressure, but no pulling — not yet.

That doesn't matter, though. She's going crazy. "Oh-" She has to swallow, shaking her head frantically. Not at you. At herself. Good girls don't cum until they ask. She knows this. She loves this.

"You know what I need to hear." You give it the slightest tug and you would have been bucked off her if not for her death grip on your hips; her nails digging into your skin.

Your hand finds its way back up to her neck in a warning — in a form of grounding — and she melts back beneath you. Her legs twitch under you, her face painted with a sheen of sweat, her lips almost trembling as she whimpers. "It h-hurts."

"It hurts, baby?"

She nods quickly, panting as you slow down, the wet noises coming few and far between as you glide the toy at the most teasing pace she's ever experienced. "Need to cum so bad, Momma."

"I know you do, sweet girl," you place your forehead against hers, massaging her neck softly. "But do you want to?"

"No," comes her answer quickly. No room for a lie. Even if it makes her cheeks burn even hotter.

"I don't want you to hurt, princess."

She's immediately ready to protest, to say she can take it, when all of the sudden the warmth of the toy is gone and all she can do is whine pathetically.

"I know what makes my baby feel better." The toy is replaced by something so much more — more everything. Hotter. Slicker. More familiar. Twitching and clenching as it sinks down on her.

"I'm gonna cum..." She lets out a gasp as you slowly envelop her aching member. "I'm gonna fucking cum, please, it hurts so good..."

"Shhh," you cup her cheeks, thumbs rubbing on her cheekbones as you take her to the hilt. "It's okay, doll," you feel the heaviness inside of you twitch as you slot your lips against hers.

"Need to cum," she mumbles against you, kissing you back clumsily.

"You know what I need to hear."

A single, purposeful clench from you is all it takes to break her resolve. "Fuck- Momma, please! Please, I've been so good- may I cum? Let me cum for you, plea-"

"You may."

A moan nearly chokes her, her body moving without her permission to flip you over on the couch. The second your back hits the cushion, she's drilling into you like her life depends on it. It very well may. Her heart is thudding so violently in her chest that she swears it's trying to jump into yours as the clamps on her nipples press against you.

You almost lose your composure, jaw dropping with a string of moans and yelps as she fucks into you perfectly. Nearly uncoordinated, no rhythm, no meaning other than fucking her cum into you.

But it makes the back of your brain tingle with pleasure. The tingles grow tenfold when you reach a hand down and circle your clit, panting into her open mouth as she presses her forehead to yours.

"Need you- to-" She's struggling. Still holding back even with permission. One more thing she wants to hear before letting go. "Need to hear you say it."

You know what she wants. Always do. Always will.

"You're so pretty when you cum for me, baby~ My pretty girl~" Your voice is wound tight with tension, and it snaps into a deep moan as she slams into you and fills you from the inside out with warmth.

It's a cycle for a bit. Your cunt pulsing around her cock and prolonging her much needed release, and the twitches of her cock pressing her right into a spot that makes you see stars.

Her arms lock around you as her body shakes, nearly crushing you beneath her as she slumps. "Momma..." She whimpers into your neck, nuzzling her face there as you wrap your arms around her head just as shaky.

"My pretty girl." Is just what she needs to hear.

─༺♡༻─

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[binniebb]

quiet fears ⟢ jung wooyoung

── .✦  You never meant to become his safe place, but love arrives quietly and stays. Wooyoung’s fears surface when he cares too much, and you meet them with softness. Together, you learn how to choose each other without fear.

✎ "i was wondering if you could write a wooyoung one? smut yet fluffy? where he introduced reader to his friends, (changbin, yeonjun) & they get along great which makes him sulky and jealous when they ask about her during their guys night out, because how dare they ask about her lol and with much reassurance in bed (wink wink smut) he realizes hes a pabo"

pairing: wooyoung x afab!reader genre: established relationship; hurt/comfort rating: smut, mature 18+  wc: 8.3k tw: [heavy themes of insecurity and jealousy, alcohol use, brief smoking, strong language] warnings: [possessive!wooyoung, dom!wooyoung, he is vocal y'all, detailed smut, creampie as always, flufffff, angst]

ᝰ.ᐟ This was requested by a lovely anon! Wooyoung is my bae so I couldn't pass this up, especially with an appearance from big boi Changbin?? I'm not familiar with Yeonjun or TXT at all so I hope you can't tell too much in the story, yikes. Love y'all and I'll see you in the next one <3

: ̗̀➛ masterlist  ੈ✩‧₊˚ message me!  ੈ✩‧₊˚

Warm light spills from the big glass windows, painting the sidewalk gold. Laughter drifts out, dishes clink, and Seoul hums around you. It should feel safe, but your stomach is doing flips.

You pause just outside the door.

Wooyoung notices immediately.

“Hey,” he says softly, turning toward you with that easy smile. His hand slides into yours, sensing you needed comfort. “Why’d you stop?”

You blink, suddenly realizing this is it. This is the moment you meet the people he’s talked about for weeks, the ones he loves like family.

“I just,” you start, then stop, because the words tangle up in your throat. You huff out a quiet laugh. “I’m nervous.”

He tilts his head, eyebrows lifting. “Nervous? About what?”

You look at him, and he nods. He knows. Wooyoung knows everything, like how you chew your lip when you’re anxious and how your thoughts spiral if you let them.

“What if they don’t like me?” you blurt. “What if I’m not funny enough? You’re always telling me how funny they are, and what if I stand there and say something stupid?”

Wooyoung stares at you for half a second.

Then he bursts out laughing.

It’s not mean. It’s the full, loud Wooyoung cackle, the kind that turns heads without even trying. His shoulders shake, eyes crinkle, and that ridiculous Woo laugh fills the air.

“Oh my god,” he says, squeezing your hand. “That's what you're worried about? That you’re not funny?”

You groan. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” he says quickly, still grinning at you. “I’m laughing because this is adorable.”

You roll your eyes, but your shoulders drop anyway.

Wooyoung steps closer, filling your space like he does when he wants your full attention. He lowers his head until his forehead touches yours, his voice turning soft, meant only for you.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” he says. “Changbin and Yeonjun are going to love you. Not because they’re my friends. Not because they trust my taste.” He smirks. “My taste is excellent, by the way.”

You snort despite your nerves.

“They’re going to love you because you’re you,” he continues. “Because you laugh too loud. Because you don’t care if you look silly. Because you say whatever comes to your mind and somehow make it charming.”

You swallow.

“And,” he adds, eyes warm and unwavering, “because I like you. A lot. They’ll see that, and they’ll get it.”

Your heart does a small, traitorous flip.

Wooyoung straightens suddenly, eyes lighting up with mischief. “Also,” he says, “if it helps, Changbin cries at commercials, and Yeonjun once tripped over absolutely nothing in front of a whole café.”

“Did not,” you say.

“Oh, absolutely did,” he insists, grinning wider. “I have evidence.”

You laugh then, really laugh, the sound spilling out of you and easing the tightness in your chest. Wooyoung beams like he’s just won something.

“There it is,” he says proudly. “See? You’re fine.”

Before you can overthink it again, he tugs you gently toward the door.

Inside, the restaurant feels cozy and lively. Exposed brick walls, low lights, and the smell of grilled meat and sesame oil fill the air. Wooyoung spots a booth near the back and waves.

“Hyung!” he calls.

Two heads turn.

Changbin is the first to stand, broad smile already in place, eyes bright and welcoming. Yeonjun follows, taller, relaxed, curiosity flickering across his face as his gaze lands on you.

“There you are,” Changbin says, stepping forward and pulling Wooyoung into a quick hug before turning to you. “You must be Y/N.”

You bow slightly out of instinct, laughing awkwardly. “Hi, yes. Nice to meet you.”

Yeonjun chuckles. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Wooyoung preens. “Only good things, obviously.”

Changbin snorts. “He wouldn’t shut up.”

You feel your face warm, but their looks aren’t judging. They’re warm and open, like they already trust you because Wooyoung does.

Dinner unfolds easily after that.

Too easily, actually.

Conversation comes easily, laughter filling the room. Changbin tells stories with big gestures while Yeonjun adds side comments. You join in without thinking, teasing Wooyoung and laughing at Yeonjun’s dry jokes.

At some point, you realize you’re not nervous anymore.

Wooyoung watches you from across the table, chin in his hand, eyes soft enough to make your chest ache. Each time you laugh, he smiles. When you touch his arm, even by accident, he focuses on you, like he needs your presence.

Changbin notices. He leans back slightly, nudging Yeonjun with his elbow. “He’s gone,” he murmurs, not quietly enough.

Wooyoung bristles. “I’m sitting right here.”

Yeonjun smirks. “You look happy.”

Wooyoung glances at you, then away, suddenly shy in a way you’ve learned means he’s feeling something deeply. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

Something in the way he says it makes your heart swell.

Later, when you excuse yourself to the restroom, Changbin raises an eyebrow at Wooyoung.

“She’s special,” Changbin says simply.

Wooyoung nods, watching you enter the restroom. “I know.”

But under the warmth, laughter, and comfort, something else quietly settles in his chest.

The fear of losing something this good.

When you step back onto the sidewalk, the night air feels cooler, brushing your skin and giving you a sense of reset.

Changbin pulls you into a hug first, easy and familiar like you’ve known him longer than a single dinner. “Next time,” he says, pointing between you and Wooyoung, “we’re going bowling.”

Yeonjun nods seriously. “And you should probably pick one of us for your team.”

Wooyoung scoffs. “Why are you acting like I’m bad at bowling?”

Changbin laughs. “Because you are.”

“You threw the ball into the gutter six times,” Yeonjun adds, entirely too pleased.

You laugh, hands lifting in surrender. “I haven't committed to any team yet.”

“But you’re thinking of it,” Wooyoung says, narrowing his eyes at you.

You grin. “Maybe.”

He clicks his tongue, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. “Traitor.”

Changbin grins at the sight. “She’s brave. I like her.”

Yeonjun gives you a small salute. “Text us. We’ll plan it.”

“I will,” you promise, meaning it.

They hug you again before leaving, still teasing Wooyoung as they walk away. You watch them go, feeling warmth linger in your chest.

When you turn back, Wooyoung is already looking at you.

“Well?” he asks, eyes searching your face.

“Well,” you echo, smiling softly. “They’re great. You were right.”

His shoulders relax like he’s been holding his breath all night and a bright smile forms on his face that makes your heart beat out of control. “I told you.”

The Uber arrives, and you both slide into the backseat, your knees touching. The car smells faintly of pine and cleaning wipes, making you question why they were needed in the first place. The city lights streak past as the driver pulls away.

Wooyoung doesn’t let go of your hand.

“So,” he says, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles, “you survived.”

“Barely,” you tease. “I almost passed out when Changbin told that story about your pants falling.”

He groans. “He promised he wouldn’t tell anyone that.”

“You cried,” you remind him gently.

“I was emotional.”

You laugh, leaning into his shoulder. “You’re so cute.”

He turns toward you, eyes soft again, smile slower this time. “You are. And amazing. The guys love you.”

You tilt your head. “You say that like you’re proud.”

“I am,” he says immediately.

The car hits a bump, making you both sway closer. Wooyoung’s arm tightens around you.

“You okay?” you ask quietly.

He nods, but his gaze stays fixed on you. “I just really like you.”

Something in his voice makes your heart stutter.

You lean in without thinking, your lips brushing his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. It’s meant to be a quick kiss—a sweet one.

Wooyoung turns his head.

The kiss lands properly this time, soft at first, lingering. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb warm against your skin. You sigh into the kiss, and that’s all it takes.

He deepens it, pulling you closer, like he’s been waiting all night for this moment alone. The city fades away. The only thing that exists is the warmth of his mouth and the way he hums softly when you kiss him back.

A quiet cough comes from the front seat.

You freeze.

Your eyes fly open, and you pull back just enough to register the driver’s eyes flicking to the rearview mirror before returning to the road.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, mortified. “Wooyoung.”

He blinks once, then grins.

“What?” he says, entirely unbothered.

“We’re in an Uber.”

“So?”

You push lightly at his chest, whispering-yelling while ducking in embarrassment. “The driver can see us.”

Wooyoung lifts your face to his, forehead pressing to yours, voice low and playful. “He can also mind his business.”

“Wooyoung,” you hiss, trying not to laugh.

“I’ve been good all night,” he continues, hands sliding to your waist. “Let me be a little bad.”

You’re smiling too much to argue properly.

He kisses you again, slower this time, softer, but somehow more needy. Like he’s pouring everything he’s been holding back into the way he clings to you. His fingers curl into your clothes, grounding himself.

“You looked so good tonight,” he murmurs against your lips. “You have no idea how much I wanted to drag you to the bathroom and show you how much you affected me.”

Your thighs clench.

“You’re insane,” you whisper.

He shrugs, pressing another kiss to your mouth, then your cheek, then your jaw. “I’m down bad. What can I say?”

Another cough from the front.

You both pull apart, laughing, breathless and flushed. Wooyoung grins and kisses you one last time before facing the window again. You shake your head, laughing, fingers lacing with his again. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He squeezes your hand tight. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I really am.”

And for the rest of the ride, he doesn’t let go.

One night becomes many. Dinners lead to drinks, then to loud streets, neon signs, and arms around shoulders as you walk. Changbin and Yeonjun become a regular part of your life, just as you do in theirs.

And you fit.

Too well.

At first, it makes Wooyoung’s chest feel full in the best way.

He loves watching you with them. Loves how quickly you stop being polite and start being real. You tease Changbin about his dramatic reactions, mock Yeonjun’s fake confidence when he pretends not to care about someone cute across the bar. You laugh loudly, clap when one of them gets rejected, and chant their names when they actually get a number.

“LET’S GO,” you yell once, grabbing Changbin’s shoulders when a girl types her number into his phone. Changbin laughs so hard he almost drops it.

Wooyoung watches from beside you, smiling, heart warm and stupidly proud.

These are his people.

And you love them.

That matters more to him than he ever expected it to.

But then there are moments. Small, quiet moments slip under his skin before he can stop them.

Changbin leans in to hear you better over the music, hand resting briefly on your shoulder. Nothing wrong with it. He’s always been like that. Friendly. Familiar.

Yeonjun falls back into you when you laugh at one of his jokes. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. Why would you? You trust him. You’re comfortable.

And he hates that he notices.

Hates that his jaw tightens before he can stop it. Hates the hot flash of something sharp and irrational that blooms in his chest.

He tells himself it’s nothing.

They’re flirts, sure, but they flirt with random girls. Not his girl. It’s harmless. It’s who they are. They respect him. They respect you.

Still, his eyes follow every touch.

Every brush of fingers. Every laugh. Every hug.

He loves how close you all are.

And he hates how close you all are.

There’s a night when Yeonjun drapes his jacket over your shoulders because it’s cold, and you thank him with a bright smile, tugging it tighter around yourself. Wooyoung is right there. He notices the way Yeonjun’s hand lingers just a second too long.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

He feels it as a quiet, steady burn, a reminder that the world sees you now, that you exist beyond just him.

You ask him about it later, poking his side as you walk home. “You okay? You’ve been quiet.”

He laughs it off, like he always does. “Just tired.”

You don’t press.

You never press.

That almost makes it worse.

Because you trust him enough not to question it. Because you assume he’s fine. Because you don’t see the way his thoughts spiral, ugly and unwanted.

He knows his friends. Knows how charming they are. Knows how easily they make people feel special.

He hates himself for the thought that follows.

What if they make you feel special, too?

He hates that he even thinks it.

Most nights, he pushes it down. He wraps an arm around you, pulls you close, and reminds himself you chose him, that you go home with him, that your hand fits perfectly in his.

He forgets about it when he’s buried inside you, when you’re moaning his name, squeezing around him. Locks it away when you look up at him with those pretty eyes and fluttering lashes.

But the jealousy doesn’t disappear.

It waits.

Quietly.

Patiently.

And he doesn’t know yet that one day, something small is going to tip it over the edge.

The bar is already loud when he pushes the door open, warm with music and chatter and that familiar mix of citrus cleaner and spilled beer. Changbin spots him first and practically lights up, arm shooting into the air like he’s flagging down a taxi.

“WOO!”

Yeonjun turns just in time to watch Wooyoung get tackled into a hug, Changbin’s strength knocking the air out of him.

“Hey, hey,” Wooyoung laughs, shoving him back. “You trying to kill me?”

Changbin grins. “Missed you.”

Yeonjun claps a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder, smiling widely. “About time.”

Wooyoung slides into the booth across from them and takes off his jacket. For a moment, everything feels easy and light. His shoulders relax, and he doesn’t feel like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.

“Where’s Y/N?”

The question lands softly. Casual. Wooyoung doesn’t think twice about answering. “Family thing. Her cousin’s in town or something.”

Yeonjun makes a dramatic face. “Ugh.”

Changbin slumps back against the booth. “Great. Night’s ruined.”

Wooyoung laughs, sharp and quick. “Relax. You’ll survive one night without her.”

Changbin clicks his tongue. “Barely. She’s way more fun than you.”

It’s a joke—a harmless one. Changbin says stuff like that all the time. Still, something tightens in Wooyoung’s chest.

He forces a grin. “Watch it.”

They move on easily, like they always do. Drinks ordered. Stories exchanged. Changbin animated as ever, Yeonjun leaning back, listening with that lazy smile of his.

The bartender comes by with their drinks, and Changbin perks up instantly.

“Oh wow,” Changbin says, leaning his elbows on the bar when she passes again. “Do you come with the drinks or is that extra?”

She laughs, clearly entertained. “Depends. You tipping well?”

Yeonjun snickers. “He does not.”

Changbin rolls his eyes at her. “Ignore him.”

Wooyoung watches it all unfold, eyes following the easy way the bartender smiles back, the way Changbin eats up the attention like he always does. Usually, it wouldn’t bother him. He’d tease Changbin about it later.

Tonight, his smile feels stiff. His thoughts drift where he doesn’t want them to.

To you.

To the way Changbin leans in close when he laughs. The way Yeonjun drapes an arm around shoulders like it’s nothing. To how easily they make people feel seen. He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

Changbin turns back to the booth, grinning. “Y/N would love this place. She always likes spots like this.”

Wooyoung’s fingers curl around his glass.

Yeonjun nods. “Yeah. She’d probably steal your drink and say it tastes better than hers.”

Wooyoung exhales through his nose. “She does that.”

Changbin chuckles. “She’s bold.”

Something snaps.

“Okay,” Wooyoung says, voice sharper than he means it to be as he sets his glass down. The sound cuts through their laughter. “Why are you talking about her like that?”

Both of them look at him.

Changbin blinks. “Like what?”

Wooyoung leans back, jaw tight, pulse suddenly loud in his ears. “Like she’s not my girlfriend.”

The air shifts.

Yeonjun straightens a little. “Wooyoung, we were just—”

“I know,” Wooyoung cuts in, running a hand through his hair. His laugh comes out hollow. “I know you’re joking. I get it. I just don’t like it.”

Changbin frowns, confused now. “We weren’t insinuating anything.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Wooyoung snaps, then immediately regrets the edge in his voice.

Silence settles over the table, thick and awkward.

Wooyoung swallows, chest tight with something ugly and exposed. “I’m just saying,” he adds more quietly, “she’s not here. So maybe stop talking about her like she belongs to everyone.”

Changbin opens his mouth, then closes it. Yeonjun watches Wooyoung carefully, expression unreadable.

“Oh,” Changbin says slowly. “Is that what this is?”

Wooyoung doesn’t answer. Because the truth is sitting heavy in his chest, undeniable now. He isn’t just annoyed. He’s scared. And his friends can see it.

For a moment, no one says anything.

The music keeps playing. Laughter spills from nearby tables. The bartender calls out another order. Life continues around them like nothing has cracked open at their booth.

Yeonjun is the first to move.

He exhales slowly, palms lifting in a calming gesture. “Hey,” he says, voice steady, careful. “Wooyoung. We respect you. And we respect Y/N. We would never do anything to cross a line or mess with your relationship. Ever.”

Wooyoung laughs, sharp and humorless. “You say that, but you’re always touching her. Laughing with her. Acting like—”

“Like what?” Yeonjun asks, brows knitting together. “Like friends?”

“That’s not how it feels,” Wooyoung snaps, heat rising in his chest again. “You’re too comfortable with her.”

Changbin’s head lifts immediately.

“Okay,” Changbin says, tone changing, the easygoing warmth gone. “That’s not fair.”

Wooyoung turns to him, frustration flashing in his eyes. “I didn’t say you were trying anything. I’m just saying you don’t need to be all over her.”

Changbin leans forward now, elbows on the table, voice firm in a way Wooyoung rarely hears from him. “We’re not all over her. We’re friendly. Because you wanted that.”

Wooyoung scoffs. “I wanted you guys to get along. I didn’t say—”

“You invited her into our lives,” Changbin cuts in. “You told us she was special. You told us to treat her like family. And now you’re mad because we do?”

The words hit harder than Wooyoung expects.

Yeonjun nods quietly. “She’s important to you. So we’re careful. We’ve always been careful.”

Wooyoung shakes his head, pacing his fingers against the table. “It doesn’t feel careful.”

Changbin’s jaw tightens. “Then that’s on you.”

The silence that follows is heavier than before.

Changbin rarely snaps. When he does, it means something is genuinely wrong.

Yeonjun glances around then, noticing the way a couple at the bar has started watching them, the way the bartender keeps glancing over like she’s trying to decide whether to intervene.

“Hey,” Yeonjun says quietly. “Let’s take this outside.”

Wooyoung opens his mouth to argue, then closes it.

He nods once.

They stand, drinks abandoned, and step out into the cool night air. The noise of the bar dulls behind them, replaced by passing cars and distant voices.

Standing under the streetlights, with nowhere to hide, Wooyoung finally feels the weight of everything settle in his chest. He digs into his pocket the moment the door shuts behind them, fingers already trembling as he pulls out a cigarette. Changbin notices immediately. So does Yeonjun.

“Wow,” Changbin says, eyebrows lifting. “That bad, huh?”

Wooyoung doesn’t answer. He lights it, inhales too fast, coughs once, then exhales a shaky stream of smoke. He doesn’t even enjoy it. He never does. It’s just something to do with his hands. Something to keep himself together.

Changbin crosses his arms. “Okay,” he says more gently now. “What’s really going on?”

Wooyoung laughs weakly, eyes fixed on the concrete. “Don’t start.”

“I’m starting,” Changbin replies. “Because this isn’t about us.”

Yeonjun nods. “And it’s not about Y/N.”

That does it.

Wooyoung drags a hand down his face, cigarette trembling between his fingers. “I don’t know how to turn it off,” he admits, voice low and rough. “I hate feeling like this.”

Changbin’s expression softens. “Like what?”

“Jealous,” Wooyoung snaps, finally looking up. “Insecure. Possessive. All the things I swore I’d never be.”

He exhales again, sharper this time. “I never cared like this. Never cared enough to feel like I was losing my mind over nothing.”

They stay quiet, listening.

“Y/N makes me want to be better,” Wooyoung continues, words tumbling out now that he’s started. “Like I should have my shit together. Like I should deserve her. And every time I see her laughing with you guys, or anyone really, I just…” He trails off, jaw clenching.

He looks down at the cigarette between his fingers like it’s betrayed him.

“She hates when I smoke,” he mutters, then suddenly flicks it to the ground and crushes it under his shoe. “See? That’s my point. I care so much it makes me stupid.”

Changbin stares at him. “That’s not stupid.”

“That’s terrifying,” Wooyoung says quietly.

Yeonjun finally speaks. “You know what we see?”

Wooyoung shakes his head.

“We see the way her eyes soften when she looks at you,” Yeonjun says. “Like the rest of the world stops existing.”

Changbin nods. “We see how she always ends up next to you, even when she doesn’t mean to. Like gravity just pulls you back together.”

Wooyoung swallows.

“You don’t notice,” Changbin adds, “but you mirror each other. Same posture. Same stupid little habits. It’s gross, honestly.”

Wooyoung lets out a wet laugh. “Screw you.”

“And,” Changbin continues, softer now, “she’s never once looked at either of us the way she looks at you. Not even close.”

Yeonjun glances away, awkward suddenly. “I mean, you guys kind of move like you’re already a unit.”

Changbin hums. “Yeah. Kinda feels like love.”

Wooyoung doesn’t deny it.

His throat tightens, emotion swelling too fast for him to swallow down. He blinks hard, laughs again, trying to shake it off. “Okay, wow. Can we not? I’m not about to cry on the sidewalk.”

Changbin grimaces. “Please don’t cry. I don’t know what to do with that.”

Yeonjun clears his throat, hands shoved in his pockets. “Yeah, man. We’re not equipped for that.”

Wooyoung wipes at his eyes anyway, embarrassed. “God, I hate you guys.”

Changbin steps closer, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”

“But you’re our idiot,” Yeonjun adds.

Wooyoung exhales, shaky but lighter, the tightness in his chest easing a bit.

The drive home is quieter than how the night started.

Wooyoung cracks the window, letting cool air in as the city passes by in a blur of lights and familiar streets. His chest still feels tender, like something raw is exposed, but it’s lighter now. Saying it out loud helped more than he thought. Hearing it back helped even more.

He exhales slowly, fingers tapping the steering wheel in time with the low music playing through the speakers.

Then his phone lights up. Your name and goofy picture that he took on one of your guys’ dates fills the screen.

His lips curve up before he can stop it.

He answers through the car, voice immediately softer. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you say, already breathless like you’ve been talking to someone else just seconds before. “Okay, so my cousin is actually insane.”

Wooyoung chuckles, easing back in his seat. “That bad?”

“You don’t understand,” you continue, words tumbling over each other. “He tried to teach everyone how to play this drinking game, which he definitely made up on the spot, and then he spilled his drink on himself and blamed the dog.”

Wooyoung laughs, honest and unguarded. He can picture you clearly: animated hands, bright eyes, not caring how silly you sound.

“That tracks,” he says fondly.

You keep going, telling him about the food, the chaos, the way you escaped to a quieter corner to breathe for a minute. He doesn’t interrupt. He never does. He just listens, smiling to himself, warmth spreading through his chest with every silly detail.

Eventually, you trail off.

“Oh,” you say suddenly. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

He shakes his head even though you can’t see it. “I like it.”

You hum softly, then ask, “How was your night?”

He pauses for half a second.

“It was fun,” he says honestly. “I’m glad I got to hang out with the guys.”

“That’s good,” you reply, then groan dramatically. “Ugh. I wish I was there.”

His fingers tighten on the wheel just a little.

“Yeah?” he asks carefully. “You miss them?”

There it is. The insecurity sneaks in before he can stop it.

You laugh immediately. “What? No. I miss you.”

The words hit him square in the chest.

“Oh,” he breathes, smile spreading slowly and helplessly across his face.

“I mean,” you continue, voice softer now, “I like them, but you’re the one I wanted to see tonight.”

His shoulders relax completely, tension melting away like it was never there.

“I miss you too,” he admits, quiet but sincere. Then, a little hopeful, “Can I come over?”

You don’t hesitate. “Of course you can. The door’s unlocked.”

His heart stutters.

“Okay,” he says, grin widening. “I’ll be there soon.”

He ends the call and pulls onto your street a few minutes later, lighter than he’s felt all night. No matter how loud his doubts are, your voice always quiets them.

You hear the lock turn before you hear his footsteps.

The door opens quietly, and familiar sounds fill your apartment as he comes in. He kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat where you always ask him to. The small, everyday noises make your chest ache in a good way.

You don’t give him time to look up.

You launch yourself at him, arms wrapping tight around his neck, the force of it knocking a surprised laugh out of him as he stumbles back half a step.

“Hey,” he laughs, arms coming around you instantly. “Wow.”

“I missed you,” you mumble into his shoulder, kissing his jaw, his cheek, anywhere you can reach. “So much.”

His hold tightens like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens it. He presses his face into your hair, breath hitching just slightly.

“It’s only been a few hours,” he murmurs, but there’s no teasing in it.

Five months. Five months with the best guy you could ask for. It’s long enough that this feels natural. Long enough that your body recognizes him before your brain does. Long enough that the word love has started hovering at the edge of your thoughts, heavy and terrifying and beautiful all at once.

You don’t say it.

Not yet.

Instead, you just breathe him in. Warm and familiar. Wooyoung.

And then you smell it.

Your brows knit together as you pull back just enough to look at him. “Did you smoke?”

His eyes flick away.

You don’t scold him. You never do. You just rest a hand on his chest, thumb brushing slowly.

“Baby,” you say softly. “What’s wrong?”

That’s all it takes.

His shoulders sag. The tough exterior he wears so easily with everyone else crumbles right there in your entryway. He pulls you back into him, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost steals your breath.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice low and strained.

You let him guide you to the couch, settling in together like you’ve done a hundred times before. He sits first, then pulls you into his lap, forehead pressed to your shoulder, arms locked around your waist.

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then the words spill out.

About the bar. About the tension. About the jealousy that makes him feel ashamed and scared and not like himself. About how much he cares, how much it terrifies him. About the cigarette, the frustration, the way he feels like he’s constantly falling short of the person he wants to be for you.

You listen. You always listen.

You run your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, helping him calm down. When he finally looks up, his eyes are glossy and vulnerable, and your heart aches.

“Oh, Wooyoung,” you whisper, cupping his face. “You don’t have to be perfect for me.”

His voice cracks. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

You press your forehead to his. “You’re not.”

He exhales shakily, pulling you closer again, burying his face in your neck and letting his hands trace the shape of you, like he’s memorizing you.

You stay curled up with him, one hand over his heart as if to make sure it’s still beating, grounding both of you.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He hums softly in response, eyes still closed, arms firm around you like he’s afraid letting go might undo him.

You take a breath, choosing your words carefully. You always do with him.

“I really like your friends,” you say gently. “They’re amazing. They’re funny and loud and exactly like you said they’d be.”

His shoulders tense just a little, like he’s bracing himself.

“But,” you continue, thumb tracing slow circles into his chest, “they’re not you.”

He opens his eyes then, looking at you fully.

“No one else makes me feel the way you do,” you say, voice steady even though your heart is racing. “I don’t gravitate toward anyone else. I don’t miss anyone else like this.”

You rest your forehead against his. “You don’t have to worry about being compared. There isn’t anyone to compare you to.”

Something soft breaks across his face.

He swallows. “You make it really hard not to fall for you,” he admits quietly.

You smile instead of answering, leaning in and pressing your lips to his.

This kiss is deep, not rushed or playful. It’s full and warm, heavy with everything you’re both not ready to say. His hands slide into your hair, holding you close. You give everything to the kiss, and he matches you.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.

“I don’t think I’m very good at hiding it,” he murmurs.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper.

You slip off his lap, fingers immediately finding his hand again, tugging him gently toward the hallway. He follows without hesitation, eyes dark and soft all at once.

“Come on,” you say, smiling shyly over your shoulder. “I want to show you how much you mean to me.”

His grip tightens around your hand, and he follows you, trusting you completely.

You lead him to your room silently, the house quiet around you as if the rest of the world has faded away. His heart pounds steadily in his chest with anticipation.

He can feel himself getting hard, taking in your tiny shorts and crop top that he hadn’t noticed when he first showed up, too distracted by the heavy thoughts that loomed over him. But now he’s distracted by the way your hips sway, the way the shorts hug your round ass, and the way he can see your nipples poking against the fabric. No bra.

He follows you in, the door clicking shut behind you. The lamp throws a soft glow across the room, shadows stretching over the bed. He can’t help staring—at you, at the bed, at the way you move like you know exactly what he’s thinking. His jeans are already too tight, his mind a mess of want. He shifts, but it doesn’t help. Not even close.

You go to close the blinds, and he steps up behind you, hands finding your hips, kissing along the column of your neck as he presses forward into your ass. You close your eyes and tilt your head, giving him more access as your hands grip the windowsill.

His hands find your waist, tugging you back until you’re flush against him. He groans, low and rough, his mouth dragging along your neck, leaving heat and little marks in his wake. Your top comes off, slow and greedy. He palms your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples. "Fuck," he says, voice thick. He sucks in air through his teeth as he feels the weight of your tits in his hands. "You’re unreal."

You moan, biting your bottom lip as he tweaks your sensitive nipples, pushing back into his erection, gasping when he bites down on your shoulder before soothing it with his tongue, humming in pride when bruises start forming along your delicate skin.

He squeezes your breasts, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. You arch into him, hips rolling back, and he bites your shoulder again, harder this time. His hands slip down, fingers sneaking under your shorts, finding only soft skin. "No underwear?"

“I took them off when you told me you were coming over,” you pant out, thighs parting as his fingers slide along your wet flesh, whimpering as he skips over your aching clit.

Wooyoung groans, cock twitching at the thought. His fingers find your soaked entrance and dip them in slightly. "You were gonna let me fuck you the second I walked in, huh?"

You buck your hips, seeking friction on the one place he’s purposely avoiding. “Baby, please,” you plead, turning your head to press your lips messily against his. You’re pushing back into him, and he’s pressing forward into you, moans filling the dim room.

He kisses you back, messy and hungry, tongue sliding against yours. His fingers tease your clit, always just missing the spot you need. He groans into your mouth, hips grinding into you. "You’re soaked," he mutters, before finally slipping the two fingers teasing your hole inside you, easily. You cry out as he curls them up, knowing exactly how you liked it.

He groans. “Always so tight for me,” he mutters hotly against your neck, kissing your pulse point. And then he’s sliding his fingers in and out, frustratingly slow, thumb finally pressing down onto your swollen clit. Your pussy clenches at the feeling as your head falls forward, a loud moan erupting from your parted lips.

He grins against your neck, fingers working you open, thumb circling your clit just right. He knows exactly what you like, and he’s doing it on purpose. "You like that?" he murmurs, voice rough. He scissors his fingers, stretching you. "Tell me," he growls, grinding into you, desperate for your answer.

“So fucking good. Only you can make me this wet and feel this fucking good,” you cry out.

He groans, slipping his fingers out of your pussy with a loud wet sound before pushing your shorts off completely and picking you up. He places you on the bed, dragging you forward until your ass rests on the edge. He rips his shirt off before kneeling before you, spreading your thighs apart.

You whimper, watching him with flushed cheeks and wild eyes.

He looks at you—messy, perfect, and all his. He spreads you open. "Look at you," he growls, before his mouth is on you, sucking your clit into his mouth. You cry out, fingers twisting in the sheets. He groans, tongue flicking, lost in you. "So fucking pretty."

“Oh, fuck! Mmph! Wooyoung,” you cry, falling onto your back and arching as he drags his tongue through your folds, slurping at your drenched hole. “Baby, fuck, oh my God!” You whimper out, rocking your hips into his mouth. “So good,” you whisper.

He devours you, tongue everywhere—inside, then circling your clit, then back again. His hands hook under your thighs, pulling them up over his shoulders. "You always taste so good," he mumbles, mouth full of you. He watches you writhe, then slides two fingers back inside, never letting up.

“So fucking good with your mouth, mmph, your fingers, cock, everything,” you say, babbling incoherently as he fucks his fingers into you, circling and scissoring expertly.

He hums around your clit, watching you and your reactions. He unbuckles his belt and pushes his jeans and boxers down as much as he can with one hand before gripping his cock. He groans with relief as he starts fisting himself.

His hand slides wetly over his length, matching the pace of his fingers inside you, mouth never leaving your clit. The room is all messy sounds—your moans, his breath, the wet slide of skin. He adds a third finger, curling them just right. "You gonna come on my face?"

“Wanna ride your face so bad, Woo,” you whimper, sitting up and leaning back on your elbows. You see his arm flexing quickly, and realize he’s jerking himself off, turned on by how good he was making you feel. “Come here, baby. Lay down,” you say, scooting away from his mouth and patting the bed.

He reluctantly gives your clit one last suck, then stands, shoving his jeans and underwear off. His cock is flushed, leaking, and desperate. He flops back on the bed, hand still wrapped around himself, eyes dark and hungry. He scoots himself so his head rests on the pillows, letting go of his cock to beckon you over. "Want you on my tongue when you come,” he says, voice low and raspy.

He thinks you’re gonna sit on him, facing the headboard like you usually do, but at the last second, you turn so you’re facing his feet. You wiggle around so your cunt is directly over his mouth before lowering yourself and slipping his dick into your hot, wet mouth, one hand holding him by the base.

His eyes go wide as you turn and lower yourself onto his face, his tongue finding you instantly. He groans, the sound vibrating through you. His hands grip your hips, pulling you down greedily. At the same time, your mouth slides over his cock, taking him deep. "Fuck," he groans into you, hips jerking up.

You moan around him, both at the taste and weight of his heavy length on your tongue. He moans into your folds, parting them with his tongue and sucking on anything his lips come in contact with while thrusting his hips up gently into your pretty little mouth.

He tries to focus, but your mouth is too good. Your moans vibrate around him, and he groans, hands squeezing your ass, spreading you open so he can lick everywhere. You’re dripping all over his face, messy and perfect.

“Oh fwuck,” you say around him, eyes closing in pleasure while you try to focus on sucking him off. Your tongue swirls along the ridges of his flushed tip before you bob your head back down, taking as much of his length as you can.

His tongue works you over, thumbs spreading you wider. He groans, hips thrusting up, making you gag a little, spit dripping down your chin. You’re so wet his face is slick with you. He pulls back to suck your clit, tongue moving fast.

You pull off him, stroking him with one hand while you lie on his thigh, breathing hard. “I’m so close, Woo,” you moan, hips swiveling on his face, letting out a squeak when he slaps your ass, groaning into your cunt as it jiggles.

He grabs both cheeks and pushes you down harder in his mouth, shaking his head side to side with his tongue flat for you. You let out a loud cry before taking him back in your mouth and taking him as deep as you can while using one hand to fondle his heavy balls.

He growls into you, your mouth and hands driving him wild. He eats you out harder, tongue lapping fast, hands gripping your ass, spreading and slapping. The room is filled with the sound of filthy sex.

“I’m gonna come,” he warns, pulling back from your pussy just enough for you to hear. He grips your cheeks, thrusting his hips faster, teeth clenched and eyes closed tight. He feels his cock start to twitch and the tingling at the base of his spine. “I’m gonna come, baby, fuuuck,” he groans out before he buries his face in your pussy, coming down your throat, coating your mouth in thick, hot spurts.

His orgasm triggers your own, making you moan loudly around his pulsing cock, grinding your pussy down on his mouth as your hole flutters and clenches, your release dripping onto his tongue, making him grunt and suck harder.

Wooyoung swallows everything you give him, tongue gentle now, licking you through the aftershocks. His hands keep you in place, holding you down until you finally stop shaking. He presses a soft kiss to your thigh, then smacks your ass, grinning.

“Ah!” You cry out, his softening dick slipping out of your mouth with a plop. You roll off him, wiping your mouth and turning your body to face him. His face is smeared in your juices, and he’s got the biggest shit-eating grin. You laugh, using the tissues on your bedside table to wipe his face. “What?”

Wooyoung lets you wipe him off, then pulls you close, kissing you slowly and deeply. He tastes himself on your tongue, and it just makes him want you more. He buries his face in your neck, arms tight around you. "That was insane," he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin.

“You say that every time we have sex,” you say, rolling your eyes, a playful smile on your face. The room reeks of sex, and your bodies are covered in a layer of sweat and filth.

He laughs into your neck, then pulls back to look at you, eyes bright. "Yeah, but that for sure topped every other time," he says, running his hand up and down your back.

You roll your eyes again before getting up to use the restroom. “You’ve said that before, too,” you tease, shuffling over to the door. “Hydrate and rest up. There’s still a round 2.”

He watches your ass as you go, smirking. "Yes, boss," he calls, grabbing the water bottle on your bedside table and chugging it.

Twenty minutes later, you’re folded in half, knees pressed to your chest, tits bouncing and face scrunched up in pure ecstasy as Wooyoung grunts above you, hips snapping into yours, cock spitting you open.

He pushes your knees back further, fucking into you hard. The sounds are filthy. He’s rough, almost desperate, but you just take it, mouth open, moaning for him.

“Tell me, baby. Tell me who else can fuck you like this, huh? Tell me who fills this pussy better than me?” He growls out, reaching down to rub your clit while his cock pistons in and out of you, dragging along your wet, gummy walls.

“No one! Only you can,” you whimper, gripping the pillows, crying out when his fingers start flicking and pinching your pulsing nub.

"Damn right," he growls as he pounds into you, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, fingers playing your clit like an instrument. "You’re mine. Only I get you like this." He bites your neck, hips snapping, words and body both relentless.

You babble incoherently, drunk on how good his cock feels.

He swallows your moans, thrusts turning wild. You’re a mess for him—face flushed and body bouncing. "Look at you," he pants, "my pretty little mess." He suddenly grabs the base of his cock and slips out, flipping you over quickly and pulling your hips up just to slide back in, deeper this time.

Your knuckles turn white from how hard you grip the sheets, head lolling as you let him take your pussy from behind. His fingers dig into your soft hips as he groans loudly, your pussy so tight and perfect around him. “So big,” you whimper, hearing his hips clap against your ass.

"So tight," he grits out, eyes closed tight as he concentrates on not coming. And then he opens them and leans over you, chest to your back, hands finding your breasts, pinching your nipples as he keeps fucking you. "You’re perfect for me," he mutters, biting your shoulder, pace picking up. “Made for my cock, huh? My perfect girl. Fuck, oh my God. Just how I was made for you pussy, huh baby?”

The more vocal he was, the closer he was to coming. 

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” You cry, turning your head to meet his lips. You both breathe hard through your noses, lips locked in a messy, hungry kiss. You pull back to moan loudly. “I’m so close. Please!”

"Come for me," he growls, hand working your clit as he angles his hips. "Squeeze me, baby. Make daddy lose it." He pulls you tighter against his body, burying his face in your neck, desperate for you to fall apart.

And then you come. Hard. Your whole body spasms, pussy somehow tightening even more around him as you fall apart with a scream. “Fuck! Yes! Yes! Oh my God! Wooyoung!”

He watches you come undone, your voice breaking on his name. You clench around him, and he loses it, burying himself deep as he comes, hips stuttering, fingers digging into your skin. "Fuuuuck," he groans, holding you tight as he spills inside you.

You stay still as you feel him twitch inside you before the warm spurts follow. You groan and let your head fall forward, arms struggling to keep you up.

“Oh my God,” he says, laughing lightly, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as the last of his release drips out from his tip. He opens his eyes and looks down as he pulls out with a soft groan, cum immediately leaking out of your spent pussy, still fluttering with aftershocks.

He stares, chest heaving, watching his load leak out of you. He spreads you open, just to see, then slides two fingers in, making a mess. "Look at you," he murmurs, voice full of awe and pride. “I guess you like it when I call myself daddy, huh?” He teases, biting his lip.

You groan and push his fingers away, legs shaking as you try to run to the bathroom without getting his cum on the floor.

Wooyoung laughs, watching you wobble away, cream dripping down your thighs. "Where you running off to, baby?" he calls, sprawling out on the bed. "Get back here. I’ll clean you up."

“Shut up!” He hears from behind the closed door, making him laugh.

He sighs before hoisting himself up and going to the hall closet for new sheets. He strips the bed, shaking his head at the mess you made together. Afterwards, he collapses back onto the bed just as you finish up and launch yourself on the bed with him.

The room settles slowly after. The lights are low, windows open just enough to let night air in. You’re tangled together on the bed, sheets kicked into disarray, Wooyoung warm and solid behind you. His arm is draped over your waist, hand splayed over your stomach and drawing invisible patterns.

You can still feel him everywhere. The warmth. The closeness. The way your body hasn’t quite come back to itself yet. He presses his face into your shoulder, breathing you in deeply, shameless about it.

“You know,” he says lazily, voice rough but content, “we should take a vacation.”

You blink, half-asleep. “What?”

“A vacation,” he repeats, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His hair is messy, eyes soft and unfocused, lips still a little swollen. He looks devastating like this. “Just us. Somewhere warm. Somewhere people don’t know us.”

You hum, smiling. “You sound suspiciously like you want to isolate me.”

He grins immediately. “Wow. When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

You turn slightly in his arms, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not planning on murdering me, are you?”

He snorts, rolling onto his side so you’re facing each other, foreheads nearly touching. “If I wanted to murder you, I would’ve done it already.”

You stare at him.

“That is the least reassuring thing you could’ve said.”

He laughs, loud and boyish, pulling you closer until your nose brushes his. “Relax. I’d never. You’re too cute.”

You poke his chest. “I don’t know. This sounds like the start of a documentary.”

“Please,” he says, trapping your hand against him. “You literally had to show me how to use Find My Location last week. I think I would get caught pretty easily.”

That makes you laugh, the sound soft and full.

The laughter fades into something quieter, heavier. You trace the line of his jaw with your thumb, thoughtful now.

“Do you think,” you ask carefully, “it’s been long enough for us to do stuff like that? Trips. Big plans.”

Wooyoung doesn’t hesitate.

“I don’t care,” he says simply. “I don’t think there’s a timeline for this.”

You watch his face as he speaks.

“This is ours,” he continues, thumb brushing slow circles into your hip. “Not anyone else’s. If people think it’s too fast, that’s their problem.”

Your chest tightens in that familiar, overwhelming way.

“You’re still a little intense,” you murmur fondly.

He smiles, unabashed. “I’m not jealous anymore.” Then, quieter, closer, “But I am still possessive.”

He kisses you before you can respond, slow and lingering, like he has all the time in the world. His hand slides up your side, pulling you flush against him again, forehead resting against yours when he pulls back.

“You’re mine,” he says softly, like it’s a secret meant only for you. “And I’m not letting you forget it.”

You smile, heart full, body warm, completely wrapped up in him as he cuddles closer, clinging to you like he’ll never get enough.

BINNIEBB 2026 ™ PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK ♡

[mulloey]

take it slow (just the tip)

PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! corruption kink, soft virgin & innocent reader. typical ‘just the tip’ fic—nerves about having sex etc. mg is horny and desperate and so are you. he talks down/patronises you a bit but it’s all loving. unprotected sex, size kink, riding, breeding kink etc. you’re described as small by him.

You’re both pent up, you know that. It’s palpable—in the hot, heavy air, in the weight of his hands on your skin and the tension between you on the couch. The fervour of his every movement; every gasp for breath between hot, messy, desperate kisses across your skin. Eyes hooded. Breathing heavy. Jaw twitching like he’s trying not to crack.

Your skin is flushed, sweaty; his hands move across your chest and neck and thighs with a hurriedness, like he’s trying to drink you in, every inch of you, before you slip away and he never has the chance to.

You’ve never been wanted—needed—like this. It scares you just as much as it excites you. Maybe more.

Because Mingi is a man of passion—that was clear to you very early on—in everything he is and everything he does. And being the object of that passion is no small thing; it’s a fire that spreads without restraint and scorches everything in its path. Including you. Including him.

His hands reach under your ass to pull you up and onto his lap, straddling him with your legs on either side. You feel him under you—hard, throbbing, straining against his pants—and your body reacts to it instinctively; your gut twists and your cunt clenches around nothing; your hips buck, slowly at first, then faster and more desperate until your clothed pussy is grinding shamelessly against his bulge.

You’re not in control now; that much is clear. Desperation has boiled over until your head couldn’t contain it anymore and it’s seeped down into your cunt.

“Fuck,” Mingi groans into your mouth. “Baby, fuck.”

”Min,” you whine. “Min. Feels so—”

He pulls back fully, all of a sudden, holding your face in his hands and forcing your gaze on him. His eyes are blazing, pupils blown like he’s already lost control. His hands are practically shaking with need, but at the same time you feel the steadiness, the strength in his hold on you. The safety. “I can make you feel better,” he gruffs. “Better than this. Better than anyone.”

You know he can. He already has made you feel better than anyone, just from the way he’s touched you over your clothes and talked and praised you through each tiny movement. But you know what he’s getting at—what he actually wants. And you want it too—fuck do you want it too—you just…

You chew at your lip, hesitant; nervous. His gaze fixes on it briefly, eyes narrowing some. “But I’ve never— you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” His words are soft now, murmured; careful, but his eyes flash with something you don’t understand. A small smile pulls at his lips, all softness and fondness. “My sweet girl, aren’t you? So innocent. Unused. Never done anything.”

“Min,” you whine, flushing a little at the condescension in his tone—patronising without mocking, but still enough to make you squirm.

“Baby,” he coos. “You know I’ll go slow, right? You know I’d never hurt you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll ease you into it, too. Open you up for me, nice and slow. Nice and easy. Just the tip, ‘til you’re ready for the rest. You trust me, right?”

“I do.” Of course you do. At this point Mingi could put a knife to your throat and you’d lean into the blade if he told you it was safe to.

He kisses you again; harder, more forceful, verging on painful but still firmly on the side of pleasure. “Keep grinding, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Babe, fuck. Pull that little skirt up for me, I wanna see you.”

He folds the hem of it between his fingers; the little miniskirt you wore for your date today. The skirt that had made his face harden, darken momentarily until he got ahold of himself again. The skirt he couldn’t take his eyes off of until he got you home.

But even now, he waits. Doesn’t push it up himself—waits for you to oblige or to refuse.

You oblige, of course. You know from the way his pupils dilate even further when you do that your panties must be soaked. His voice comes out strangled, like there’s a lump sitting unyielding and pulsing in his throat. “Fucking hell,” he grits. “Little panties all wet n’ soiled. Is that for me, baby? That all from grinding against my dick like an unspayed puppy?”

“Yes,” you whimper, nodding dumbly. “Mingi, please.”

“I got you,” he says. “Can I touch it, baby? Feel how wet you are for me?”

His voice is hoarse, clearly affected. You nod eagerly; he huffs out a low, shuddered breath and slowly moves one hand to cup your heat. It sends a pulse through your body like an electric current. “Perfect,” he breathes. “You feel that? Your pussy is throbbing on my hand, baby.”

“I feel it,” you nod. Fuck, it feels good. Mingi is so big and strong and warm and as much as it scares you, you think you’d let him do anything right now. “Min…”

“M’here,” he mumbles. “Holding your little pussy for you, just like you need. You don’t know what to do with it, do you?”

You whine; his eyes flicker up to meet your gaze and his lips curl in a small, knowing smile. “Yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re just helpless, aren’t you? Need me to show you how to feel good. Will you let me?”

“I just— it’s a little scary, Min.”

“That’s okay, honey,” he says softly. “I won’t go in yet, yeah? Just gonna rub my dick up and down the outside, see? You’re already gushing for me there, you’ll hardly feel it.”

His finger slips into your panties, hooking around the crotch and pulling it to the side. Your pussy, now bare and exposed to him, throbs a little harder. “Min…” You gasp. The air hits your cunt like a shiver down your spine; Mingi’s eyes fixed firmly on it like it’s the sweetest and most aggravating sight he’s ever seen feels even more biting. Just the feeling of him, holding you in his lap and staring at your cunt like he wants to take it apart and is struggling to hold himself back, is unlike anything you’ve imagined.

From your very first day with him, Mingi’s been your protector. Your safety—and he still is.

Yet now, like his, he somehow feels a little like a predator too.

And you, for some reason, are desperate for him to strike.

“You’re pulsing,” he breathes, barely above a whisper. “Fuck, baby, I can see you throbbing for me.”

“I need you,” you whimper. The words are coming now of their own accord.

“Pull my dick out,” he says. You falter a little and he smiles softly, shifting you on his lap. “C’mon, tiny. Nothing to be scared of. It’s not gonna hurt you.”

“It might,” you mumble. “You’re big.”

You swear Mingi’s eyes flash; his hand on your waist feels a little heavier now, like there’s suddenly more hunger, more possessiveness behind it. More intention.

“I’m big?” He chuckles. You nod. “I’m big, yeah. Or maybe you’re just tiny. I won’t hurt you though, honey. I told you we’ll take it slow, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“Take it out then,” he says. “Be good for me, bunny.”

Your hands are shaking as you pull his dick out from his sweats; you’ve seen it before, of course, felt the hard outline of it when he’s pressed up behind you in bed—but this is different. This is going inside you.

It’s long and thick; rock hard and already leaking from the tip. “Fuck,” you breathe. “Min…”

“You like it?” He grins. You nod. “Good,” he says. “It’s yours. You can fuck yourself on it whenever you like, sweetheart. A big thick toy for my pretty little girl.”

“Please,” you mewl.

“You’re fine, baby,” he says. “Can you lift your hips for me, love?”

You obey, lifting yourself so you’re kneeling over him.

He grips the base of his dick, pumping it once, twice, three times, before his other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you down so your ass is resting on him and your pussy is pressed against the side of his shaft. You groan, the feeling of sending a spark of electricity through your body, and his cock twitches. “Fuck,” he gruffs. “Stay still, baby. Not gonna go in yet, just gonna fuck the outside, yeah? Where you’re all nice and slippery for me. Nice n’ wet already.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

It feels… strange. Good, definitely, but strange. Like you’re being teased. Every time his tip brushes against your clit you feel it through your entire body, to the tips of your toes and in the deepest crevices; your reaction to everything Mingi does, at this point, feels primal.

The way he groans, head thrown back in pleasure, feels primal too.

“Shit,” he grunts. “I gotta—fuck. This little cunt is so sweet, baby, so needy for me, I gotta fuck her. Need to.”

His dick is throbbing almost violently, pulsing against your clit and making you needier and needier. You want it—him—so bad you can’t even speak any more. You just whine, squirming, chasing the sensation and the pressure against your clit.

“C’mon,” Mingi says. “Let me in, baby. You want me inside, I can feel it.”

You nod. “Yeah,” you gasp.

“Tell me I can, then,” he grits out. “Tell me I can put it in. Just the tip, baby, please.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “The— just the tip, Min. Put it in.”

Mingi shudders; you feel it rippling through him, his grip tightening. He groans, adjusting himself, then slowly pushes in. “Thank you, baby. Just the tip, I promise. You’re being so brave, honey.”

Even from the tip you can feel the size difference between you; can tell taking him in his entirety will be no small task. The thought alone is dizzying; you’re squirming, trying and failing to stay still as he goes in deeper.

And deeper.

You hiss, muscles clenching, clawing at the material of his shirt. “Mingi,” you squeak. “It’s— what are you doing?”

He stops, freezing inside you, seeming to realise what he’s doing and getting a hold of himself again. But he doesn’t pull out—doesn’t back away. His eyes flicker up to your face, searching for something—a reaction, maybe, or a desperation you won’t admit. “Shit,” he mutters. “Sorry, baby, fuck, I just— you’re so warm, honey, so tight and wet, I’m losing my head a little. You make me crazy, you know that?”

You shake your head. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut, jaw clenching like he’s clinging to his composure. “You make it so hard to be gentle,” he says. “To hold back. I can’t think of anything but taking you apart right now. Filling you up. Fuck, baby.”

Fuck. Now neither can you. You whine, eyes squeezed shut, trying to think of anything else—anything but being ruined and claimed and bred by him.

But the image of him all the way inside, of you falling apart around him, of his cum dripping out of your stretched cunt—it’s too much. It’s too good.

You know you’re thinking with your pussy and not your head right now, and you don’t even care. You can’t care.

“Please,” you say. “Do it, Mingi. Fill me up.”

You feel him twitch inside you. His eyes soften, caring, a little concerned, but still the desperation and the excitement is overarching. “Are you sure?” He asks.

“I’m sure.”

He exhales, the breath slow and shaking, and nods. Then he starts again.

Slowly. Surely. But still dizzying.

You love how large Mingi is; how small and safe you feel with him. Now, though, you wonder if it’s possible to be too big.

“Shit,” you hiss.

“I know, I know, baby. Just open up for me, you can do it. That’s a good girl.”

He pushes his thumb past your lips, pressing it down on your tongue. “Make it wet,” he says. “That’s it.” Once he’s satisfied he pulls it out, smiling fondly at the whine that slips out of your mouth at the loss, and presses it against your clit. He rubs it slowly, firmly, the way he knows you like it.

Of course he knows. He’s the one who taught you how to touch yourself properly, after all.

You clench around him, pulsing, shifting yourself to chase the pressure on your clit and inadvertently pushing yourself down further on his cock. His voice is low, crooning, like he’s coaxing you open for him. “I’ll never hurt you, baby. Just wanna feel what s’like inside you. Doing so well f’me, that’s it.”

“Fuck,” you grunt. “Min, hurts—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Just for a little longer, okay? You’re gonna feel so full n’ fuzzy in a minute. Try and sit down for me, baby, try sit yourself down on my cock.”

It feels impossible, pushing yourself down any further than you already are; taking him any deeper than you already are. But Mingi is so gentle—stroking your skin, mumbling praises you can barely decipher—and he, both of you, wants it so fucking bad that all you can do is obey.

“That’s it,” he grumbles. “Good girl. C’mon now.”

By the time you get all the way to the bottom, your bodies pressed together, he’s almost crying. He looks like he’s trying not to shatter.

“Mingi,” you say. “Fuck me.”

“You’re ready? Really?”

“Really.”

You’re on your back, flipped over, legs around his waist while he hovers above you, before you can process it. Mingi’s eyes are dark, pupils blown and glinting with a desperation so hot it feels like it scorches your skin beneath it.

“Hold onto me,” he grunts. “You’re not getting it gentle.”

You squeeze your legs around him, pulling him closer, curling his shirt around your fists. Holding him like a lifeline; like he’s the only thing stopping you from shattering entirely.

At the same time, though, he’s the only thing that can make you shatter so completely and so thoroughly. He fucks you like he has nothing to lose, nothing to prove; like he’s entirely sure of himself and sure of his control. Like he can just take, take, take, and you’ll do nothing but stare up at him with wide, empty, loving eyes and give him everything he wants.

He’s right. Even when he finishes, when he falls over the edge with a shout and warmth blooms in your tummy, he keeps thrusting, keeps the same heavy grip on your waist like every inch of your skin belongs to him.

And when he pulls out and cum slowly starts to drip from your hole, he gathers it on his finger and pushes it back in.

“Keep it there,” he murmurs, smiling softly, tiredly at you. “You look so pretty full of me.”

[nolabelspart02s]

JIHYO :: VICTORIA'S SECRET FASHION SHOW 2025

[hwalentine-s]

i love beautiful latina women

[frenchkisstheabyss]

I was informed that my fics are too unrealistic because, “Omg these guys are so hot and could have any girl in the world…”

I’ve never seen someone critique writers who make reader thin as being unrealistic but oh no, godforbid it’s a fat girl. Reader can rock a 110lb man’s hoodie and be “drowning in it” and that’s 10/10 but let her have back rolls? End of the world.

Y’all literally read about fucking them as werewolves and dragons but the fat part is where we draw the line?

[zdchiaa]

Random text with Wooyoung

Warnings: cursing, not proofread, got text from pinterest, mentions of kys

[maho6any]

Merlot Canvases

paint instructor!Park Seonghwa x F!Reader

summary: You feel like you're lacking that artistic flair in your life. Everyone you've met who dabbles in the arts just has this twinge of light in their eyes that you feel like you're missing. So, taking a paint class might ignite that light in you, or maybe it'll ignite something else.

tags: strangers to lovers, reader is overworked, seonghwa is whipped, reader is also whipped, unprotected sex(you know the drill), oral (f!recieving), fingering, tension tension TENSION, on a desk, mentions of voyeurism, petnames (baby, princess, honey, etc), soft/mean mdom, fsub, seonghwa needs you to breathe, not proofread

wc: 10.1k

notes: wrote this in one session. jeez, sorry guys. i have not read this through, its 11pm. i have work in the morning. there will be spelling mistakes. fuck it we ball

tracklist: hello?, overstimulated, professional

ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ!

When you ask someone what motivates them, you get a wide array of answers. Some say their job, or their family. Others say their hobbies or their pets. And some people say nothing in particular, they just have a strong drive for life.

You wouldn’t necessarily say you’re depressed. It's not like you hate life and you want it to come to an end. But you could say you feel like you’re watching it fly by like a movie reel. You stand on the sidewalk as you watch yourself walk into your mundane office job 5 days out of the week. Sit in a cubicle for 8 hours before leaving, walking back home, having dinner, and going to bed.

Since graduating from high school, friends have been hard to come by. Making friends as an adult without being a college student or frequenting bars and clubs proves to be a challenge. You wouldn’t say you’re lonely either. You like your quiet life, but it just feels like something is missing. Like you could be doing more besides the repetitive schedule you’ve been following for the past 3 years. 

You sat on your couch, a few candles lit here and there as the rain pattered against your window. Your townhouse was dark, no sign of life other than you, and the flicker of candlelight on the dark brown walls. You leaned your head back on the couch, eyes closed, as you listened to the rain beat down like TV static. Cars whirred past the window of your home, rushing to or from work. To or from events. Busy, with things to keep them occupied.

You let out a deep breath, directing your attention to the flyer on your coffee table. Surrounded by unread books and worn-down pencils, a piece of paper you picked up from a pole plastered down the street on your way home from work a few days ago.

A flyer for a painter’s class. 

You hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in your whole life. At least not since grade school. You don’t think you’re the most artistic either. Yes, you have ideas and you have inspirations, but you could never put pen to paper. It's always come out janky, or just simply not how you envisioned it. The small town you lived in didn’t have many excursions to do.

You lived on a bustling street, lined with townhouses and little shops. Speakeasy-style bars littered here and there with live music and whatnot, but going out for a drink with the slim chance of getting drunk enough to hook up with some random who will leave you high and dry by morning was less than appealing to you.

You had been in every shop, every library, every single place this shit town had to offer, or so you thought.

Art Workshop

Every Sunday, 7 pm to 9 pm

Supplies provided for newcomers, the instructor will offer a list after the first session, given that you would like to return

Ages 18 and up

We look forward to seeing you there!

With an address printed on the bottom and some cute little drawings strewn about the paper, you couldn’t help but snatch it up in the moment. You weren’t really thinking about it, but at the moment, it seemed plausible. You had just gotten off a pretty rough shift, and a glimmer of possibility that you might do something other than grocery shopping or sitting at home on your weekend was tempting.

But here you are, Sunday, 6 pm, debating if you really should follow through and attend the class. You were reserved, not exactly shy. You spoke when needed to, and you didn't let anyone walk all over you, but you weren't one to randomly engage in conversations at work or on the street. You simply had no need. Like you said, you aren't lonely, just lacking a sort of passion. An urge to create, or the need to have an outlet.

You were so hesitant to go because you truly didn't know what you would make of it. What if it was a waste of time? Or what if it was not what you were looking for? There goes that hope, because this was your last option. That hope that you might finally find something.

So, ultimately, you decided to just go for it, because spending the rest of your life wondering surely won’t do you any good. And that's how you found yourself standing in an alleyway a few blocks away from home, umbrella shielding you from the onslaught of rain.

The streets were dark by now, and the entrance to the class was less than promising. Between two townhomes, illuminated only by a lampost, a staircase led down to a door. It was only a few steps, but the fact that it was somewhat underground raised some questions. You double, no triple, checked the flyer to make sure you were at the right place and the address was indeed correct.

You descended the staircase, the number on the door matching the one on the flyer. You checked your phone. 6:50. You closed your umbrella and shook it out, reaching out a hand and opening the door.

You stepped inside, closing it behind you. It was warm inside, and it smelled like citrus and sandalwood. There was an umbrella basket sitting by the door, with a couple of other umbrellas sitting inside. You set yours in the basket, looking up to take in your surroundings. It was just a hallway, with four doors. Two on one side, one on the other, and a door at the very end, straight across from the entrance.

It was quiet, like nobody was in the building, a yellow light flickered on the ceiling of the cramped hall, giving off a quite eerie glow. The two doors on the left had bathroom markings, one for men and one for women. The lone door on the right did not indicate what was behind; you safely assumed it was storage or for janitorial purposes.

The door at the end of the hall had a sign that simply said, “atelier.” You stepped further into the space, your footsteps quiet as you walked to the door at the end.

You stopped and listened to see if you could hear anything inside. Faint chatter, a couple laughs here and there. When you were sure you did in fact have the right day, you twisted the handle and stepped inside.

Immediately, all eyes were on you. There were about 6 other people in the room, with high ceilings supported by black metal pillars. There were a few large windows that opened to a perfect view of the cobblestone streets, like you could watch the shoes of passersby as they made their daily rounds. The floor was red varnished wood, and the walls matched. There were 10 stools in the room, scattered about randomly, and a canvas sat in front of each one, blank and ready to be painted on. At the front of the room, there was a desk, littered with papers and paint supplies, and a little bit of everything, quite messy.

A larger blank canvas sat in front of the desk, an empty stool beside it where you assumed the instructor would be perched later when class started.

Everyone sat and watched as you walked in, and took a seat farthest from the front, setting your bag on the floor. You directed your attention to the canvas in front of you, and like you never even showed up, everyone continued their conversation. You were just another addition to the class. Nothing special. Nothing notable. They’d forget you were there in 5 minutes.

The conversations around you droned on for another 10 minutes. The instructor was late, but nobody seemed to care. They continued to talk, slowly taking out supplies and setting them around their canvas.

Luckily, the seat you chose was right next to a table of supplies, and you stood and gathered paint palettes of all colors, a wide variety of paintbrushes, a cup of water, and a few pencils. When you had your area set up, you glanced at your phone again. 7:20. You were about to muster up the courage to ask a person nearby about the tardiness of your teacher when the door opened.

The conversations lowered to murmurs before completely dying out as everyone directed their attention to who came in. You looked up from your phone to see who it was, and it was then and there you decided there was no way you could come back to this class.

Sporting a ruffled collared white button-up shirt, black wide-leg slacks, and the most luscious head of hair you had ever seen, you immediately knew this was your instructor. He walked to the desk in front, his back turned, as he set down a bag on the desk. He grabbed a marker from a cup near the corner, uncapped it with a loud pop, and started writing on the whiteboard. Today’s date. And then the words “Impressionism and Perspective.” Neat handwriting, each ending letter had a slight curve akin to once knowing cursive. He capped the marker, threw it on his desk, and turned to face the class.

His face was unreal. Symmetrical, soft skin, plush lips, dark eyes, muse worthy. He was tall, radiant, exuding a calm energy, yet still, his presence had an impact. His eyes moved across the classroom, taking in the faces, bored almost. His eyes landed on you, sitting in the back. Quiet, keeping to yourself, staying out of the way.

He lingered on you for a second longer before looking away again. He smiled, a warm, welcoming smile, and moved to sit on the stool next to his canvas.

“Welcome back to class.” He was soft spoken, with a musical tone to his words. Gentle, he approached, speaking like the words could crack if he enunciated too harshly. A lullaby-worthy voice. His smile was just as smooth; it pulled you in. Your attention was 100% on him. 

And he liked it that way.

“Impressionism.” He stated, he leaned forward on the stool, his foot resting on a bar near the bottom of it, an elbow on his knee, with his hands idly playing with each other as he looked out upon the room as he spoke to the class in its entirety.

“Think Monet, Degas. A French style derived from the 19th century that ties into our second topic of the day, perspective. What can you tell me about it?”

Now you were no artist yourself, but that doesn’t mean you don't like to admire. You frequented museums in the area so often that the employees knew you by name. You had seen every piece, old and new, that they had to offer. Sometimes you’d sit on the benches in front of the displays for 30 minutes to an hour, analyzing brush strokes, memorizing colors, taking the full picture in.

And frankly, nothing could compare to him. You could stare at him for hours.

A student raised their hand. They said something about abstractness. You weren’t really listening. Another response from someone else, mentioning the lacking note of finality in impressionist pieces.

A few more answers here and there, all good ones, you assume, but your focus was completely narrowed in on your instructor.

Their answers fell on deaf ears as they prattled on about the art form. 

“And what about you?” Snapping from your trance, you realize he is staring directly at you. Eyes boring into yours, unrelenting. A question on his brow, the smile missing from his face, his hand stopped fiddling, and they now pointed in your direction, to your secluded island in the back of the studio. You hoped you wouldn’t draw attention, but you suppose your lack of engagement was more noticeable in a class with only 6 other people.

Feeling put on the spot, your back straightened as you locked eyes with the instructor, your knee began to bounce as the other students turned to look in your direction. You did your best to ignore their prying eyes as you cleared your throat.

“Well, like the name suggests, it's an impression. It's loose and undefined, but your mind is well enough off to piece it together. Not quite abstract, because the picture is clear. But it's the bare bones, just enough to create something beautiful…. I think…” You trailed off, nervousness overtaking you. You noticed the student who mentioned abstractness narrowed their eyes at you like you dismissed their answer as bullshit, which wasn’t your intention.

This was the last thing you wanted: all eyes on you, the center of attention. He didn't speak for a second, eyes staying glued on you. You averted your gaze, feeling so seen was not your favorite thing on earth, and his stare was far more than intense. It was exposing, like he could see every part of you.

“Seonghwa, doesn’t it also center around the way the light is painted as well as open composition?” A student chimed in. He didn't look at them; his eyes stayed on you for a few more seconds before ripping away and looking at the student who spoke. His smile returned, and he nodded.

“Everyone has great points. Visible brush strokes and light colors. Most artists completely avoided the color black as well. It was less of artists trying to capture images of real life, but closer to an idea, an impression of a scene.” You could breathe again, attention was drawn from you, and back on your instructor, whose name you just learned was Seonghwa.

He continued to talk, connected different styles and drew correlations, using his paints to demonstrate examples of brushstrokes and things of the sort. Everyone listened carefully. He was so easy to listen to with that soft voice and soothing demeanor.

He would look out at the class every time he made a new point to gauge reactions, and his eyes always fell on you at the end, before continuing the lecture. You were this close to walking out because every time his eyes locked with yours, he raised one eyebrow and almost smirked as if to ask you silently. “Are you listening?”

After a well-informed lesson, Seonghwa decided it was time for some practice.

“Alright, if you will, as simply as you can, don’t make it difficult yourself, paint your own impressionist piece. Paint something that means something to you. Whether that's a scenic spot you keep in your memories, whether it's a person, or an object. Paint it, but paint it like the image is pictured in your mind, but you spilled water over it. It's blurry and smudged; it's a silhouette. Barely there. Put pen to paper for the next hour. Go.”

Everyone immediately began getting to work, dipping brushes and collecting colors. You sat at your canvas, watching as everyone started. Seonghwa moved to sit behind his desk, looking at a stack of papers and organizing paint palettes.

His eyes locked on you again, catching you staring. His eyebrows raised, and he did smile this time, before mouthing the words. ‘Get to work.’

Obeying, you directed your gaze to your empty canvas, and you thought to yourself. Something, or someplace, that means something to you. This was proving to be difficult because that was the entire reason you attended this class in the first place. To find something that meant something to you.

You tapped the end of your paintbrush to your lips, lost in thought about what you should paint. Your job meant nothing, your place was homey but it was just a roof over your head. You didn’t really talk to your family, and you didn’t have any special places.

So, without a plan in mind, you started to paint. Some strokes of green here, smudges of blue there, pluffs of white and shades of red. You just started painting. What were you painting? You had no clue, not yet at least.

 The world drowned out the light chatter from classmates as you painted, like you were on autopilot, your hand simply moved on its own.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly you blinked, and actually looked at your canvas.

There were shapes, forms, something was there, but you couldn’t quite pinpoint it. You tilted your head, moved from side to side to try and get an angle where you could decipher what you just made, but it was useless.

You frowned and went to set your brush down when a large, slender hand gently covered yours, gripping your hand softly and guiding your hand back up. A firm chest pressed against your back, and locks of hair tickled your neck.

“Here, like this.” The soft voice against your ear nearly made you shiver as you let Seonghwa control the way you paint. He lifted your wrist to wash the brush in the cup of water, then dipped it into a dark green on the palette.

He guided your hand to sweep the paintbrush across the canvas, adding bits of depth and shadow to the strokes, a few here, some there. The carefulness of his hand holding yours made your heart flutter. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel his steady breaths, smell him, sense him hovering over you.

He continued to paint while holding your hand, and you let him, feeling the warmth of his fingertips, the calluses of his skin.

Before long, he moved to have you set the paintbrush down and then let go of your wrist, his fingers gently caressing, a ghost of a touch as he pulled away.

“Now look at it.” He mumbled, only to you, like the rest of the class didn’t exist.

You squinted your eyes, tilted your head, and there it was.

Strokes of green that formed into a field. A silhouette of clouds against a powder blue sky. A form of a child, which strangely resembled you. The field was vast, and the sky was open. But far from the child was another form. A body, older. Standing under a tree, the leaves fell over her like a canopy. An adult, who once again, oddly resembled you. The child was staring at the sky, back turned toward the canvas, while the other stared directly out at the artist, watching.

In the far upper corner of the canvas, the blue sky faded into grey storms, angry and waiting far off in the distance. The child watched the clouds as the inevitable storm rumbled in from the east, while the older one simply stood in the distance, safe from the clouds but unable to scoop up the child and bring her underneath the canopy.

The paint smudged, and the forms barely even took place. But you could see them with your own eyes. Decipher your work.

Your breath hitched, and you turned to look at your instructor, who now stood off next to another student, helping them with their piece, back turned fully to you. You opened your mouth to speak, but shut it just as quickly. Turning back to your canvas, you stared at it. Not daring to ruin what you had made, you set down the brush and patiently waited for the rest of your classmates to finish.

Your chest bloomed, but your heart withered. How did your brain conjure this up? Sure, it wasn't professional and not even display worthy, but it made you feel something. Something familiar.

You must have zoned out, a loud clap snapping you from the trance as you looked up at the source. Seonghwa stood near the front of the class again, gathering his students’ attention once more.

“Our time is almost up, as always. Great work today. Even if it was just a stickman, your creations will always be beautiful. You can leave your pieces where they are, and when we come back, we can varnish them, and then you’re welcome to explain your piece if you’d like. Until then, have a great night, be safe. See you next week.” Seonghwa smiled that charming, warm smile again, before beginning to clean his desk.

Everyone gathered their supplies and packed their bags, one by one heading out the door as they talked idly with one another.

You stayed in your seat, eyes glued to your piece. It was time to leave.

When you finally stood to gather your things and clean your area, there were only two other people in the room, standing in front of Seonghwa’s desk and talking to him. Asking questions you assumed. You ignored them, and just as you gathered the rest of your stuff, they filed out the door. Now it was just you and him.

The air was still and the rain pattered softly on the windows.

“Will I see you next week?” His voice cut through the silence, almost startling you. Soft, yet firm. Expecting. You turned his direction, realizing you hadn’t even thought about whether you were going to return or not. He wasn't looking up, busy jotting down something in a notebook.

“I don’t know.” You answered simply. “Guess we’ll have to see.” You smiled nervously, and then you realized how rude that must have sounded. You scrambled to defend yourself.

“You’re an amazing teacher, and you really helped me understand what I was doing… I think. It just depends on how the week treats me, I guess.” He lifted his eyes finally, pressing the tip of his pen against his soft bottom lip. His eyes trailed up, then down, before landing back on your face.

“I look forward to seeing you next week, Ms…?” Dumbfounded to say the least at his confidence in the idea you’d come back. You were caught off guard, stuttering out your name in response.

“(Name)..” he stated quietly, like he was taste testing the syllables. He smiled again and set his pen down on his mess of a desk, folding his hands and resting his chin on them.

He nodded his head down at his desk, urging you to come forward. “Your list of supplies is on my desk. Come pick them up before you go, please.”

You hesitated, feet glued to your spot. Before you forced your legs to move and carry you to his desk. He watches you with every step, eyes never leaving you once.

You stopped in front of him, picked up the paper, and glanced down at it. Necessities, with recommended brands, ranging from the most expensive to budget-friendly. Locations of nearby art stores and QR codes to videos in case you’d like to practice on your own time. Thorough. His full name was scrawled at the bottom. Park Seonghwa.

When you looked back up, he was standing behind the desk, eye level with you, as his hands rested on the surface, palms flat, hunched over the papers.

A strange heat flushed your neck as his stare pinned you down, his fingers tapping against the desk in a slow rhythm like he was pacing himself.

Then he straightened, sat back down, and looked back down at the notebook. “That's all.” 

What.

You turned stiffly and hurried out the door before anything else weird could happen. You forgot your umbrella and walked out into the street, the rain soaking your clothes as you began walking back home hurriedly.

What the fuck.

There was no way you could go back.

A few days had passed, and work came and went. Draining as always. And even though you weren't even sure if you’d go back to the paint class, it was all you could think about. But was it the painting… or the painter that drew you in?

You found yourself standing in front of a crafts shop, the paper he gave you in your hand as you stared through the glass windows into the store. Were you really going to buy this stuff? Does this solidify your return? Guess you’ll find out.

Stepping into the store, you were met with silence. Like nobody was there/ Maybe one person browsing the paint section, one or two at customer service, other than that it was a ghost town. You looked down at your list and nodded to yourself, stepping further into the store to find the supplies you needed.

Some basic paint palette, an array of brushes, canvases, small and large. The store was homey, stone floors and wood walls, soft music played from the intercom as you meandered about the building, browsing different sections.

You were near the back of the store, in front of a canvas display. They had black canvases, white ones, canvases so large they could probably cover your bedroom floor. You grabbed a couple of 9x12s in case you wanted to practice at home.

You turned to go see what paints they had when you saw him.

Your instructor was across the aisle, looking at stencils and rulers. He hadn’t noticed you yet, and as quickly as you could, you walked the opposite direction, further towards the back of the store.

You could not handle him right now, the intense stares, the strange tension between you two. You pretended to look at the scissors on the wall, taking great interest in the different colors and sizes.

You waited there a few minutes in hopes that he had moved on.

“Need help choosing a pair of scissors? Contrary to popular belief, they are not all the same thing.”

Fuck.

You craned your head up to see the man of the hour standing behind you, a smile on his face and a shopping basket in his hand. Wearing a plain black V-neck that hugged his chest just a little too tightly, and some wide-leg blue jeans. You let your eyes wander for just a second before answering him.

“I’m okay, thank you, though.” He nodded in acknowledgment before raising an eyebrow in question.

“Coulda swore I saw you come in earlier, but I wasn’t sure if it was you or not.” So you were screwed from the beginning he had seen you walk into the store. He nodded down at the list in your hand, his smile widening as his gaze fell over the almost full shopping basket in your hand.

“I see you’re stocking up for upcoming classes. I’m happy to see that.” He stepped closer into your space. You needed to leave before you jumped his bones.

What no. Why would you think that? What's wrong with you?

“Well, I’m still deciding, y’know, I'm so busy with work and whatnot,  I have to make sure I have time..” You smiled nervously, trying to sound as believable as possible. Seonghwa cocked his head to the side in confusion, his tongue poking out to swipe across his bottom lip. He bobbed his head, and a small laugh slipped from him, like he was in disbelief.

“That's funny. From what I could tell, you really enjoyed my class. You came in all tense and closed up, but by the end, though you seemed like you really let yourself enjoy something.” Now you were somewhat offended. You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“And what do you think you know about me? I was trying something for the hell of it. I wasn’t searching for something.” Lying through your teeth. And he seemed to sense that.

His smile only widened at your response, his hand coming up and raking through his long hair.

“Anyone with eyes could look at you and tell there's more to you than you’re letting on, and that's okay. We’re strangers, I don't need to know everything about you. But if you don’t like my assumptions about you, you can fix it by telling me about yourself.”

This asshat.

“I’m glad you’re so sure of yourself, Mr. Park.” You sneered, turning to walk towards the cash register, so you could check out and leave. “But I know what I want, and right now I want to go home. It was nice seeing you, but you are slowly losing me. Sunday might be reserved for nights at home again if this attitude of yours is something I’ll have to deal with every week.”

They pulled a deep laugh from him, one that stopped you in your tracks. “Well, you’re still buying the supplies, baby, so I’m assuming that you’ll be seeing my face sooner than you’d like to let on.”

 The stupid pet name made your stomach flip and your cheeks heat. Unfortunately, it was more teasing than in an endearing way, which made you want to put him in his place even more. But before you could retort, Seonghwa took a peek into your basket before looking back up at you.

 “Looks like you’re missing just a few more things. Here, c'mon." He placed his palm against the small of your back, urging you to walk with him. You followed without much objection, mumbling curses quietly to yourself as he guided your body to walk to the other side of the store.

You stopped in front of a display of gloss varnish and some easels. Along with a couple gold gold-framed mirrors on the top shelf. He leaned over your shoulder, his lips close to your ear again. “See here.” He whispered, “Some varnish if you’d like to preserve the paintings. And an easel so you can paint without hunching the whole time. I promise you it’ll do your back wonders.”

While he spoke, one hand reached forward and grabbed a bottle of varnish, dropping it into your basket, while the other traced a feather-light trail down your spine. You shivered at the touch, his smile widening at your reaction.

For a moment, it was just you two again. Your eyes met in one of the mirrors. Seonghwa’s gaze was low, calm, but there was a twinge of something else in it. Like a barely controlled sense of need. Want. His eyes were half lidded as he watched your brows furrow at the feeling of his touch along your back. His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth. He hummed against your ear quietly, his hand twitched, like he wanted to hold more of your body. Like he wanted to touch you like you were his.

Or maybe you were crazy, lack of sleep. You barely knew him. Maybe you needed to get laid.

He pulled away and grabbed a couple of bottles of varnish for himself, dropping them in his basket. 

“Looks like you got it all, sweetheart,” he smiled, and you turned, ripping your eyes from the mirror and directing your attention up at him. His hand reached forward and held a lock of your hair between his fingers, letting the strands dance between his knuckles.

Seonghwa’s eyes roved all over your face, taking you in, like he was trying to memorize everything about you. “I’d love to paint you someday, beautiful. Would you let me?” It took everything in your power not to let your mouth fall open in shock at his words.

“Me..?” you swallowed, fingers fiddling nervously as your gaze fell to your feet.

“You.” He stated simply, like he was talking about the least intimate thing in the world. His finger pinched your chin gently and tilted your head up to look at him. He tilted your head to the right, then to the left, up, and then down, like he was mapping your face. Trying to figure out what colors would work, what shading to use, and what brushes would perfectly encapsulate the acne scars and the texture of your skin. What brush would perfectly capture the slope of your nose, and what colors would mix for that beautiful shade of your iris. 

“Think about it.” He said, leaving no room for argument, before letting go of your chin and turning to walk away. 

‘‘See you next Sunday, love.” And he was gone.  The fucking audacity. And guess what.

Sunday came faster than you would have liked. And you were in your mirror, touching up your hair. A tote bag filled with art supplies, as you prepared to head to your second class.

The fucker had you. Had you wrapped around his finger. He was alluring, annoying, beautiful, and you didn’t want to give him credit for it. But he was right. You enjoyed the class, and you liked that he was able to pull that creativity out of you. And you liked looking at him. And hearing his voice.

It was raining again today. You decided that being early wasn’t important today. So you left your house at 6:50, showing up at 7:15. Make him think you weren’t coming, but unfortunately, your punctual nature wouldn’t allow you to be any later than that. You did your best.

You walked into the building, stood in front of the door for a second, gathering your bearings. You twisted the knob and walked inside, more confidence in your walk than your first day.

Once again, heads turned to look at you, the same 6 students in their respective spots. However, your seat in the back was gone. And the only empty chair was the one closest to Seonghwa’s desk. He was sitting on his stool, a finished painting on the easel, a wide paintbrush in hand as he demonstrated varnishing the artwork.

His eyes locked with yours, only for a second before looking back at his task. “Nice of you to join us (Name.) Have a seat, we’re just varnishing.” Slowly, you made your way to the empty seat by his desk, sitting down and setting your supplies out.

“While most artists didn’t varnish impressionism pieces, we are for the sake of preservation. They preferred the matte, rough look. But they lived in Europe, where the sun didn’t shine. Your art kind of needs the varnish now more than ever. We're using a satin varnish that keeps the natural look, but offers a bit of protection. So don’t worry, they won’t be ruined.”

He clapped his hands and set down the brush, standing from his stool. “You can come up and grab your pieces from the drying rack and begin varnishing. I’ll walk around, and just let me know if you have any questions.” Everyone stood to grab their pieces, you following suit.

Seonghwa stood by the rack, watching as each individual picked up their pieces. You were last, his eyes following your every move. Pretending you didn’t see him, you grabbed your piece and walked back to your seat.

If he wants to play games, you simply won’t give him the satisfaction. You pulled the varnish that you bought from your bag and a large brush, setting your canvas on your easel. You gave the painting a once-over, still somewhat astounded that you could create something so pretty.

You opened the bottle and poured it into a cup, dipping the brush and beginning. The rain fell steadily as the students' idle chatter once again faded into background noise as you focused on your task.

Carefully as you could, you spread the varnish about your work, admiring as the soft sheen coated the colors and made them more vibrant. Stroke by stroke, you were evening out the gloss, and soon enough, the whole canvas was covered.

You were so lost in your work that you hadn’t noticed that Seonghwa was not in fact walking around the room, but standing at the back of the studio. Back against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted lazily to the side. His eyes were trained directly on the back of your neck. 

His gaze followed the curve where your neck met your shoulder, how your shoulder blades poked only slightly through your shirt, down and aligning your waist, admiring your attentiveness. Oh, how he’d love to capture every part of your body and hang it on his wall proudly. He didn’t know what it was about you.

You were nothing special, another young girl finding her way through life, discovering her passions. But there was just something. He couldn't place his finger on it. But he wanted to find out as soon as possible.

He walked back towards the front, striding towards your seat. But just as he was about to speak, some varnish dribbled down the brush onto your hands. Immediately, Seonghwa was at your side, grabbing your wrist, making you drop the brush.

Surprised, you yelled quietly at the contact. “What the hell, what did I do?” Not giving you time to object, he lifted you by your arm, urging you to follow him. However, in his frantic movement, his face and voice remained calm as he walked you both to the door.

“Varnish can irritate if it gets on the skin.” He spoke as he led you into the hall. The other students paid you no mind as he led you to the bathroom.

“It's best to rinse the area for about 15 minutes, because it could cause a burn.” He turned on the light and switched on the faucet, dragging your wrist under the cold faucet water.

“I can do it myself.” You groaned. The bathroom was cramped, his chest pressed against your back as you looked into the mirror. He let go of your wrist, a little too slowly, as you left your hand under the running water. He physically couldn’t step back in the confined space.

He remained behind you, watching you in the mirror. Your gaze stayed on your hand as you twisted your wrist to get the water all over your hand. The bathroom was silent, despite the rush of water and the hum of the air vent.

The air. Stagnant. The tension. Thick.

“Do you need to hover?” You asked, your voice smaller than you had liked. “I’m not 5, I don't need adult supervision, Sir.” You hissed around the last word, but Seonghwa’s breath caught in his chest so quickly you hadn’t caught it. 

He was so close, and refused to admit it was driving you mad. You could smell him, and you wouldn’t dare look in the mirror, because if you met his gaze, you just might snap. He was too much. He dripped sex appeal. Control. Authority. But it was gentle. Suggestive, like he would never do anything unless you got on your knees and begged for him. Like if your body cried for him.

 You turned off the faucet when you were sure the area was clean, and you were about to turn and walk out of the bathroom.

A hand, slender, large, and firm. With the softness of a mother’s touch, it slipped around the front of your throat, grounding you. His chest pressed harder against your back, almost pushing you against the sink. Your hands gripped the bowl of the sink, holding your upper body up as you felt him against you.

Seonghwa leaned his head down, pressing his lips against your ear. His breath tickled the shell, and your breath quickened.

“What is it about you?” He murmured against your ear. His breathing was heavier, his chest rising and falling against your back. “It's irking me so fucking bad.” His nose dipped into that soft spot between your neck and shoulder, inhaling softly.

Whimpering was your first mistake. His whole body shivered as he placed the softest of kisses on the nape of your neck. “Tell me no.” He whispered. His free hand came up and gripped your jaw lightly, directing your gaze to the mirror.

You locked eyes with him in the reflective glass, your knees going weak at the primal look he was giving you. “Look at me and tell me you don’t want this.”

Your lips remained glued shut. Your eyelids fluttered, and Seonghwa's hand rested on your jaw, his thumb rubbing your cheek coaxingly. You leaned back into his touch, a question in your eyes.”

“Ask.” He demanded, already sensing you had something to say.

“Are you playing with me?” You mumbled, your lips slightly slurred with the hold he had on your jaw.

“No playing. No games, darling. I promise I’ll be as gentle as I can.” There was a false promise in his tone, and he could barely hide the smile that tried to creep onto his lips.

The hand on your throat tilted your head up, craning your neck as his neck tilted down, his nose brushing yours, and his breath fanning against your lips. You were hesitant. But only because you were afraid that if you let him, you might become addicted. Then you’ll come crawling back by the end of it.

But that filthy, shameful dark corner in your mind couldn’t resist him. Your stomach clenched, and your heart battered in your ribcage. Suddenly, the bathroom was too hot, and the tension was so thick you couldn’t breathe. You needed to breathe. You needed Seonghwa to give you air.

So with the last bit of oxygen in your lungs, you parted your lips and whimpered out the softest, most pliant, “Please.” And that was all he needed.

Like he was savoring it, he brushed the skin of his lips against yours, back and forth, before opening his mouth and swallowing your lips. The slowest, most sensual rhythm of lips against lips. And you could breathe again.

You sighed into his mouth, and the sound only spurred him further. His lips moved away, but only for a second, before he turned you around and pressed your back against the sink. His hand around your throat again as he pressed his body into yours, melding with you like he belonged there. His mouth moved against you like you were the most flavorful thing he had ever had the pleasure of tasting, his thumb rubbing the side of your throat, his other hand gripping your hip, pulling you closer to him as he devoured you. Your hands lifted and gripped his hair at the scalp, dragging a groan from his throat, his lips smiling against yours at the feeling of your hands.

“So soft..” he moaned into your mouth, barely giving you time to think as your head spun at the pure intensity of the kiss. “So fucking sweet.” 

Your eyes were shut, but his were open, watching himself in the mirror as the hand on your throat moved to grip the back of your neck. He watched his flex tendons flex as he held your neck possessively, like he owned you. The way your back arched and your body trembled. 

“Seonghwa…” You whined into his mouth. He almost growled, pushing his tongue into your mouth and drinking the pretty sounds you made.

“Again.” He groaned like it hurt, his eyebrows furrowed, and the grip on your waist tightened. “Say it again.”

You obeyed. “Seonghwa…” His kisses were rougher, claiming and violent. Like he wanted to eat you alive. You were lost in him, his roaming hands, and the way his body kept trying to push itself into you as if you both could even possibly physically be any closer.

“Fucking beautiful.” He pulled from your lips, littering kisses along your neck, both hands sliding up your shirt and tickling the sides of your waist. “Making the most lovely sounds. I’d pick you up and fuck you against this wall if I you’d let me. Would you let me, huh, pretty girl?”

You nodded frantically, thighs clenching at the mere thought.

And suddenly you remember this was your instructor. There were students in the other room. They were bound to wonder where you two were soon.

“W-we have to go back…” You whispered, his large hands kneading the flesh of your waist, like the thought of letting you go might just kill him. He groaned, pressing one last, claiming kiss on your shoulder. He pulled back and let his hands fall from your body, and suddenly you were cold.

Seonghwa took a deep breath, calming himself. He looked at you, pupils dilated and lips flushed. “Stay here. Leave in 10 minutes. Class is almost over. Once everyone leaves, come back to the studio.”

Leaving no room for debate, he opened the door and left. Your back still against the sink, hair disheveled, and lips kiss-swollen. Did that really just happen? Silence enveloped you as you leaned against the wall, waiting.

What must have been the longest ten minutes of your fucking life, the anticipation swirling in your gut. You had never been so soaked.

Seonghwa left so quickly. If he had stayed any longer, he for sure would have had his way with you regardless of whether anyone was in the other room. He’d make you scream just so they could hear. But he had manners, ones that he was slowly forgetting more and more each time he laid eyes on you. He sat in the front of the class behind his desk, eyes void as he tried his best not to think of how pretty you looked, arched over the sink. Hair a hot mess, body trembling, taking what he gave you like a good girl.

His foot tapped against the ground impatiently, and finally. 9 pm. The students gathered their things, waved their goodbyes, and slowly filed out of the studio. The lights were turned off, and the rain beat against the windows harder.

You were sure it had been 10 minutes. Slowly, you opened the door and peeked into the hall. Silence. Shutting the bathroom door, you turned the corner and began walking to the studio entrance. You hesitated, just a moment. Preparing yourself.

You placed your hand on the knob, twisted it, and pushed it open. You got one foot through the door when Seonghwa grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside, shutting the door and shoving you against it. Like an animal, he gave you no time to react, burying his hands in your hair and slotting his lips with yours.

“Finally..” he moaned, pressing his body against yours, rendering you helpless against the wall. You kissed back with just as much fervor, free to be as loud as you want. 

“Not enough,” he snarled, hands holding your waist as he picked you up, your legs wrapping around him as he carried you to his desk. Carelessly swiping the papers and such off as he set on the surface, his lips not once parting from yours. His hand slipped between our bodies, tracing down your stomach and landing on the button of your pants.

“Want these off, honey?” He whispered into your mouth, laughing softly at your frantic nods.

“Please, yes please…” His fingers danced along the hem, unbuttoning them slowly, slipping them down and off your legs. His kisses moved lower, mapping a trail down your body until he had sunk onto his knees, dragging his lips along the insides of your thighs. 

You looked down at him, his eyes never leaving yours and he placed a soft kiss against your clit through the thin lace of your panties. Your thighs shook, and his big hands spread them open for him, keeping them open with a strong grip.

“Hwa… please…. No more teasing.” He smiled and placed a rougher kiss against your clothed cunt. 

“I’ll tease you all I want, sweetheart, if you keep giving me such cute reactions.” His tongue fell out of his mouth, flattening against you as he dragged a long, stripe up your cunt, smiling when your whole body shivered at his touch.

“Such a responsive baby. I knew you’d be so good for me. Want these off too? Want to feel my tongue against that pretty pussy huh?” You were so fogged in the head, shame way past, with the only feeling you had was needed. Pure and unbridled need for him to fuck you stupid.

“Yes, fuck Seonghwa please!” His thumb hooked along the waistband, dragging your underwear down your legs and stuffing them in his pocket. The cold hit your cunt, soaked and throbbing for him.

“Uh huh.” His own voice shook with need, unable to pull his eyes away from you. “Don’t worry, I got you. I’ll take care of you.” Seonghwa’s hands curled around your thighs, keeping them steady as he kissed your clit, so softly, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

Immediately, your body pulled taught and your brain felt like it had been shocked, a deep, guttural moan escaping. His hands dug into your thighs like he was holding himself back, losing himself in your taste, drowning between your thighs.

“Fuck baby.” His tongue drew impossible patterns around your clit, one hand moving from your thighs to trace a finger up your soaked slit, gathering your wetness and teasing.

“I’ll fuck you open on my fingers and you’ll take it like a perfect slut right? You’re gonna take it for me?” You nodded, words fleeting and hard to grasp as you focused on the way he touched you. Like he’s known your body for eternity, knowing what buttons to press and what words to say to get your stomach fluttering.

With ease that should have been embarrassing, he slipped his fingers inside your warm cunt, immediately curling them to press against that spot that made your vision go white and your breath catch, all the while his mouth was relentless on your clit.

“Don’t talk, honey, just feel. Moan nice and loud, let me know I’m doing a good job, okay?” He hummed around your clit, sending pleasure ridden vibrations though you that made your back arch and your fists clench. Your hands flew forward and gripped his hair, grinding themselves against his mouth as his fingers dragged in and out of you so delicately, slowly, applying just enough pressure to have you tumbling towards your orgasm fast.

Your head fell back, biting your bottom lip as you continued to grind against his face. “Fuck, cummng Seonghwa…” His tongue only licked faster, his fingers pressing harder inside of you.

Suddenly, his fingers slowed and he pulled off of your clit, a depraved groan slipping from him. You whined in disappointment, so close to falling off the edge.

“Why…?” You whined, desperation lining your voice. He only smiled and placed gentle kisses on your inner thighs. 

“Beg,” Seonghwa stated simply, his voice breathless. “If you want it so fucking bad then beg for it princess.” Suddenly, the humiliation was setting in, but not enough for you to not beg.

He rested his cheek against your thighs lazily, looking up at you like you were the most stunning thing he had ever laid eyes on. “Nice and loud. Let me hear you. Beg like if I don’t let you cum you’ll die. Let me know how badly you need it.”

And you did. “Please Seonghwa, please I need you to fucking ruin me. Please, I’ll do anything. Please make me feel so good that I die, please.” So pathetic. So whiny and so desperate, exactly how Seonghwa liked it. Before you could continue he buried his face inbwtewen your thighs again, this time slipping his surprisingly longue tongue inside of you, fucking you eith his tongue. His fingers pinched your clit, rubbing it between his fingers and making noises so sinful, the sound of his voice was almost enough to make you shatter into a million pieces.

“You beg so beautifully for me, baby, cmon. Fall apart. Cum for me. You’ve earned it.” Your whole body shook as your orgasm overtook you, the grip on his hair impossibly tight. He groaned into your cunt from the pain in his scalp, which only spurred him on further. He wasn't stopping until he was done.

He continued to eat you like a man starved, even as overstimulation throbbed in your cunt. 

“Fuck Hwa, let up, too much!” he laughed at your pleas, kissing your clit one last time before standing, his tongue coming out to clean you off his lips. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his tongue delving between and licking your slick off himself. Dragging his tongue from the bottom of his wrist and up to his fingertips, eyes boring into yours.

Pulling off his fingers with a loud pop, he ripped his shirt off his body, his pants following right behind. His chest was beautifully toned, a honey gold that was good enough to eat. The dips and shadows in his abs that were so smooth you had the urge to sit on his stomach and grind against it.

But he didn’t give you time, before he grabbed your thighs pulling you to the edge of the desk, slotting himself between your legs and pulling his cock from his boxers, letting them fall to the floor and kicking them off his legs.

Teasingly, he slipped your shirt off your body, hands squeezing your waist, swallowing your lips in slow, deep kisses. 

He slid his cock through your soaked cunt, slicking the length of it up with your wetness. “Oh baby can’t wait to have you go dumb on my dick. Want me inside?’

Your arms circled around his back, nails dragging angry red stripes along his shoulder blades. 

“Yes Seonghwa, I’m all yours fuck me stupid, please you’re all I can think about…” Of course this only stirred his ego up more, his cock jumping in response to the pure need in your tone.

“Alright, baby, you’ll get what you want. Relax, loosen up for me and just feel…” 

He pulled his hips back, pressing his tip against your entrance. “Nice and slow, baby…” He pressed inside, and inch by inch, sinking into your cunt. He groaned, savoiring the feeling, wanting to drag it out for as long as possible before he lost himself and fucked you like he’d never fuck again.

Full was an understatement. You could feel every vein, the heat was burning inside of you, igniting a fire in your stomach that made your hips move on their own, rolling forward to take him deeper. He moans, unfiltered and dripping with want.

“That's it, love, that's it right there. Feeling full?” You moan into his mouth, he sucking your bottom lips into his mouth and savoring your warmth. When he bottomed out, he didn’t move, just feeling you clench and pulse around him.

“Such a creature of wonder you are, gorgeous.” He whispered, words waxing poetic, your head swimming at his praise. “I love the way you shake, the way you cry…” He pulled his hips back slowly, the slick sound vile…

And with a deep thrust, he knocked the wind from your lungs. Your back arched, and your nails bit into his skin harder. “Like it when I take you slow honey? Like it sensual, deep, all-consuming, huh?” 

You moaned in response as he found a rhythm, rolling his hips into you, dragging perfectly against your G-spot in a way that could have you passing out at any moment.

“Oh.. fuck Hwa….” your brows furrowed feeling so full each time he slipped out of you and thrusted right back in like he couldn’t stand being anywhere except inside of you.

“You…fuck..” He groaned, feeling himself losing it. “You minx. Look what you do to me.” A thrust so hard it shook the desk, you yelped, throwing your head back. Seonghwa took this opportunity to attach his lips to your exposed throat, no doubt littering you with dark, possessive marks,

“Mine, mine mine all fucking mine. R-right? You all mine, baby?”  Seonghwa's hips rolled into you deeper, like a second too long away from you would kill him.

“Yes Seonghwa yours, fuck, yours..”  His hands enveloped your waist, so big and so rough, feeling your stretch marks, his tongue tracing your collar bone, his thick cock sliding in and out so smoothly. 

“Wet little slut, all for me. Can’t get enough. Lean back, cmon.” You leaned back on the desk, elbows propped so you could keep your eyes on him. His hands holding your waist, his thumbs pressing into your abdomen as he rolled his hips in that delicious way again that made your thighs tremble.

“Gonna fuck you like I hate you mkay?” He whined, rubbing your stomach softly. “Take it.” And with a tough snap of his hips, he kept true to his words,

Seonghwa bullied his cock into your guts like he wanted to hurt you. Rough, sloppy, deep. And you took it.

“Look at you, take what I give you like it's all you deserve. Fucking beautiful.” He let his head fall back as he fucked you, your moans sweet music to his ears. Your broken sounds alternate between gasps for breath and whines of his name.

Relentless, feral, mean. He fucked you like your moans were a drug, hs greatest addiction.

“Fuck Seonghwa, gonna cum.” He laughed, your pathetic whines spurring him on to push you off that cliff, ruin you for any other man. He wants you crawling back to him. Begging him to mold you, to put you on your knees and show you just what it means to belong to someone. Belong to him.

“Dumb baby, gonna cum for me again?” Seonghwa pouted faxuly. You nod, mouth open, only staggering breaths and quiet whines coming out. Your eyelids fluttered and your stomach clenched as you approached that inevitable edge. He pulled you back up by your throat, crashing his lips into yours, nipping at your tongue, and moaning into your mouth. When he pulled from your lips, he pressed them against your ear, blowing air on the shell and nipping at the lobe.

“Then fucking cum (Name.).” Seonghwa moaned, the words traveling straight to your cunt. “Cum on my cock and scream like I’m God.” 

Your legs twitched, your eyes tunneled, and you came hard. Seonghwa did not let up, in fact he fucked you harder, dragging you through your orgasm like it didn’t just nearly knock you out.

“Fuck!” you squealed, legs going limp as he held you against his body, still fucking you without abandon.

“Good job baby, good fucking girl.” He praised you, soft like his cock wasn’t turning you inside out. “Gonna cum inside of this pretty cunt. Take it, take it like you’ve been taking me so good all night.”

His hips stuttered and with a final, deep thrust, he groaned, kissing you like you might disappear, as he slowly fucking his cum deep inside of you, being sure not a single drop went to waste.

You both stayed like that for a long while, savoring each other's pleasure and letting your breaths mingle in tandem, existing in each other’s presence. His hands gently caressed your waist, soothing your body and just feeling your skin.

“Still with me?” He mumbled, pressing gentle kisses along your shoulder and massaging your body like you might break in his hold.

“Yeah..” You croaked, voice strained and body exhausted. He smiled against your neck and breathed you in. 

“Could you go for one more?” Seonghwa teased.

“Are you insane? I think you broke me.” He laughed, kissing your lips slowly, smiling against you, and caressing your neck gently, rubbing the tension out of it. 

Reluctantly, he slipped out of you, groaning and the loss of your warmth. “Cmon, let's get you dressed and I’ll take you home.” His voice soft and alluring, he helped you stand and cleaned you up, kissing up your legs as he wiped you clean and, like the gentleman he was, slipping your clothes back on and pampering you like you deserved.

“You’re dangerous,” Seonghwa whispered as he walked you down the sidewalk back to your townhome, hand interlaced with yours while the other held an umbrella over both of you.

The streets were quiet, well into the night, as he walked you home, his thumb rubbing your hand soothingly.

“You too.” You teased me. “But trust, I'll be in class next Sunday.” His smile widened at your words, stopping in front of your home and turning to face you.

“I do hope I’ll see you sooner, though. Dinner sometime, maybe?” Your cheeks flushed, and suddenly you were shyer than you had been all night.

“How could I say no to such a face?” You embraced, sharing one last kiss, before he walked you to your door.

“Catch you later, teach.” You stood in your doorway, heart fluttering as he looked at you with pure adoration.

“See you soon, (Name),” Seonghwa replied, eyes soft, placing a gentle kiss on the back of your hand, before turning and descending the steps back out into the rain. And your door shut, signifying the beginning of that passion you’ve been craving oh so badly.

[ayouuni-deactivated20250907]

israel murdered five journalists this morning outside of the nasser medical complex. maryam abu daqa, mohammed salama, hossam al masry, moaz abu taha and ahmed abu aziz. they also murdered mohammed el habiby, a sixth year medical student, on his 24th birthday, in addition to at least 15 civilians. this is the third strike on nasser hospital, which is the hospital that sees the third largest amount of dead and injured. war crimes upon war crimes!! where is the outrage? why does the world view now as a suitable time to stop caring? do you not view their lives as being as valuable as yours??

[ayouuni-deactivated20250907]

it’s always an accident when the world finally shows any type of outrage. it was an accident when they bombed al ahli hospital in 2023. they’ve ‘accidentally’ killed 83% civilians MINIMALLY in their ‘war on hamas’. a lot of accidents happening for one of the most skilled armies in the world. if you completed your job with only a 17% success rate, would you still have it? wake up, people!! your eyes should be on gaza

[wallsofparadis]

how i feel opening up tumblr to read x reader ffs at my big age

[theinternetarchive]

robert smith and the cure for propaganda magazine no. 19, september 1992.

[jensthwa]

woo's interlude: a pool party for starved hearts (jwy x reader).

part of the love's an uncharted path universe ★.

SUMMARY:

summer parties are boring but thankfully your life has been full of surprises and fun since you met wooyoung. even if you can't call him yours, and you're not so sure that's what you want anyways, he sure knows how to make your fall for his schemes in way no other... friend? has before. it must be the summer heat and definitely not the love that's been brewing in your heart for him, right?

PAIRING: wooyoung x afab!reader.

GENRE: full on situationship at this point in the timeline of gosh.

WORD COUNT: 8.2k (wow i kept it short and not-so-sweet this time)

WARNINGS: SMUT ☽ (MINORS DNI), attempt !!! at comedy, reader uses femenine pronouns and has fem body parts, a little drinking, dirty talk, makeouts, fingering (f receiving), oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (guy pls do better and wrap it up), semi-public sex, shower sex, exhibitionism kink (risk of being overheard or seen by san i'm so sorry san your friend is a freak), teasing, a little bit of praise kink if you squint, situationship behavior (scariest warning of all).

NOTES: wanted to give you guys a summer one shot since fall is soon approching and also figured the series needs an interlude by now, considering the only stories left to write are hongjoong's, jongho's and wooyoungs full story which will tie everything together at the end. there's a lot of things here that only make sense if you read the other stories first but if you ignore them it can be read as a separate thing lol, if not you can always check WOO'S PRELUDE to find out how it all started. the timeline for this story is right in between yunho's and yeosang's, in those months before yeosang's reader went away. this is 100% self indulgent, as all fics should be, and i think i've re-read it so many times that if you find a typo or something that just doesn't make sense, you can blame it on english not being my first language i guess lmao. i hope you enjoy it and if you do feel free to send to my askbox/reblog/type in any feedback or thoughts! <3

POSTED: 08/09/2025

permanent taglist: @kyunlov @monsta-x-jagi @tinyelfperson @0115degrees @strawberrymars98 @faerouzia @honeybeehorizon @daniela-f-uwu @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @kyeomooniee @getouttamygrillxoxx @fairylover68 @sushiinmidnight @hwalighters @qveenbunni @calmoistorm @yasmincansstuff @bubbly-moon @yoonglesbae @potatomountain @beckxisxinxlovexwithxjin @svintsandghosts @lemonkait00 @blue5ummer @moonlitarcade @fancypeacepersona @hyukssunflower @i-love-ateez @miracle-sol @alsomimi @xielian-i-guess @e3ellie @mady-66 @hwallazia @st3ft0n3s @ginevrsstuff @hotteokkay @xylatox @snow0-0fairy @velvetskize

masterlist / woo's prelude.

House parties are so boring, especially in the summer time. 

You don't get to dress up (because it's too hot to do so), you don't get to do anything but sweat and hope the cold drink on your hand and the water that splashes by your feet every time someone decides to cannonball into the pool are worth it. 

August truly is the worst month to step outside but you started a new job and your coworkers invited you even though it is not even their house. 

You discovered, very late, as in just five minutes ago, that you might know the host of the party better than any of your coworkers do. 

Hooking up with one of the host’s best friends will do that. The thing is, the host doesn't know who you are at all. They introduced you both when you got the house, briefly, and his face rang a bell which tune you could only identify when you saw Gyuri in the corner of the pool area, frowning at something San said. 

You know all their names but they don't know who you are at all. 

So now you're fidgeting in your spot and avoiding looking over their group too much as you wait for Wooyoung to walk in because you know he's walking in any minute. 

Maybe you should just leave before that happens. 

The fear of being alienated by people you'll possibly need to ask a favor or two at your workspace keeps you right where you stand, though. For over an hour, too. 

An hour you use to make small talk, nod, smile and finally go for a swim as your glancing at the door through the huge glass separating the pool space and one of the living rooms of this huge house becomes more and more obvious. 

Now, it probably just looks like you want to leave, which you do, but the last thing you want to come off as is rude.

It's truly wonderful how much you can know about someone without actually personally knowing their circle at all or what they do when they're not with you. It's not like you ask Wooyoung and it is not like he asks you but if there's one thing he can't do is shut up about the people he loves. 

You found that endearing at first. Now, you regret knowing their inner jokes and all the secrets you're not supposed to in the first place. 

Like, you know Yeosang is not in this house right now because he's probably hanging out with that girl he's been talking to for months. Wooyoung told you he swears they're just friends and now that the down period in between graduation and actually starting jobs begun (one you didn't get to experience since you got hired straight away after your internship, lucky you) and this girl has to leave the country to chase her dreams somewhere else, the only thing they do is spend time with each other. 

Yay, Yeosang, you actually got an excuse to not come to the party, you think. 

And so when Wooyoung walks in and you walk to your coworkers, dripping wet and shaking a little, you decide that now is your time to leave. 

“Oh, let me introduce you to my coworker, she…” 

As you're picking up your bag, the worst thing happens: networking. 

Networking with a rich girl who probably knows nothing about your actual job, but networking nonetheless. 

You shake her hand with a smile, you feel eyes on the back of your neck the entire time your coworker talks about basic concepts of environmental engineering that are probably boring her. Damn, the concepts are boring you and you studied them voluntarily for years. 

When it gets too unbearable and you’re sweating, partly because of the heat, you excuse yourself and tell them you have a dinner later that day that you can’t miss. 

And it’s true, you can’t miss saturday dinners. 

You tell them that you’ll see them Monday, that you’re very grateful for the invite, that you had an amazing time and then you fully leave the pool area with a towel around you. Yunho said that you could use any downstairs bathroom, because apparently there’s multiple, and you’re about to when a hand closes around your wrist. 

You can recognize Wooyoung’s touch, the weight of his hand on your skin, anywhere. In the greatest way, too. It’s enough to bring goosebumps to your already cold skin and when you turn to him, he’s staring at you like he can’t believe you’re actually there. 

“Hey,” you say in a whisper, too afraid that someone is going to listen. To pay attention to the both of you.

“Where are you going?” 

Not what you’re doing here. No, Wooyoung would never ask you that but you know damn well that’s the real question behind his words. 

So you play along. 

“The bathroom.” 

He nods like it’s a big piece of information and you raise your eyebrow, a smile breaking through your nerves but you still look around to check if anyone is paying attention to you both. 

No one chased after you or him to this part of the house. You hear faint steps, like people going where you imagine the kitchen is, but nothing towards the both of you.

Good.

“This bathroom?” He points behind you and, when you nod, he shakes his head disapprovingly. “This one actually sucks. It’s the worst one of the entire house.” 

You’re sure there’s a knowing glint in your eyes. You’ve been hooking up for almost two years at this point, you know this man like the back of your hand. 

“Right.” 

“There’s a much bigger one upstairs.” 

“Woo—” 

“Please?” 

You know he wants to speak with you without anyone walking in, knocking on the door or even assuming that you two are together. You know he knows that’s how you truly would feel comfortable.

So you give in. 

“Okay.” 

On the walk upstairs, no one speaks. Your hair grows stiffer, air drying in the heat encapsulated in the walls of this area of the house and Wooyoung opens the door to the bathroom like the gentlemen he is, even in the weirdest situations. 

Like this one. 

Sleeping with him while having a full face of clown makeup on doesn’t even cross the weird spaces you two have squeezed yourselves into to spend a little time together, without being seen by his friends or your coworkers or your classmates, when you two were still in college.  

You graduated a few months ago and neither of you were there for each other’s ceremony. You went to dinner a few days later, though, something that felt dangerously close to an actual date. 

But as time passed and both of you got swept into adult life, into jobs and tired evenings where you could only think about crashing into your beds to do it all over again the next day, it became hard to see each other. 

This feels like it was a little fated, you can see it in his eyes when he closes the bathroom door behind him before you quickly turn around and inspect the space, like making sure he made the right choice. 

“I feel like I'm not supposed to be upstairs.” 

“Yunho won't mind.” 

“Hm,” you nod at that, “I met him briefly. I almost passed out when I recognized him and your friends.” 

Wooyoung rests his back against the door and you leave the things you brought with you on the counter, securing the towel around your body a second later. 

“Why?” 

“I didn't know this was his house,” and when you say it, it sounds like an excuse. Like a justification of why you're there in the first place. You don't like explaining yourself, but it's better than knowing he'll go to bed with the question in his mind. “I was invited by a coworker.” 

“The people you were with?”

“Mhm, the redhead knows someone who knows Yunho and they got invited and told they could bring anyone. That person hasn't showed up, though,” you turn, make a face that Woo laughs at. “So we're kind of crashing the party. I'm sorry.” 

“Don't be,” he slowly but surely steps away from the door, making his way to you. With your backside already resting against the marble counter, he only has to put his arms on either side of you to cage you in. 

You raise your eyebrows and he smirks in a way you can only describe as evil. 

That's his evil smirk. 

The kind that brings trouble. 

“I'm glad I get to see you, what, three days earlier than I was supposed to?” 

Ah yes, you two also have plans for Tuesday. 

“Technically, yes.” 

He lets out a breath that feels like he's been holding for a while and you smile. 

“Babe, I almost passed out when I saw you. I thought I was hallucinating or something.” 

Laughing, you turn your head to the side and purse your lips into a thin line to avoid making too much noise. 

“I was trying to leave quietly, I didn't know you had… noticed me already.” 

“Leave?”

When you turn to him again, he's frowning. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, shrugging the sudden awkward moment off. “I mean, I don't want to… Intrude in your plans with your friends, even involuntarily. I mean, I should've left when I noticed Gyuri.” 

At the mention of her name, you see how he straightens his posture a little. It always happens. Is either that or he is very careful to not mention her name at all. 

He still talks about her, though, even if her name doesn't come up and he replaces it with the word friend, you know some of the things he tells you are about her. You got used to it by now, knowing more about his ex-girlfriend and her stories than his. 

“You stayed anyway,” he points out and you curve a smile, like you've been caught. 

Heart racing and cheeks heating up, you notice he's inched a bit closer. He's staring at your lips, too, with a question on the tip of his tongue that you ignore because you really shouldn't be doing this at his friend's house. 

“Well maybe I wanted to see you.” 

At this point, you two are past asking each other if it's okay to kiss. Heavy makeouts on your couch, on your bed, on dark corners of the street where no one can see you are constant and expected and still make butterflies fly in your stomach. 

So when Wooyoung kisses you, you kind of expected it already. 

But boy does it make those butterflies come alive. 

Your arms go around his shoulders, his neck. His hands tug your hips into his and by this point is so familiar, so needed that you forget completely what you wanted to do in that bathroom in the first place.

“Fuck,” he says right into your mouth, not fully breaking the kiss. “I missed you so much, I haven't seen you in like a year.” 

“Three,” you say into his mouth, gasping when he bites your lip a little and slapping his back as a reprimand for the behavior. “Three and a half weeks,” you manage to finish before his tongue presses against yours for the first time in forever. 

It does feel like forever when he's not around, even if most of the days you feel like time passes extremely fast. 

“That's a whole month.” 

You finally pull back a bit, just to give him a look. “That's literally not a whole month, Wooyoung, is just three and a hal—” 

He smiles, wide. 

“Shut up.” 

And then he's kissing you again. 

You allow yourself to get lost in the feeling his mouth brings because there's literally no other way. When Wooyoung kisses you, you forget about the world outside of the very private, intimate bubble you two have been sharing for almost two years. 

It's dumb and irresponsible to do so as a friend with benefits and not as anything serious, but Wooyoung has a way of making your worries disappear. 

You have to blame it on the way you two met, on the escapism that gave way to this erotic sort of friendship to form. 

There's not really a point of return anymore and that should worry you, but you're busy feeling the softness of his hair to pay any mind to that. 

“It’s shorter now,” you say into his mouth and he nods, lips trailing down into your chin, your jaw, your neck. 

You don't close your eyes but you do give him the space to kiss your neck, your eyes busy trying to figure out if this is a fresh cut. 

Like if he cut it today.

He's not really going to tell you if he did, you know that. Instead, he replies: 

“This summer has been unbearable, I had to cut it more,” his mouth latches into your pulse point and you pant, a soft sound escaping you and making him smile. “It has been unbearable without you, too.”

A second of silence passes and you snort out a laugh that he follows. 

“Shut the fuck up, Woo.” 

“I mean it!” 

Sometimes, when you two stare at each other with smiles on your faces and lips puffy and wet after kissing so much, that you can feel yourself drifting into that dangerous space where you wonder what would happen if you could just call him yours. 

And that's your cue to push on his chest a little and rescue yourself from heartbreak. 

“Okay, I actually need to change and leave now.” 

He looks very worried and offended at your words. 

“But why?” He whines and you swear he's about to stomp his foot like a kid into the marble floor until he remembers. “Oh, it's Saturday.” 

“It's Saturday,” you nod and he nods as well.

Because even though you both don't really talk much about your circles and your families and your lives, he knows that little detail about you. 

Saturday nights have been off the table for over a year now. 

“I totally forgot,” he says and even though you had attempted to pull away, your effort died the second his lips returned to your skin. He kisses your cheek repetitively, only pulling away to speak. “I had to go to my office today.” 

“I thought you only worked five days?” 

“The aircon broke,” he sighs and you pout, knowing exactly what that means. “And it's so hot and so humid we had to move some of the books to this thing that looks like the cage Joe from You built to trap his victims, but smaller.” 

You snort another laugh and try not to think about the only thing that comes to mind whenever Wooyoung speaks about his job. 

That he lied to you.

When you two met, he lied to you. He told you he didn't read at all, which was a lie. 

You don't like lies. 

But you let it slip away because, well, maybe he thought he would never see you again. 

And because you'd like to believe he hasn't lied to you since then. 

So you distract yourself with his beautiful face, the crease between his eyebrows as he superficially recalls his day, the new length of his hair as your fingers pass through it again and again, the mole under his eye that you've always wanted to kiss but are too afraid to. 

Everything that attempts to burst your bubble can rot outside of it. 

Except when you actually have to leave and do your own thing, then the bubble can explode easily. 

“It's early, though, isn't it?” 

“Yeah, but I have to shower because I smell like chlorine and beer.” 

It takes two (2) seconds for Wooyoung to dive into your neck again, his perfectly crafted nose that you have admired so many times in silence pressing against the skin there and you have to remind yourself to breathe, to pretend to be unaffected by it.

“You always smell good,” he says there, lips leaving a featherlight kiss before he pulls back to look at you again, eyelids heavy and mouth parted. “Sweet and a little citrusy. I like it.” 

“I know,” rolling your eyes, you try your best to keep your focus on your task at hand: leaving this party. “You tell me all the time. I do smell like chlorine at least, I can smell it on me.” 

“Well, did you bring a change of clothes or is this…” he looks down at you, at your body and swallows hard, “All you brought?”  

At some point in the past few minutes, the towel had untugged and fallen down without you noticing. When you look down, the fabric is pooling around your hips, trapped between you and him, and your swimsuit is now visible, some of your skin is too. 

Ignoring his clearly suggestive tone, you nod to his question. 

He turns to his left, to the shower that's separated from the rest of the bathroom by a tempered glass and it doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. 

“Wooyoung…” 

He shrugs. “I'm just saying, you won't need to shower when you get home and you can spend time getting ready.” 

“I didn't plan this!” You whisper-shout and he brings you closer to him, hands on your waist and thumbs pressing against your skin. 

“And I know you love planning, but hear me out,” and before the smile smirk returns, you're already shaking your head no. He gasps. “Hear me out!” 

“I know what you're going to say!” 

“We’ve never taken a shower together,” he whines and pouts and shakes you a little so you laugh at him before letting out a soft sound when he pulls you forward again, middle connecting with yours. “There's not enough space in your shower.” 

“There's not enough money to rent a bigger apartment, Woo.” 

“Yeah and that's why we should take advantage of my very rich friend and his ridiculously huge shower.” 

You look around the space for a second and then squint your eyes at him. 

“Is this Yunho’s bathroom?” 

He deadpans at you. 

“No, baby, his bathroom is in his room and he doesn't really live here anymore. I meant like… In general,” he moves his hands, like trying to explain the ridiculous vastness of the bathroom that way. 

You snort yet another laugh that he follows and you find yourself thinking about it.

His tomfoolery really works on you. 

“Besides,” he says, soft and low and with that suggestive tone that has the intention of being subtle but fails in its attempt, “this would be one of those semi public spaces we can mark off our list.” 

“We have a list of those now?” 

“I keep score. So, frat party,” he counts with his fingers and you dislike the feeling of his hands leaving you for it, but you endure with a smile. “Frat Halloween  party,” he corrects himself, “building hallway at three thirty am, alleyway behind your last job,” you close your eyes and shake your head briefly at the reminder, a zap of electricity going down your spine because it was one of the best quickies you ever had, “and this can be the fourth one.” 

“I feel like this is a very private space, Woo.” 

“Not if we leave the door unlocked,” he argues and you swallow hard at the thought, sparing the door a glance. He didn't lock it at all and you two have been here for a while. 

You hate how much the idea turns you on. This is a thing you discovered with him, that first time together. Something that lingers in the back of your mind when you leave your bedroom window open when he comes over, when you make out in cafes or bars or whatever you decide to do when you meet up. 

You like the thought of people looking at you, wishing they were in your place or in his place or in the middle of you both. And it's crazy, because you don't like attention that much. 

But maybe that's the main reason behind the thrill. 

Or maybe this is something Wooyoung brings out in you. 

Either way, you return your eyes to him and allow yourself to look at this toned body for the first time in three and a half weeks. Really look at him, you mean. 

He's wearing a black tank top and cargo long shorts. You're sure he paired the outfit with boots he took off when he got to the house because it's one of his summer signature looks and this length of hair he's sporting, although not your favorite one, makes his features look so unique, so beautiful you have to take a deep breathe to not devour him right there and then. 

Fuck it. 

“We can try.” 

He kisses you again, hard and hot and messy and it takes all of you to push him away fully. 

“But we actually need to shower.” 

He's panting, obviously very turned on with the promise of what's about to happen and the last thing you see before your turn around to open the glass door to the shower space, is him leaning against the wall and trying to regain his composure. 

You love that you're able to do that to him, make him lose his mind. It's not one sided, intimacy with him never is. You feel involved, you feel like the control over what happens is as yours as it is his and it feels good, powerful even.

You love having that sort of connection with him, with anyone really. There's something that tells you that not everyone is as lucky. 

And that something might be the little devil on your shoulder that keeps allowing you to continue with whatever you and Wooyoung have, even if you're on the edge of falling off a cliff. 

But it doesn't really matter when you're about to undo the knots of your swimsuit and you feel his hand covering yours, his (now) naked chest against your back, his lips caressing your ear before whispering his question: 

“Can I take this off you?” 

Your breathing gets heavy and you turn your head to the side and let your nose rest softly against his, barely nodding. 

“Yes,” you whisper back and he proceeds to do what usually ends up dismantling your conviction almost every time. 

Wooyoung tends to undress you with a sensual caress to your skin you usually seek and think of even when he's not with you. When he's away or you can't coordinate a right date to see him and his words come to mind late at night, leading you to touching yourself, you always think of this. 

On the way he takes his time even if there's no time. On the pad of his fingers undoing whatever you have on that day: the buttons of your shirt, the clasp of your bra, the zipper of your pants or the knots of your swimsuit, like right now. 

Short nails drag softly against the skin of your chest as the fabric comes loose and he's able to pull it down and off and it lands somewhere you can't really see because your eyes close when he palms your breast the way he knows you like it. He cups it firmly, he lets his thumb explore near your nipple but doesn't allow it to touch you there yet. 

“It's been weeks and somehow you've only gotten more breathtaking…” He says, his mouth a breath away from yours. “Do you know what that does to me?” 

There's no time for this and you really, like actually need to shower. 

But you reach in between your bodies anyway, pretending to look for the bottom of his shorts even though you know exactly where it is just so you can feel him up. He's semi-firm already, which is good, because you don't have much time. 

Your touch makes him sigh and you smile, finally “finding” the button and loosing up his pants so he can get out of them. 

“I can take a wild guess.” 

When you open your eyes and he lets go of you, he's smiling as well. 

“Funny.” 

You turn around, inching closer to his face as he shimmies off his shorts and underwear “And you like it.” 

You finish undressing before stepping into the shower, opening the stream and letting your feet touch the water first so your body can adjust to the temperature. 

And you manage to do all that before Wooyoung shoves you against the cold tile and steals your breath with another messy kiss. 

Closing your eyes, you just let it be for what it feels an eternity. Again, his kisses and his touch traps you in this suspended world where only the two of you exist and it's really hard to put a stop on it when all you want is to stay this way forever. 

Still, you turn your head to the side and let his lips continue his ministrations against your clavicle, your shoulder. 

The valley of your breasts.

“We're wasting water, Woo— Oh, my god!” 

He very much manhandles you a bit so that you are under the cold stream of water and you let out a gasp as it effectively starts washing away the chlorine smell. He laughs when you hit his shoulder and then gets close again to steal a peck on your lips. 

You see his arm go behind you, probably for the soap or the shampoo, you're not sure because there's no way you're giving him your back when he's behaving like a fucking menace. 

“Let me make sure you're squeaky clean before you leave, hm?” 

“Sure, Woo, you're so fucking nice for that.” 

He pours liquid soap on his hand, chamomile and something expensive hitting your nostrils the second he does and he curves that wicked smile again, one hundred percent ignoring your jab and taking it as a compliment. 

“You make me so hard when you say my name like that.” 

“Again,” you say, half panting at the crudeness of his words and looking down at it, almost fully firm. “I can tell.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Wooyoung spreads the soap on your chest. It mixes with the water and it starts washing away, so you reach back to stop the stream and then he pours a little more, straight from the bottle over your shoulders this time. “Are you going to do something about it?” 

“Maybe I won't,” and because it's a little bit of a routine now defying him until he gets annoyed by you, you pretend to reach for it and detour your hand to his waist a second later. “Maybe I'll let you go downstairs like this, hm? Have all of your friends know how hard I make you?” 

You hear him swallow hard and his hands shake a little as he lathers the soap on your skin. It affects him, the thought of it. 

You're not the only pervert here. 

“You'll like that, wouldn't you?” 

“Me?” 

He looks up from your lathered up body and what he finds is a teasing smile, a knowing glint in your eyes. 

“We don’t have time for this, Woo,” you murmur, voice low and dripping with challenge, the droplets of water falling from your face into your chest and washing the soap away little by little, at a slow peace, at a patient pace even. 

Patience is what you don’t have today.

His lips curl into a smirk, hands sliding higher along your thighs as he presses you gently back against the slick tile, his hand reaching behind you to open the stream of water once again before he does so. “Then I guess I’ll just have to make it count,” he whispers against your neck, breath hot despite the cool spray of the shower. His mouth trails kisses along your jaw, his voice rough and playful all at once. “You think I need a lot of time to ruin you, sweetheart?”

Your laugh is soft, breathless, fingers weaving into his wet hair and tugging just enough to make him groan. “Prove it,” you tease, your words swallowed by his lips as he kisses you, deep and desperate, the shower filled with nothing but the sound of water and the soft, unrestrained gasps you pull from each other.

His hands roam lower, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. The slick heat of his body pressed to yours makes you gasp into his mouth, your nails scraping lightly down his back. “You’re trouble,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw as he breathes you in. “Three weeks without you and this is how you test me?”

You smirk, tilting your head back to give him better access as his kisses trail down your throat. “Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes,” you whisper, your tone playful but shaky when his hands slip around to cup your ass, lifting you just enough to make you cling to him for a few seconds before he puts you back on the ground. 

He chuckles low in his chest, pressing you harder against the slick tile. “Yeah, Y/N, test the guy that knows how to make you come in three minutes or less, pretty smart.” 

And knowing your teasing, the challenge presented in your eyes and voice is working, you push a little bit further. 

“Prove. It.” 

With a low groan, he kisses you again, this time deeper, hungrier, his hands roaming with newfound urgency.

Wooyoung’s hands tighten on your hips as his mouth leaves yours, kisses trailing down the slick curve of your neck, over your chest, lower and lower until he’s kneeling at your feet. The sight alone sends a rush of heat straight through you.

You open your mouth to tease him, maybe remind him you said there wasn’t much time, but the thought vanishes the moment his lips press against your inner thigh, slow and deliberate. “Missed this,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot and driving you crazy. 

Fingers finding his damp hair (he did not catch the worst of the shower before, you did), you tug softly at the dark strands as he hooks your leg over his shoulder with care. You can see the water dripping down his back, the stream catching him in this new position, and it makes you want to lick him up entirely.

His mouth finally, finally gives you what you’ve been aching for and the sound you make is swallowed by the shower’s spray, your free hand clinging to the tiled wall as every flick of he devours you. Starved, like he was actually waiting all these weeks to have you like this and eat you out. 

“Woo…” you gasp, unable to contain yourself, voice barely holding together. 

He hums in response, the vibration making you knees weak, his hands gripping your thighs to steady you as he pulls another breathless moan from your lips. He looks up at you, dark eyes shining through the wet strands of dark hair that cling to his forehead and you don’t know how, because the pleasure is enough to have you closing your eyes every five seconds, but you can see he’s curving his lips in a smug smile. 

Wooyoung seems determined to make you forget about your compromise later today, about the pool party and the time apart. He seems determined to prove you wrong, to make you eat your words right up and you love it, you love this and the thrill that shakes your entire being is delicious, empowered. 

And it’s working, it truly is… Until a knock rattles the door. 

“Wooyoung are you in here?” You can recognize San’s voice because he’s called in the middle of a makeout session or in the middle of a tv show binge session, to talk about dumb things that only best friends who have known each other for a while care to talk about. 

You like him, you think he’s nice, even if there was a few months where Wooyoung was upset at him. He didn’t tell you why but you noticed it in the change of his tone when they spoke on the phone and the lack of curiosity Woo showed in their conversations.

Wooyoung is a very curious dude, so it was strange to say the least. They made up, though, and you don’t really want your first impression to be this.

You don’t want to actually meet San at all. 

You wouldn’t know how to look him in the eyes knowing his intrusion, instead of taking you out completely of the mindset, only builds up the tension in your lower abdomen. It’s sick but Wooyoung shares your same twisted spirit.  

“Yeah!” He shoots back, breathless and still against your skin so it sounds a little muffled. Your free hand flies to your mouth to avoid moaning out loud. 

There’s a pause, then the creak of the door opening. “I’m coming in with my eyes closed because I don't want to accidentally see your dick ever again!” He warns and you almost laugh at that, Wooyoung definitely does. 

Now that takes you a little out but Wooyoung shushes you, tilting his head back completely. His fingers replace his mouth and his thumb finds your clit with ease, touch never giving up even though you can see San’s shoulder and his side profile behind the tempered glass. 

It has the film that blurs your bodies but you’re sure the outlines and the fact that Wooyoung is on his knees give away what’s going on. 

San’s eyes are closed, though. 

Such a respectful young man. 

“Hey,” San calls out over the water, sounding half-distracted. “You were supposed to help me with the grill, man. Yunho’s about to burn half the patties out there.”

You look down, trying to calm your breathing and raising an eyebrow at Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung’s voice somehow comes out steady, despite the way his fingers tease your opening, making you bite down on your lip to hold in a sound. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be out in a minute. I just felt… sticky and gross. Needed to rinse off before I get in the pool.”

San huffs, leaning casually against the sink, still eyes shut. “You’ve been in here forever, though.”

Wooyoung chuckles low, his cheek resting against your thigh. “Just… making sure I’m really clean, you know? Can’t jump into Yunho’s fancy pool dirty.”

“That literally has never stopped you before,” and when you look at San again, you can make out that he’s pouting. You turn to Wooyoung again, shaking your head disapprovingly at the way he’s lying to his friend like it’s not inching you closer to cumming on his fingers. “Whatever, hurry it up. I’ll tell them you’re busy ‘deep-cleaning’,” he turns to leave, muttering as he reaches the door. “You’re weird as hell, Woo.”

The second the door clicks shut and you two can hear steps going away, Wooyoung lets out a breathy laugh and you bring your hand down, letting out a breath you didn’t know you were keeping in in the first place. 

“See?” he says, looking up at you and your disheveled state with a teasing smirk. “This is so much fun.” 

Your laugh breaks on a moan, shaky and breathless. “You think this is funny?” you manage, gripping his wet hair tighter as his fingers move with a maddening rhythm. 

Woo’s grin turns downright sinful as he leans in, pressing a kiss high on your thigh, his dark eyes locked on yours. “Yeah,” he admits, voice low and warm over the sound of water cascading around you. “You trying so hard to stay quiet? That’s the best part.”

Your body burns, hot flames engulf you as you hang over the edge. The interruption, his words, his fingers and his mouth a lethal combination for your sanity, your self control. 

Frowning in determination, lowers himself again, mouth replacing his fingers with deliberate slowness that picks up as soon as you arch a little and move your hips against his mouth. He holds you better, both arms making sure you stay up right, letting out a moan and encouraging you to get off on his tongue. 

The drag of it against your wetness, catching your clit perfectly at every push of your hips makes your head fall back against the tile, a sharp gasp escaping before you can swallow it down. 

He moans and it vibrates against you, sending shockwaves down your spine as his tongue works you with precision. Every swirl, every flick is deliberate, fueled by weeks of pent-up need. One of his hands leaves your hip just long enough to squeeze your thigh before sliding down, fingers digging into your skin as if he can’t get you close enough.

“Woo…” you whimper, voice trembling, and his response is a growl that makes your knees nearly buckle. He tightens his grip, keeping you steady, never once letting his mouth falter.

He pulls back just long enough to murmur against your slick skin, voice low and wrecked, “That’s it, baby… ride me… take what you need.” Then he’s back on you, faster, deeper, his moans mixing with the sounds of water and your breathless, yet contained, cries. 

As much as you want to scream his name you need to keep in mind that you don’t actually want to get caught. 

Your hips move with reckless desperation now, chasing that blinding edge as his tongue drags over your clit, circling and sucking with perfect rhythm until you’re trembling in his hold. The tension coils tight, your stomach fluttering, the world narrowing to nothing but his mouth and the hot pressure building and building and building until it finally breaks. 

Your whole body shudders while he keeps his pace, coaxing every wave, every last ounce of pleasure until you’re left weak and shaking in his arms. 

Woo looks up at you through wet strands of hair, lips glistening, his grin dark and proud. “Fuck, you’re perfect like this,” he says, voice a rough purr as he rises to kiss you, tasting your release on his tongue. His hands press firmly to your hips, pinning you to the cool tile as his mouth moves urgently against yours.

The kiss turns desperate fast, teeth grazing lips, your breath mixing as your hands roam his slick skin, nails scraping lightly down his chest until they hover dangerously near where he needs you the most. Woo groans into your mouth, pressing his forehead to yours for a heartbeat before whispering, “I need to feel you… all of you.”

You answer without words, tugging at his hips and gloating in his hiss when your hand finally wraps around him, his hips jerking forward instinctively, a shuddered “fuck” escaping his lips.

Woo’s mouth finds your neck, sucking and biting softly as his hands slide down to cup your thighs. “Jump,” he rasps against your skin. The second you do, he catches you easily, pinning you to the shower wall with the strength you’ve been craving to feel all over you. 

With one slow, deliberate push, he’s inside you, and the sound that leaves both your lips is too loud for your own well being, but the feeling of his perfect length opening you up makes you care very little about that.

“Finally,” he groans, his face burying into your shoulder as his hips press flush to yours. “Been thinking about this every night.”

“Yeah?” you ask, breathless and he pulls back to look at you in the eye, pupils blown and mouth parted in pleasure. 

“There’s not one day where I don’t think about you, Y/N,” he confesses, voice cracking under the weight of it, his forehead pressing to yours as he rocks into you with slow, deliberate thrusts. “I close my eyes, and it’s always you… the way you sound, the way you feel…”

Your breath catches, your hands cupping his face as you kiss him hard, swallowing his next moan. The rhythm of his hips grows more insistent, your body molding perfectly against his as your back presses into the cold tile.

“Missed you so much,” you whisper against his lips, every word punched out between thrusts. “Nothing else feels like this.”

He groans, gripping your thighs tighter to lift you slightly, hitting deeper, harder, his mouth finding your neck. “I know, baby… God, I know.” He nips at your skin gently, a soft hiss escaping him when you clench around him. 

This position is irresponsible and slippery and you wish you were in your bed with him right now but there’s something so good about the way he grips you to keep you right where you are even if you’re slipping down that you want to commit to memory. When you look down, you see the veins on his strong arms popping out a little as he tries to keep this position and you think this is the hottest thing you two have ever done. 

The hottest thing you’ve done ever, that’s for sure. 

The pace builds between you, the wet sound of your bodies moving together drowned out by the hiss of water, by the uneven mix of moans and whispered names spilling into the steam that’s been building up not because of the water temperature but because of you two. 

Wooyoung’s thrusts grow rougher but never lose their rhythm, every movement deliberate, hitting deep and perfect until you’re gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. His lips find yours again and again, each kiss desperate, teeth clashing, tongues tangling like neither of you can get close enough. 

“Woo… I—” The words die on your tongue, replaced by a broken moan as his hips snap harder, his breath hot against your ear.

His lips graze your ear, voice low and desperate, “That’s it, sweetheart… don’t hold back. I’ve got you.” 

The pressure that’s been coiling tight inside you finally snaps, and it’s not a full orgasm because your clit barely got stimulated but your body still trembles as the mild pleasure crashes over you. Your nails dig into his back, holding him close as he rides you through it, his own groans growing louder and more ragged.

You catch his face between your hands, lips brushing his ear as you whimper, voice wrecked and needy and knowing exactly what he needs.  “Come for me, Woo… want to feel you lose it… want you to make a mess all over me.”

A sharp curse slips from his lips, his control shattering. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna— Fuck!” He pulls out quickly. With a desperate kind of care, Wooyoung lowers you onto the slick shower floor, his hand braced on your waist as the other helps him finally get there, stroking hard and fast, breath ragged. 

His eyes don't actually leave you and you dive into his neck, your hand going down to help him. He lets go for a second, lets you grab onto him and then covers his hand with yours. You pant and he moves both of your hands to the rhythm he needs and you hear your shallow breathes and revel in the broken moan he lets out when he finally spills, hot across your stomach and thighs, his forehead pressing to yours as water rushes down over both of you, washing the heat in slow, dizzying rivulets.

Woo’s breath comes in harsh, uneven pants, his lips ghosting over your jaw as he pulls back just enough to take you in. His gaze lingers on you, your face, the way your chest heaves against his.

His voice is rough, words spilling out between gasps. “Fuck… this was supposed to take the edge off, but now I just want more of you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, brushing his wet hair from his forehead. “We can’t…” your voice falters as you feel his thumb tracing lazy circles over your hip. “I don’t even know what time it is anymore, Woo, I need to leave to get to—”

“I know, I know…” He says it like he doesn’t really want to let go and you almost believe it, but then he gives you that smile that lets you know it’s over. 

You two fucked and now one of the two has to leave before it gets too… Intimate.

Still, he leans in to whisper: “Let’s get you cleaned up before you leave, though. Actually cleaned up this time.” 

Rolling your eyes, you indulge in this because you don’t actually want to leave his side today for some scary reason. 

He kisses you one more time before pulling you into the cold spray. This time, there’s no frantic rush, no teasing touches, just his hands sliding over your skin with gentle care. 

He rinses your stomach clean, his palms skimming over your sides in slow, tender strokes. You return the favor, fingers trailing across his chest, washing away the evidence of what you’d just done but not the feeling of it clinging thick in the air.

There's silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s heavy, charged, both of you standing there under the shower knowing what just happened shouldn’t have but neither of you regret it, you're sure of it. When you tilt your head up, he’s already looking at you, eyes softer than they should be for two people who keep saying this isn’t serious.

Once you finally step out, dripping, he pulls a towel from the rack. Instead of handing it to you, he wraps it around both of you, pulling you into his chest. It’s a clumsy fit, skin damp and pressed tight, but his arms cinch around your waist like he can’t let go just yet.

“Wooyoung…” 

He shushes you and you shake your head, but his lips connect to your head and it’s more intimate than it should be. Your touches are superficial and they always lead to sex except the hugs you two sometimes share. This doesn’t feel like one of those hugs and you don’t know what to make out of it, your heart beating hard enough to let you know it’s affecting you one way or another. 

“Just a sec, hm?” 

“Okay,” you whisper into his skin, hugging him and kissing the space of his chest your cheeks rests against.

After a minute or maybe two, reality sinks in. You slip into your spare clothes, he puts the ones he walked in with back on again and leans against the sink as you put your still wet swimsuit into a plastic bag, stuffing it on your bag a second later. 

You know his body language better than yours at this point. Maybe not other aspects of his life but the way he tilts his head slightly as he really, really thinks something over is something you can tell. 

“What are you thinking?” You break the silence, securing your bag on your shoulder and taking a step to his direction. His hands go to your waist immediately, instinctively even. 

He looks a little worried, a slight crease on his brows. 

“I’m still seeing you on Tuesday, right?” 

Sometimes, when he sounds so worried he might never see you again, you start to believe you mean a lot to him. A lot, lot. Beyond the physical relationship and the weird friendship you two shared, beyond the mutual understandings and shared kisses and that you start to believe that connection that formed out of necessity and spite morphed into something tender. 

Into love, maybe. 

But you can’t afford to think about that because you turn the screen of your phone on and notice you barely got time to leave and get ready for the night. 

“Of course you are,” you say like you can’t actually believe he’s asking you something so silly. “You’re making dinner that night, by the way.” 

He smiles, worries leaving his face. 

“Sure, just… I’ll send you a list of what to buy, not so sure I’ll have the time after leaving the office.” 

“Yup, okay. Uh… I actually need to leave now, Woo. I’ll get out of here first,” you say and you kiss his cheek before pulling from his grasp entirely. “Enjoy the rest of your day. Send me a picture of what you end up grilling.” 

You grab the handle, ready to slip out first, but he catches your wrist. When you turn, his mouth is already on yours, soft this time, almost hesitant, as if admitting that letting you go isn’t easy. It’s brief and, for a slight second, you believe it says everything neither of you will.  

“Text me when you get home,” he whispers and you nod with a tiny smile. 

When you finally leave the bathroom, you’re praying no one notices you on the way down and out the front door. Thankfully, no one does and, as you walk down the hill and see the sun starting to come down, you can still feel his hands on your skin, his lips on yours, his eyes staring at you with… Oh, God. 

Wishful thinking it's starting to become annoying and dangerous.  

And the worst part is, you know you’ll be feeling it for the rest of the night and until you see him again. 

Your poor, starved heart never gets enough of him. 

If you read all the way down here: THANK YOU SO MUCH. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, don't be afraid to go to my inbox and leave your thoughts there, i love reading them!

© jensthwa, 2025.

[yungistiny]

so like this is crazy

[markiecake]

💋

pairing: experienced! choi san x inexperienced! fem! reader

tags/ warnings: smut (minors dni !!!), dom sannie, corruption kink, strength kink (a little bit), size kink (san refers to reader as tiny once), MONSTER COCK SAN :3, breeding kink (as always 😇), overstimulation, pet names !! (baby, love, the whole shaboom), sannie is ever so slightly condesending but is a sweetie at the end

notes: yeah so SURPRISEEEE !!! sannie is my everything and this was also sitting unfinished in my drafts for MONTHS so fuck it we ball 🤓 also first time writing for ateez woo hoo ! ALSO also not proof read so if you see any spelling mistakes ... keep it to yourself pls ;3

i'm having sososo many thoughts about inexperienced!reader and experienced!san + practice kissing .......

"just sit on my lap, baby," he said as he grabbed your leg and swung it over, "like this."

so many thoughts racing through your head, not wanting to embarass yourself and also wanting to make sannie feel good too :(

as you straddled him, he placed his hands on your hips and let them rest there, every touch from him making your cheeks burn up.

"sannie," you whined, "i don't know what i'm doing."

"i know, baby," he simply replied, "that's why i'm gonna teach you."

this spirals into sannie's corruption kink going insaneeeee 😵‍💫 you were literally his to claim, his to break.

innocent kissing slowly turned into making out, which then turned into san grabbing your hips to make you grind down onto his cock through his pants (which had been hard since you sat on his lap) !!

your skin was burning hot, and the wetness between your legs was growing ever so uncomfortable :,(

"s- sannie..." you whined through breathy moans, to which he just shushed you.

"i know it feels good baby, i know," he replied through sloppy kisses, "just let me do everything."

so you did.

which is how you ended up on your back with your legs being pushed back to your chest as san literally fucked you into oblivion. he was so strong, he could literally move you into any position he wanted !!

"look at me, tiny," he groaned, "watch me while i break you."

your whimpers of his name and moans of pleasure simply made him want to pound you into the matress even further. when you stared up at him, you swore he had never looked more beautiful. his hair was sticking to his forehead, his lips were parted, and his eyes were locked to your face.

you scratched your nails over his chest (which would most definetly leave a mark he would have to explain to the other members) as tears ran down your face.

"'s too much for you, baby? can't take anymore?" he growled as he leaned closer towards you, "fuck, look at you."

you were a mess, to say the least. you shook your head.

"i feel- i think-" you stuttered through moans, his pace never stopping as you began to clench around his cock.

"baby's gonna cum for me?" he mocked from above you, "you wanna cum for sannie, don't you?"

you felt like everything was happening at once, you had never felt like this in your life. his cock felt like it was in your stomach, you were lightheaded, and he still didn't slow down for a second.

"give it to me baby, i know you want to," he said as he reached between the two of you to rub your clit, "make a mess all over my cock for me, yeah? can you do that?"

your moans felt like they were turning into screams as your cunt pulsed around him, doing exactly what he asked and cumming all over him. it was like your vision blurred as your slick coated him, and insanely enough it felt like he began to go faster.

as you began to whine from overstimulation, he kissed your lips sweetly to shut you up.

"i know, 'm sorry baby," san almost whispered, "so close, love. gonna fill you up so good, i promise, you'll fucking feel me in you for days."

you moaned as he chased his high, more tears running down your face due to the overstimulation, it was just so much !! D:

"my gorgeous girl, my beautiful girl," he groaned into your neck, "need to fill you. need to make you mine. you're mine, right?"

you nodded, but that wasn't good enough for san.

"no, say it. need to hear you say it." he spoke through heavy pants.

"yours, sannie! 'm yours, all yours, please," you babbled, your brain feeling fuzzy and clouded.

that's when he moaned right into your ear, his hips pausing with his whole length inside of you. the sensation of his cum filling you up was indescribable. it was warm. you felt impossibly full, with san still moaning into your neck.

he stilled inside of you, not daring to move just yet.

"gotta keep it in for a little bit, baby. can't waste anything." he said, and you couldn't even really respond with how blissed out you were, "baby's all full and fucked out, isn't she?"

that's when he lifted his head from your neck, and pressed his forehead to yours. another kiss was pressed onto your lips, this one was sweet and gentle.

"my girl, my sweet girl," he spoke against your lips, "you did so well for me. such a quick learner, hm?"

[koyagifs]

free

pairing:: seonghwa x reader genre:: angst | au:: non idol | college au | lovers to exes synopsis:: all the secrets that keep me in chains, and all the damage that might make me dangerous. word count:: 2 k warning(s):: emotional neglect, quiet breakup, fem!reader.

It started off small—little things. Things you could shrug off, tell yourself weren’t worth overthinking. He’s just friendly, you'd say. That’s who he is. That warmth, that charm, that easy way he made everyone feel special… it’s what you loved about him. What you fell for.

But love starts to feel a little different when he's constantly rescheduling.

"I'm so sorry, baby. Something came up—can we reschedule?”

“Hey, hun. This session ran late—can we reschedule?”

“Shit, I’m sorry, princess. I totally forgot. Can we reschedule?”

At first, you laughed it off. Because that’s what you do when you love someone—you make space. You make excuses for them. You understand. But understanding turned into waiting. Waiting turned into wondering. And wondering… turned into doubting.

Now you catch yourself staring across the room, watching him lean in too close to her again. Her. The one he told you not to worry about. Over and over again, like if he repeated it enough, it’d become true. Like you were the crazy one for even questioning it.

you try not to be that person—the one who doubts, who checks phones, who reads too far into every smile. But God, it’s hard not to when you can see it so clearly now. The way his eyes soften around her. The way his smile lingers just a second longer.

He doesn’t cancel on her.

He doesn’t forget her.

And maybe that’s what hurts the most. Not the lies. Not the missed dates. But the slow, quiet way he stopped choosing you.

So you started to pull away—not loudly, not all at once. Just little steps backward. Small silences where there used to be laughter. Delayed replies instead of excited ones. You hoped he’d notice. Hoped he’d look up one day and realize you were slipping through his fingers. That maybe—just maybe—he’d reach for you again.

But he didn’t.

And as you stood out in the pouring rain, watching him rush toward her, his jacket already halfway off, an umbrella in his hand—not even seeing you on the other side of the street— your heart sank.

He used to do that for you.

Your shoulders slumped as your tears mixed with the rain, cold and unnoticed. You didn’t call out to him. Didn’t make a scene. You just stood there, soaking, watching the last piece of him walk away with someone else.

And in that moment, you realized: You weren’t losing him.

He was already gone.

You picked at your food, barely tasting it, the fork moving more out of habit than hunger. Seonghwa sat beside you, laughing easily with his friends—like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t falling apart quietly beside him.

His hand rested on your thigh, the same spot it always had. Once, it used to spark something in you. Warmth. Comfort. Reassurance. Now it just felt cold. Foreign. Like a habit he hadn’t broken yet.

You flinched at the sound of her laugh from across the table. That soft, sweet laugh he used to say made his day. You used to think he meant your laugh.

You swallowed hard, the food suddenly like lead in your stomach. Your appetite had long since disappeared—right around the time you started noticing the way he looked at her when he thought you wouldn’t see.

He leaned in to whisper something to you, but his voice sounded distant, muffled behind the noise in your own head. You nodded anyway.

Because what else could you do?

You were still his, technically. But he hadn’t felt like yours in a long time.

“Say, Y/N, how’s the lyric writing going?” Hongjoong asked casually, eyes flicking over to you as he noticed the way you were just picking at your food.

Your head shot up, startled by the attention. Seonghwa glanced over at you too, his brows pinching together.

“Oh—uh… it’s going well, I guess,” you mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Writing?” Seonghwa repeated, his voice low with confusion. “I didn’t know you were working on lyrics this year.”

You gave him a tight smile, the kind you’d mastered lately—half-hearted and tired. “Didn’t really come up.”

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly, his tone brightening. “She’s got some real talent. You should hear some of the stuff she’s been working on. Actually—hey, you want to join Mingi and me in the studio tonight? We could really use your input.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Really? I mean—”

“Oh my god, Seonghwa, we have that recording session today with the agent!” Her voice cut through the table like a knife, high-pitched and urgent as she leaned in from across the way.

You stopped mid-sentence. Just like that, swallowed whole by the conversation.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as a wave of congratulations erupted around the table. Everyone turned to Seonghwa, clapping him on the back, offering their praise. Even Hongjoong’s smile faltered, his gaze flicking uneasily between you, Seonghwa, and her.

Seonghwa let out a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “Thanks, guys,” he said, his voice tight but polite. “Really appreciate it.”

Then he glanced at you. As if suddenly remembering you were there.

“Thanks, but I promised Y/N I’d take her out to dinner tonight,” he added quickly, reaching under the table to squeeze your hand.

His grip was firm—like he was trying to ground you. Or maybe just anchor himself.

You pulled your hand away almost immediately, voice steady but cool. “It’s fine. An agent is a big deal, Seonghwa. You should go.”

The words hung in the air between you—polite, but edged with something sharper. A quiet refusal disguised as understanding.

He looked down at the table, caught off guard by your sudden distance. For a moment, the confident smile slipped, flickering like a crack in his carefully held facade.

The girl smiled widely across the table, eyes bright with excitement. “Great! This works out perfectly! We can go to the recording, and Y/N can go with Hongjoong and Mingi to their studio.”

You forced a polite smile, but inside, the walls felt like they were closing in. Seonghwa glanced at you, caught somewhere between surprise and resignation—like he hadn’t expected this plan to leave you out.

And just like that, you were the one left behind in the conversation.

Quietly, you slipped away from the table, your presence fading into the background like you were invisible. Tears welled up behind your eyes, but you bit your lip hard to hold them back. Pulling your hoodie over your head, you avoided every pair of eyes you were sure were watching—judging.

Envy and hurt coursed through you like a slow-burning fire. Seonghwa never mentioned the agent. Not once. And you knew how much this meant to him—how it was the dream he’d chased for years. To be picked up. To be an idol. To sing.

That he hadn’t shared it with you made the ache sharper. Like you were standing on the sidelines of his life, watching the one thing he wanted most slip just out of reach… And it wasn’t because he didn’t care. It was because he didn’t choose you to be part of it.

You had little hope that Hongjoong or Mingi would come for you. Seonghwa was long gone—no whispered “I love you” left on his lips as he was pulled away by the girl.

You didn’t even bother waiting. Already, you were walking away, head down, pulling your hoodie tighter as you made your way toward your dorm— away from the noise, the laughter, and the space where you no longer felt like you belonged.

That was until you felt a tug on your arm.

You turned to see Mingi standing there, eyes searching yours with concern. Hongjoong stood just behind him, his expression warm but curious.

“Where are you going?” Mingi asked softly. “Didn’t you want to join us at the studio?”

Their presence was unexpected, like a small crack of light in the darkness that had settled around you.

You were speechless, caught off guard, and Hongjoong couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped his lips.

“Did you think we were going to stand you up?” he asked, teasing but kind.

You knew he meant well, but the words still hit a raw nerve.

“I’m used to it,” you said a little too quickly—too sharply.

You saw the two boys recoil, their smiles faltering as they registered the weight behind your words.

“Shit, Y/N—I did—” Mingi started, his voice catching with regret.

“It’s okay,” you interrupted softly, forcing a small, genuine smile. “I’d love to join you guys in the studio.”

-

Hongjoong was flipping through your lyrics book while you and Mingi played around with some beats, switching back and forth on what to change and add.

“These are so… sad but good, Y/N,” Hongjoong said softly, handing the book back to you.

You nodded, offering a small, grateful smile—one he didn’t miss.

He picked up the microphone and held it out toward you.

“I think I have a good melody for the latest one. Want to give it a go?”

You hesitated for a moment, fingers curling protectively around your lyrics book. “Actually… do you have an acoustic guitar?” you asked, your voice quiet but steady.

Hongjoong’s eyes softened as he nodded, signaling Mingi without a word. Mingi gave you a small grin and disappeared into the back, already knowing exactly which one to grab.

Your heart was pounding, nerves coiling tightly in your chest. But maybe—just maybe—this was what you needed. Not the perfect take. Not the spotlight. Just a chance to be heard.

You were at the celebration party.

Seonghwa had been picked up just weeks after that recording session—the same week your own track with Hongjoong and Mingi had started gaining quiet attention online. Everyone was buzzing, drinks were flowing, and laughter echoed off the walls.

You stood near the edge of the room, red cup in hand, letting the bitter tang of whatever was inside ground you.

Across the space, you saw her. Nestled comfortably by Seonghwa’s side like she belonged there—like she’d always belonged there. Her hand rested casually on his arm, her smile radiant, and he… he didn’t seem to mind.

He looked good—confident, glowing under the soft lights, the kind of shine that came from dreams finally within reach.

You hesitated for a second, then walked up to him, fingers gently tugging at the edge of his sleeve.

He turned almost instantly, his eyes softening the moment they met yours. And for a brief second, it felt like the world quieted—like the music, the voices, the lights all faded into the background. He leaned down instinctively, close enough that his lips brushed yours in a near-miss. Familiar. Automatic.

“Can we talk?” you asked, your voice barely audible over the bass pulsing behind you.

His smile faltered—just a little. Subtle, but enough for you to see it.

He laced his fingers with yours, and for a second, it felt like maybe he would choose you. Maybe he still could.

But before he could say anything, she was tugging him back.

Her smile twitched when her eyes dropped to your joined hands. “We have to get a group picture!” she said brightly, though her voice was a little too sharp around the edges.

“Just give me a minute, I’ll be—” he started, glancing between you and her.

“Come on, it’s just a picture, Hwa,” she cut in, tugging him again, her fingers curling tighter around his arm.

And just like that… you felt him slipping again.

But instead of letting go, Seonghwa pulled you with him, his hand settling on your waist as everyone began to position themselves for the photo.

You stood still, frozen in place, eyes glazed as you stared somewhere just past the camera. You didn’t smile. Couldn’t.

You didn’t even see it happen—only felt it.

The absence.

Her hand cupping Seonghwa’s face. The soft laughter. And then the kiss.

His hand… slipping away from your waist.

You pulled back instinctively, stumbling a little as the space you once occupied was filled without hesitation. No one stopped you. No one reached for you.

But a few eyes lingered—some filled with concern, others with pity.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t make a scene. You just offered a small, sad smile to the ones who noticed. The kind of smile that said I’m fine, even though everything inside you was splintering.

And then, without a word, you turned and reached for your coat.

Because if he couldn’t hold on to you… you’d learn how to let go.

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[kitten4sannie]

WHY IS HE REACHING FOR HIS SANUSSY LIKE THAT

[hwalentine-s]

“go touch grass”

girl my hand is literally on my bush likeee

[ablumes]

JIHYO

THIS IS FOR, 2025