warnings : this feels a little rushed sorry!! , mingi loves calling reader baby hehe , morning sex with no plot lmao , head (f receiving) , unprotected sex (don’t) , kissing , slight choking (not rlly) , biiiig dıck mingi🙏 , pls lmk if i missed anything!
a/n : i literally haven’t wrote anything for AGES and i apologise🤭. i’ve had no motivation whatsoever and ive been so stressed with college work/assignments (my teacher pmo) but i’ll defo be trying to write more!!
You wake up to find your bedroom silent and pitch black, the only light being the soft glow of the moon shining through your blinds.
You thought your sleep schedule had been getting better, but you’d started waking up in the middle of the night again. You’re not sure why.
Actually, you know the exact reason why. It’s because your boyfriend, Song Mingi, is on tour again. He’s thousands and thousands of miles away from you and the comfort of your apartment.
You rub your eyes and sit up in your bed, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. You turn on the screen and see the time reads 3:47am. Below is a thread of notifications from Mingi.
He’s probably telling you to get some sleep or to eat properly - not just instant noodles.
He knows you worry and he knows you get lonely without him. That’s one of the many things you love most about your boyfriend. He notices everything.
Mingi: sleep well beautiful
Mingi: i’ll be home before you know it
Mingi: don’t worry too much
You type out a quick reply before throwing your phone onto the mattress.
Eventually, after what feels like an hour of tossing and turning, you manage to fall asleep again.
————
The next time you’re woken up, it’s by the sun illuminating your bedroom and… a wetness between your legs.
You find yourself trying to wriggle away from the sensitive pressure between your legs, but something is holding you down.
Or someone.
You blink open your sleepy eyes and look down to find your boyfriend’s head between your thighs. His arms are wrapped around your thighs, keeping you pinned down. That explains why you couldn’t move.
You arch your back off the bed and reach down, letting your fingers card through his annoyingly perfect hair.
You see the moment he realises you’re awake when he lifts his head, revealing his shiny lips and chin. “Good morning, baby.” he smirks up at you.
You can’t help but giggle as he dives back in, sucking your already-sensitive clit into his mouth. You whine in response, tugging at his hair and rolling your hips upwards.
He wastes no time pushing two fingers inside of you, pumping them slowly as he effortlessly reaches all the right spots.
“Mingi…” you moan his name, somehow already close to the edge.
He doesn’t respond. He just quickens his movements. His tongue flicks over your clit faster and his fingers push further inside of you, curling at just the right angle. Your legs tremble as you warn him you’re about to come.
“M- ahh… Mingi, I’m close…” you whimper seconds before your release coats his fingers.
He pulls his fingers out of you slowly and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean while holding your gaze.
He releases your thighs and moves quickly, hovering over you. He buries his face in your neck and inhales deeply. “Good girl.”
“You couldn’t wait until later?” you chuckle (although you aren’t complaining) and wrap your legs around his waist.
“And miss out on waking you up in the best way possible? Absolutely not.” he groans as he begins kissing and nipping at your neck. One of his hands grips your hip tightly and the other rests beside your head, careful not to put all of his weight on you.
He leaves a trail of kisses from just below your ear all the way down to your collarbone. You didn’t even notice he had shifted his weight to unbuckle his belt and pull down his jeans just enough to free his hard length.
Saying Mingi is big is an understatement. He’s huge. Not just length, but girth, too. You’ll never get over how good the stretch feels when he pushes inside of you.
“Tell me you missed me, baby.” he whispers hoarsely against your neck as he lines himself up with your entrance. But he doesn’t wait for you to respond.
You open your mouth to speak but he’s already pushing inside of you. He groans against your neck and mutters something that sounds like a mix of your name and “fuck”.
You cry out embarrassingly loud and your nails dig into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt (which he didn’t bother to remove).
He groans again and removes his hand from your hip, bringing it up to wrap around your throat instead. He squeezes, but not enough to cut off your breathing, just enough to show he’s in control. But damn you already knew that.
He bottoms out and he’s already panting into the crook of your neck. “Fuck, baby… needed you so bad.”
Then he’s moving. Thrusting deep and agonisingly slow. One hundred percent on purpose.
“Mingi…” you breathe, although you’re not even sure why.
“Use your words, love. Tell me what you want.” he smirks before lifting his head to capture your lips in a slow but hungry kiss. His fingers tighten around your neck for a moment, urging you to speak.
“More…” you manage to say.
“More?” he chuckles low in his throat. “Greedy little thing.”
He listens, though. With practiced ease, he quickens his pace and shifts ever so slightly to angle himself deeper inside of you.
When your walls begin clenching around him, you know you’re not going to last much longer. He’s kissing you when you squeeze his cock and he lets out this delicious, deep groan straight into your mouth. You swallow it, your tongue pushing into his mouth before mingling with his.
He lowers his head again and pushes his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts are messy and ragged now as he gets closer to the edge.
He removes his hand from your throat and reaches between your bodies to rub fast, tight circles on your clit.
“Ahh… I’m close.” you manage to whisper.
“Let go, baby. Come for me.” he encourages, thrusting faster.
Your pussy clamp around him as you come which leaves him following seconds later. He basically collapses on top of you as his hot ropes of come fill you up. He’s a panting, groaning, sweaty mess when he lifts his head from your neck for the final time.
pairing: bf!wooyoung x gf!reader
synopsis: life has been kicking your ass. overworked, no time for self-care, and little time to spend quality time with your partner- wooyoung decides to whisk you away for a long weekend hoping it will help you feel like yourself again.
a/n: this one's for the bitches who need a mf break. this was suppose to be an emotionallymessy!reader x emotionallystable!wooyoung fic but it turned into reader just needing to turn off her brain. also, i've been listening to castle a lot and it kinda influenced me!
cw: smut mdni! alcohol consumption (they don't get drunk though), not necessarily dom!woo but he's def the one calling the shots, cursing, pet names (pretty girl, baby), fingering, unprotected p in v, one slap, fingers in mouth, drooling, dirty talk, semi-public sex (they're in a backyard, but houses are conveniently spaced far away hehe), mentions of toxic past relationships (i don't go into detail)
wc: 6.7k
It was hot. Like, you better put on your flip flops coming out of the pool if you don't want the bottoms of your feet to barbecue on the patio, hot. The summer playlist Wooyoung curated bumps at a not-too-obnoxious volume from the speaker set on the lounge chair while you lazily float about the pool on an inflatable. The high, black iron fence that surrounds the backyard, matted with lush greenery and pops of light purple wisteria, makes it feel like you're in a fantasy world, away from real life problems.
Wooyoung could see that you were overwhelmed with everything life has been throwing at you lately and arranged for a stay at a rental house a couple hours away from the city. Somewhere that wasn't tied to the goings on of what was happening at home or work. A completely separate space that kept the looming thoughts of what was to come after the long weekend.
And a long weekend away was exactly what you needed. Your work shifts have been stretching long beyond the usual 8 hours into 10, sometimes more, because of reasons beyond your control. Coming home to a mountain of laundry and dishes with little time to cook yourself a nutritious meal let alone grocery shop. Wooyoung would cook for you when he had the time, but he was also busy with his photography business. Booked nearly every weekend for special events and the majority of the week for professional portraits. Quality time spent together consisted of strictly sleep. You’d trudge in from another long shift that made you rethink your career, absent mindedly shower, and eat cut up fruit and yogurt out of a glass Pyrex measuring cup because you forgot to run the dishwasher before hurrying out the door in the morning. Then, Wooyoung would make it over just in time to catch you as you were falling asleep, pulling your curled up form into his body as he ran a soothing hand up and down your back.
You didn't feel human anymore. You had no more spoons to give. Honestly, the whole damn silverware drawer was empty.
It’s a sweet gesture for him to make. You’ve only been dating for six months, the relationship very much still new, but it hasn't felt that way. Wooyoung's charismatic charm and talent for reading people made it easy for him to clock that the far away stares and random bouts of silence increasing in frequency was a sign of you being at your wits end.
The mixture of coconut-banana scented sunscreen and chlorine was like aromatherapy to you, a reminder that you weren't in the stifling city where all your problems were waiting for you to come back. You move your arms on top of the water, letting buoyancy do its thing, like you were creating snow angels, letting the feeling of the water rolling across your skin keep you grounded.
A hand caught your wrist, “Is this a relaxing type of fidgeting, or the anxious kind?” You hear your boyfriend ask from next to you.
You roll your head to the side where he was floating next to you and look up at him over your sunglasses. All golden skin, hard lines of muscle, and shiny silver of the necklaces, rings, and the bracelet he refused to go a day without wearing. His expression reads less serious than what his question was asking, but still genuine none-the-less.
“If you keep reminding me of my anxiety it’ll just keep me feeling anxious.” You twirl your wrist around to knock his grip off and interlace your fingers with his, pulling him closer to you so your inflatables bump together, “This is perfect, thank you for doing this.” You smile while you float next to each other hand in hand like a pair of sea otters making sure not to drift apart.
You bring the mixed drink you made before getting into the pool up to your lips, taking a sip to find it watered down and hard to swallow. The disgusted sound you make in the back of your throat comes out louder than expected, “I’m making another drink, you want one?” You shake your glass in front of Wooyoung for emphasis.
“I’ll get it,” He offers, already grabbing for the glass and slipping off his float. And bless his heart, but if he does one more thing for you, you might choke him out with all the love in the world. He's waited on you hand and foot since you got here a mere 18 hours ago. Laying out your bath towels and swimsuit in the bathroom before you woke up, bringing you breakfast and tea in bed, even applying your sunscreen for you. Not even in the sexy way- he just smooshed his hands all over your face and ears to make sure you wouldn't burn even a little bit.
“Woo, I really appreciate everything you've been doing for me. But you're starting to feel more like a butler and less like my boyfriend and it's weirding me out.” You argue, flopping off your own float and moving the glass away from his grabby hands.
It’s his turn to look up at you from over his sunglasses, a pierced brow raising and suggestive smirk plastered on his face, “That doesn't turn you on?”
You let out a short, loud laugh, “Maybe if you’d put on a pair of gloves and bow tie and didn't try to airplane feed me scrambled eggs this morning it would have.”
“Oh my god, rude!”
Plucking his glass out of the cup holder next to his tattooed forearm you ask,“Now, what can I get you, Mr. Jung.”
He pushes his bottom lip into a pout, “Mr. Jung, not baby? So you hate me?” He brings a hand behind you and rests a palm on an asscheek under the water, his large, veiny hand still warm under the cool water. Raising your brow at him expectantly, you shake his glass waiting for an answer.
He huffs and drops the feigned hurt, “Surprise me.”
“Sure thing…” you bend over and let your sunglasses slip down to the tip of your nose, making eye contact before finishing the sentence “...baby.” giving him a chaste kiss on the lips. His eyes roll back into his skull as you grin, all teeth, and turn around to wade through the water and up the steps.
At the outdoor bar, the guilt starts to gnaw at you. Being taken care of is such a foreign concept, how were you supposed to act? Is it a trap? A way to build up favors to hold over your head and manipulate you into doing what he wants? That's the extent of your experience in relationships anyways. Wooyoung seems genuine enough. It's been six months, which isn't a long time but men had shown their true colors a lot sooner in the past. You think you should be in the clear.
Your brain plays ping pong with the thought as you locate whiskey, bitters, and steal an orange from the pile of snacks you set out on the outdoor dining table before getting in the pool. Hands on autopilot, using your vague knowledge of mixology to make his favorite drink, your thoughts continue to spiral.
Were you too mean? Is he getting tired of you telling him he doesn't need to do things for you? Deflection over confrontation has always been your go to strategy when it comes to uncomfortable emotions. It worked with Wooyoung. You met him a couple months before the two of you became official in November and made your “couple debut”, as Wooyoung called it, at a get together for his birthday. A bunch of friends of his that you hadn't met before were there, and that included girls. Because girls like Wooyoung. He’s flirty by nature and a good listener. He remembers details about everybody, he’ll ask questions about something that was told to him months ago and women ate that shit up especially.
So when he was chatting it up a little too hard with Minji you couldn't help the physical shift in your face and body language. Lips drawn in tight together, body ridged and angled away from him. He clocked it immediately, but you couldn't push the words out of your throat when he asked about it. It felt like rocks were sitting in your mouth, blocking the jealousy from making itself known. Instead you made a joke about how he was fired from helping you pick out your outfits because his terrible choice in shoes was giving you blisters.
That was just the nature of your relationship, ribbing each other endlessly because you both enjoyed it. It made everything feel less serious, and therefore, the stakes were lower.
Tapping the bar spoon on the rim of the glass, you decide you didn't feel like making another cocktail so you settle on a canned seltzer for yourself, cracking it open before picking up Woo’s drinking and fast walking across the hot pavement to where your boyfriend was now sitting on the top step in the pool. Head titled back, eyes closed, and arms bent at the elbow, leaning back on the wet bricks you wondered how on Earth an emotionally fucked-up woman like you pulled a man like him.
An eye pops open as you step into the pool next to him, brown iris much brighter with the sunlight hitting them, “Who’s who butler?” he asks as he brings the glass to his lips for a sip.
It did make him feel some type of way then. Where exes of yours had no problem making their feelings of unpleasantness known through dramatic temper tantrums, Wooyoung did it with decorum. He thought before he spoke, when it mattered anyways, and it never came out accusatory, making your fight or flight less likely to kick in.
Sighing, you bring your leg over him and drop into his lap, the water only covering a few centimeters of your shins, your knees pressing into the blue plastic liner of the steps. Sour lemon and lime flavor prickles your tongue as you take a sip of your seltzer, the alcohol leaving a burn down your throat, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that in an ungrateful way.” you say as you set the can on the pool’s edge and bring your hands to fiddle with front bow strings that keep your bikini top tied.
Wooyoung does the same with his drink and drops his hands to your thighs to rub, a silent way of showing he isn’t mad, “I know, I just don’t understand if you can do things for me why can’t I do them for you?”
Your throat feels tight and swollen all of a sudden, the metaphorical rocks are being shoved back into your mouth again and you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes. Groaning you drop your head forward so your face is hidden against his chest. The water droplets still clinging to his golden skin is a well needed shock of cool to keep your brain from overheating with a billion different thoughts. You try to parse through everything you want to say, weighing each word to determine what effect it would have on him. So badly not wanting to say the wrong thing- if that’s the case you’d rather say nothing at all.
Finally, you settle on “It makes me feel guilty when you do so much for me, especially when I haven't been giving back. I should be able to pull myself together and deal with my shit like an adult.” Your admission is quiet, whispered into his body like a secret, even though it was just the two of you hidden away amongst the viney walls the plants created around the yard.
With your vision obscured you hear more than see the laugh that escapes his nose through a huff of air. His arms wrap around you fully so you're pressed tight against him, trying to calm your racing, anxious heart.
“I do what I do because I want to. It’s how I show I care, baby. If it was too much for me I wouldn’t do it.” He speaks into the top of your head, trying to put all the sincerity into his words so you believe him. You tilt your head back so your chin is resting on his chest now and you’re looking up at him, wide eyed and glassy. It feels absurd how terrified you are about baring your heart to somebody, it’s embarrassing. He speaks with such confidence and certainty. How does he do it so easily? Why was it so hard for you?
But one thing was for certain: Wooyoung has been the best thing that's happened to you. You didn't have to worry about walking on eggshells to avoid a screaming match over trivial things. You could spend time with friends and family without him guilting you for leaving him alone and making you feel like you had to come home early. You never laid in bed at 3am agonizing over what you could’ve possibly done wrong because he’s been giving you the silent treatment all day. Your heart was calm with Wooyoung.
You inhale a full breath through your nose while wrapping your arms around his back, forcing your eyes back up to his.
“Lately, that's all you've been doing for me. I want to do things for you too, I don't want to feel like I'm always owing you.” You speak quietly, but Wooyoung hears you nonetheless. His brows dive-bomb down towards each other and flinches back subconsciously. He was genuinely curious, while also a little disturbed, by how you could think that? Why would you think that? Only answers that had his blood beginning to boil came to mind. He fixes his face and could only hope he did it before you could see his shock. Unfortunately for him, you’ve trained yourself to detect the microscopic changes in the facial expressions. He could see it in the way a blush flew up your neck and ears and how your bottom lip wobbled before you tucked it under your teeth.
He brings his hands up to cup your face, large palms with long, lithe fingers encompass both of your cheeks fully. Using his thumb to tug your bottom lip free from the anxious chewing you're doing to it, he says, “You will never owe me for anything I do for you. I take care of you because I want you to be happy in mind, body, and soul. Not because I expect favors from you. What can I do to make you believe that?”
You heave a big sigh and pull away from his hold on your face to move your cheek against his shoulder facing away from his neck, looking to the side and watching a squirrel dig frantically in the grass.
“I do believe you. It's my dumbass brain that-” you cut yourself off. If your brain doesn't believe him then doesn't that mean you actually don't? You groan, “I don't even make sense to myself. Woo, I feel like crawling out of my skin. I just know I like you, a lot, and I love being with you so much that I don't want something I do or don't do be a reason this ends.” By the time you finish your voice is warbling and you really wish you could trade places with that squirrel right now.
Wooyoung grips your shoulders to peel your sticky body off of him so he can look at you as he gently coos your name, “I love your big, beautiful brain,” he starts and emphasizes his statement with an obnoxiously large and loud kiss to your forehead. You scrunch your nose and give him a little hmph, but he just grins like you aren't spiraling out your damn mind and continues, “But it's gonna catch fire from all those neural pathways your lighting up with how much overthinking you do. You don't need to analyze and find a reason for every emotion you have. It's okay to just feel.” He rubs his thumbs into the joint that connects your shoulder blade and clavicle, trying to relax the tension you didn't realize you've been keyed up with.
You chew the inside of your cheek and narrow your eyes, “The brain is constantly using neural pathways, so if it was gonna be fried from that it would've happened already. I’m not worried about it.”
Wooyoung throws his head back and lets out a groan of frustration mixed with a laugh because picking apart the logic of the statement rather than absorbing the meaning was so undeniably you it was foolish of him to think you'd do otherwise. His fingers fly down and dig into your waists, wiggling them to tickle you “Don't be like that! You know what I mean, you're being bratty on purpose!”
You crumple into yourself and let out a screech of laughter, trying your best to swat at him while keeping your arms tucked close to your sides as an attempt to block the assault.
“Okay! Alright!” You gasp out between fits of giggles, “I’m sorry!”
He stops at your apology but keeps his palms resting on the curve where your waist and hips meet, “If you need to feel like you’re not…. in debt,” he doesn't hide his disdain for the word but continues, “Wedding season will ramp up next month and I’ll become a shell of a man with how many I’m booked for. You can take care of me all you want. I won’t protest or complain about it, I’ll let you do whatever it is you want to do for me. Will that make you feel better?’
You hum. It’s not something that will make you feel better immediately, but you know you have to meet him halfway.
“I suppose so. What if I’m still in this headspace though?” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth.
He doesn’t hesitate with his response, “Then we work it through together. We’ll be honest with what we need and what we can’t give, and promise each other it's not personal if we don’t have the mental capacity for extra attention. If we’re not open and honest about our feelings, how is anything supposed to get better?”
Damn his stupid, emotionally intelligent brain, because you know he’s right. Your whole life you’ve been bottling up your feelings inside hoping that things will change without ever expressing your desire for it in the first place. How were you supposed to get better at talking about your feelings if you don’t say them aloud in the first place?
“I’ll try harder to be more open about my emotions. It’s just really uncomfortable for me, I feel stupid talking about’em.” You mumble.
“Practice makes perfect, baby. I’ll never make you feel stupid for your feelings. Pinky promise.” He holds out his little finger for you to hook your own around, solidifying the agreement. Before he could let go of your finger you tug him forward and place your hands on either side of his neck to kiss his sun-chapped lips. He makes a shocked noise in the back of throat, but kisses back anyways tasting the citrusy tang of alcohol and the vanilla lip balm you put on this morning. Soaking in the wet slide of your tongues moving against one another and the slow movement of his lips over yours.
“My poor girl, been dealing with so much.” He coos against your lips, your mouth parted waiting for him to kiss you again, tongue flicked halfway out of your mouth. You open your eyes to find him already staring down at you, his expression changed from soft and sincere to something much heavier. You nod dumbly, all the talking about feelings making you want to shut off your brain for a minute. While it was much needed, it’ll still take a while before the idea of it stops feeling like an attack on your nervous system. He pulls you closer to him, sliding you up from your seat on his lower thighs until your core is pressed to his lower abdomen. One of his hands leaves your waist to cup the side of your face and gently stroked your cheek with his thumb. “It’s so unfair, life’s been fuckin’ you more than I have, huh?”
You whine, squeezing your thighs against the outer sides of Wooyoung’s, closing your mouth to push your bottom lip out in a pout and nod. You can't remember the last time you had energy for sex. Even though your job doesn’t rely on physical strength it requires a lot of thinking and that mental drain sure makes your body feel exhausted like you've spent the day dead lifting concrete pavers. Driving home consisted of complete silence and fighting to keep your heavy eyes open while trying not to let your thoughts drift too much so you wouldn't miss an exit or run a red light. The reminder of the lack of intimacy sends a surge of neediness through you, your body wanting to make up for it asap. “It's been so long, Woo. M’sorry for making you wait.”
He slides his hand down your cheek to grip your jaw, chin pinched between his thumb and other four fingers, and jostles your head gently side to side, “While we're working on communicating our feelings let's fix your little habit of over apologizing too.”
The call out has you forming the word before you can even think to stop yourself. Wooyoung beats you to it though, squishing your cheeks together in his grip and making your lips purse together like a goldfish. His eyebrows shoot up, daring you to say it, his tongue poking out to play with his lip ring. You scrunch your brows together and blow air out of your nose, signaling your defeat.
He hums and gives your squished lips a light peck, “I know you weren't gonna say what I think you were gonna say, yeah?” He moves your head left to right to shake your head for you like a doll “That’s right, baby. I think you just need a distraction, make your brain go dumb and stop thinking about the bullshit.” This time the nod your head does is solely your own eager doing.
That’s all you've been wanting to do the last two weeks. The constant responsibilities being stacked up at work, being a shoulder to cry on for your friends who were also going through it this week, and being a problem solver for family all had your brain running nonstop. Always thinking of what to say, what to do, and how to do it. You haven't been able to cater to your own needs, too busy focusing on everyone else’s.
You use both of your hands to grip the wrist of the hand he was using to hold your face and tug it away so you can speak, “Shut if off, Woo.” It's said whiny, like you've been trying to fall asleep for hours and are begging the universe to grant you rest. Desperate, because at this rate, the need for him is more than your need to sleep.
The sound of your whiny desperation has Wooyoung cupping his hands under your ass to hold you steady as he carefully stands up. As quickly and cautiously as he could, making sure to step around the drinks abandoned on the bricks, he raced over to sit back against one of the reclined loungers in the shade and set you right back into his lap. You grip his shoulders and lay the front of your body completely along the front of his pulling him back into a frantic kiss. His lips move along yours, licking against the roof of your mouth, teeth catching on the skin of your lips, saliva making its way down your chin. You realize you haven’t even been making out like you used to in the beginning of this relationship and you missed it so much. The swell in your chest at the physical affection sends dopamine pumping through you, relaxing your muscles, and forgetting about anything that didn’t have to do with this moment.
Wooyoung’s hands glide up and down the curves of your body a few times before bringing them around your back and up to your neck where the string of your bikini top rests, giving it a tug to unravel it. He pushes up from his reclined position, forcing you up with him, before settling back down and holding you by the ribs to keep distance between you two. The top of your bathing suit slowly slips down, hanging flipped over your stomach still attached around your bust, and he groans.
“God, your tits.” He slides a hand up and brushes his thumb across your nipple a few times before using the tip of his finger nail to press down on it. You hiss, the sharp pain and zing of pleasure that zips down to your belly. “I missed seeing them, just as perfect as I remember them.”
“Wooyoung,” you pant, pathetically turned on in the span of a few minutes. But you can't bother with feeling embarrassed about it, “Please do something.”
“But I am already, baby.” He responds with an evil quirk of his lips, clearly knowing that's not what you meant.
“Wooyo,” you it say like a warning, but it didn't land. It was too breathy and soft.
“I dunno, I kinda like hearing you say my name like that. One more time for me.” You open your mouth to scold him, getting impatient. Sometimes if you're really stern with him, it'll turn him on enough to flip a switch, but he decides to use that moment to take your nipple between his index finger and thumb and pinch hard. A squeal comes out instead and your body jerks, “Woo!”
“Thank you baby, such a good listener. Giving me exactly what I ask for.” His eyes rake down your body behind his sunglasses, drinking in the shape of you, “This hot little bod drives me insane, and you have such a sweet personality? How’d I get so lucky?”
With eyes closed, soaking up the feeling of his hands sliding down to your thighs, thumbs rubbing the inside of each, you lick your lips before responding “Probably by being an unrelenting flirt and insisting on paying for every single one of my drinks at Mingi’s birthday party.”
He throws a “probably” in response, his thumbs reaching the crease of your thighs, running them along the inside seam of your bikini bottoms. You hum and roll your hips, trying to get them where you need them and open your eyes to see his own sunglass covered ones looking directly between your legs. Obviously too distracted to say anymore. Huffing out an impatient breath at the loss of momentum you bring your hand down to the bulge growing under his thin nylon swim trunks, rubbing the tip of your stiletto nails, the ones he so sweetly paid for you to have done before the trip, down the length of him. His thighs jump and he grunts, grabbing your wrist to twist your arm behind your back, “Put the claws away, woman. I'ma take care of you.”
And finally, he does. He lets go of your arm to bring you forward into his chest again, cheek on his shoulder with your lips pressed against the vein on his neck, pulling your hips up so they're hovering above his lap and can easily slide your damp bathing suit bottoms off. Wet from pool water? Sweat? Arousal? Fuck if either of you know, it could be all of the above. You hear the damp plap of them hitting the patio, feeling the hot breeze blowing across your exposed bottom half arched in the air. For a moment, the thought of surrounding neighbors seeing the debauchery taking place crosses your mind before you remember you're not in the cramped city anymore, you're in a vacation home where the next house is at least a football field length away.
The feeling of your boyfriend using his reach around the back of you to graze your slit brings you back to the present and rocking your hips back to take what you want. He graciously allows it, letting you fuck yourself on one of his fingers before adding another and slowly scissoring you open.
“I know it's been a long time, baby. L’me open you up real quick.” He whispers against the shell of your ear. You melt into the feeling, appreciating every drag of his boney fingers inside you, feeling every bump of his finger joints rub against the inside of your walls. The impatience bleeds out of you, after weeks of everything being go, go, go, you don't want to rush. You want to absorb the feeling of being with him, his ability to make you feel calm in the middle of the stormy parts of your life.
You aren't sure how much time has passed, only that suddenly you're empty and pouting again. You lift your head up with sad, scrunched brows and he's smiling softly, laughing, “Cute, all it takes is your little pussy being empty to bring you back from wherever your mind went off to? I’ve been asking if you’re ready for my dick the last couple seconds, I thought you fell asleep.”
The apology slips out unprompted by your brain, “Yes, yes, I’m sor-” Wooyoung’s thumb cuts you off, pressing down on your tongue, other four fingers curled under your jaw holding it open. He clicks his tongue against his teeth and rolls his eyes, “Alright, you lost speaking privileges. All I wanna hear outta this mouth are your pretty moans and whines, got it baby?”. You nod your head as much as you can. “Good fucking girl.”
This is what you needed. Being told what to do, for once, instead of being the one to do it. You’ll gladly let him take charge, direct you, use you, if that means you can just exist without thinking and dissecting every thought and feeling that rolls through your brain.
He keeps his thumb pressed down on your tongue while using his other hand to press the head of his cock, that he must’ve pulled from his shorts during one of the moments your mind had floated away from the present moment, to your opening. You sigh at the anticipation of being filled again, eyes slowly closing halfway, closing your lips around Wooyoung’s thumb to suck. The taste of his skin, mixed with a hint of chlorine and residual sunscreen from the last time he reapplied, floods your tastebuds as you hollow your cheeks and wiggle your tongue along the digit.
"Ah, ah,” A light tap to your cheek with the palm of his hand has your eyes opening wide again. “No sucking. Keep that mouth open. I wanna feel you drooling all over me, pretty girl.” A reluctant high-pitched whine leaves you as you drop your jaw back open, fighting the urge to taste the salt of his skin again. Pressure against your opening has that urge tossed to the side like your soaking bikini bottoms, the fat tip of his cock stretching your hole. The stretch of you wrapped around the thickest part of him has you clenching impatiently, wanting to feel him in your tummy already. You know better than to take without permission though. Wooyoung isn’t above dragging things out for the sake of making you squirm, but it seems like he was going to do just that anyways. He takes his time, fucking his tip in and out of you, driving you mad. It felt like scratching around a misquote bite, good but missing that satisfying pleasure of hitting the spot it needs scratching the most.
The saliva that's been steadily pooling in your mouth bubbles with your impatient whine, spilling over and down your chin. Wooyoung groans, "Music to my fucking ears." And that's all it takes for him to lift his hips and fill you in one long, torturous go. Your knees slide to the sides, rubbing against the tightly woven material of the lounger that makes the skin burn, but that's the last thing on your mind.
The sudden closeness- him being literally inside you- after weeks of quick kisses and body-to-body contact through pajamas while you catch as much sleep as you can has your heart beating something fierce. You missed him. You missed going to his place to keep him company and goof off while he cooked dinner for the two of you. You missed hanging out with him at his studio while he works on editing client photos. You missed feeling like a couple, because lately you've felt like strangers.
You grab his wrist and squeeze it twice quickly and once slowly. He slides his thumb from your mouth, a string of spit following, and quickly checks in, "You okay? Need a minute?"
"Mhm, wanna kiss you. And see you." You reassure and push his sunglasses on top of his head. Even in the shade you can see his pupils take up so much space only a sliver of pretty brown can be seen around the edges. You thread your fingers through his hair and brush your nose against his with a sigh.
"Better?" He whispers, moving your sunglasses from your face and carefully setting them on the ground. You nod with a dopey close lipped smile on your face, and once you begin kissing him slow and nasty he starts to move.
The delicious roll of his hips knocks a moan from your mouth directly into his each time he pushes in. His grip on your hips to keep them at the perfect angle is unrelenting as he steadily drives his cock into you. Chests sliding together with the help of the mix of sweat from the heavy humidity in the air and the drool that pooled out of your mouth moments earlier.
"Missed this pussy so much- fuck. Missed you so much." Wooyoung grunts against your lips, pace picking up and the legs of the lounger scraping on the patio bricks. “I’m spoiling you right now, because you deserve it for all the bullshit you've been dealing with.” He bands an arm around your lower back, pressing you into a deep arch that has you squealing, “But next round I want you to show me that you remember how to ride this dick.”
“Uh huh! I remember, ‘mma show you.” You're not even kissing him anymore, with every word spoken your lips brush against his. Brows twisted up at the way his body rolls are grinding your clit in the perfect pressure and rhythm. Your fingertips flex at the second joint in his hair, raking at his scalp, your sex dumb mind trying to keep them from using the tips of your sharp acrylics.
He sucks in a sharp breath, but plows into you harder, faster. Your entire body is jostling up and down the length of his, the fire in your gut growing at a rapid speed until you don't think you can take it anymore. The only noises leaving your mouth are a mash up of moans and sobs, and you don't realize you're actually crying until you taste the salt from the tears flowing down your cheeks and into your mouth.
“Oh, baby” Wooyoung coos, bringing a hand up to smear the tears away from under your eye with his thumb. “It’s okay. Shh.”
“It feels so good, Woo. I missed you so much.” You’re for real sobbing now. The emotional damn breaking and flooding your eyes. You love this man, you realize. He’s stuck by you at your worst, let's you have bad days without making it about him, takes care of you when you can't take care of yourself, rented a whole goddamn vacation house just so you could take a fucking breath. All of that, and he has never asked for anything in return.
He kisses you, lip melding into yours, gently nipping at your lips, tongue pressing against yours and licking anywhere he can to get a taste of you, “I’m right here, not going anywhere.” You’re about to cum, you can feel it, the uncontrollable clenching of your cunt around him makes it harder and harder for him to keep up the wild pace of his thrusts up into you.
“Shit, fuck, you gonna cum? I can feel you squeezing the life outta my dick. Go ahead, baby. Let go of all the stress for me.” It takes him a while for him to give you the permission, kissing you between every couple of words. When the tension that's been building up in your lower stomach finally breaks, your body locks up for a second before it starts twitching like you've been shocked. You moan directly into his open mouth, your tongue lazily pressed against his. Both of his hands are on either side of your face now, and he reciprocates with his own beautiful whine as he unloads inside you. Grinding into you to drag it out as much as possible before it turns into over sensitivity.
Your body falls limp on top of his, cheek against his chest, and you try not to think about the amount of sweat that's covering the two of you.
The rumbling of his voice keeps you from drifting off, “I’m going to say something at the risk of it breaking your brain, but I need you to know.” You turn your head to look up at him, seeing that he’s already looking at you. If he could shoot heart beams out of his eyes at the sight of you, he would. Red rimmed lash line, tear-glossed eyes, and dewy skin from the heat, it rivals how gorgeous you are when you dress your best for a night out with your shared friend group. “I love you. You don't have to say it back, I would actually prefer you didn't right away. But I know when, if, you do say it back, I’ll still feel the same way. Even if it's a month or year from now, I’ll feel the same.”
A smile slowly spreads across your face, completely unexpected from you by the faint look of shock on Wooyoung's face. Instead of feeling the need to crawl out of your skin at the thought of such a strong emotion, you feel relief.
“I don't think you’ll have to wait that long.” You say with no hesitation, no need to second guess the way you're feeling or why you're feeling it. Just letting it be. You turn to kiss his sternum, and he hums pleasantly, grinning like a maniac but he doesn't push for an explanation.
“Well, that's a relief.” He reaches over and grabs a towel from the little table next to the chair you're on, “You need to pee, and I didn't think pool water will be enough to wash off the amount of sweat we just produced.”
Your nose scrunches, the thought of moving right now is the last thing your body wants. However, the thought of feeling clean in fresh clothes, maybe going out to the little beach town fifteen minutes away for a late lunch at one of their local restaurants in sandals and a sundress sounds nice enough to get you moving.
You sit up and press your hands to his stomach to keep from wobbling sideways, "You're gonna have to help me clean up, I can't feel my knees." Wooyoung smirks, he can't help but be smug with himself. Pushing himself up, making sure to cradle your back to keep you from falling, "It's the least I can do I suppose." Kissing your forehead he adds, "Thanks for asking me for help."
Embracing the new you, leaving the fear of unworthiness behind, you respond. "Thank you for showing me how easy it can be."
ღ pairing: non-idol! jongho x afab! fem reader
ღ word count: 6k
ღ genre: smut
ღ rating: MDNI
ღ warnings: honestly this is basically porn with no plot. dom! jongho, unprotected sex (wrap up), nipple sucking, fingering , rough sex, creampie, pet names (baby)
ღ networks: @cromernet @k-vanity
ღ summary: it only took one night for months of tension to finally snap between you and jongho
Jongho was impossible to read. That was the problem.
You could sit across from him for hours and still not know what was going on behind those dark eyes. He’d stare at you with that calm expression, say something teasing in that low voice of his, then act like your heart wasn’t currently trying to claw its way out of your chest.
“You’re staring again.” You snapped your head toward Wooyoung, who sat beside you on the couch with an obnoxious grin stretched across his face.
“I am not.”
“You literally look at Jongho like he hung the moon.”
Across the room, Jongho leaned against the kitchen counter nursing a drink while talking to San. Even from here he looked unfairly pretty. Black hoodie pushed up at the sleeves. Hair messy from running his hands through it all night. His laugh rumbled softly through the apartment and your stomach betrayed you immediately.
Wooyoung made a disgusted noise beside you “Oh my god, there it is again.”
You shoved him hard enough to nearly spill his drink. “Shut up.”
“You like him.”
“I don’t.” You answer too fast.
“You do.” He protested beside you, not believing whatever you said.
“I don’t.”
“You so do.”
Before you could argue again, Jongho’s eyes flicked over. Straight to you, like they always did.
Suddenly the room felt too warm. His gaze lingered for a second too long before he pushed off the counter and started walking over. Your pulse immediately picked up.
Wooyoung noticed too. “Oh, this is getting good.”
“Leave,” you hissed.
“Not a chance.”
Jongho stopped in front of the couch, looking between the two of you suspiciously. “Why do I feel like I’m being talked about?”
“You are,” Wooyoung answered instantly.
“Wooyoung.” You snapped at him a bit, not having the patience.
“What?” He shrugged innocently. “I’m helping.”
“You’re making it worse.”
Jongho’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Making what worse?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
Wooyoung stood abruptly, patting Jongho on the shoulder as he passed. “Good luck, brother.”
Then he disappeared into the kitchen before you could kill him.
Silence settled immediately. Jongho dropped into the now empty seat beside you, one arm stretched across the back of the couch. Close enough that your shoulder brushed his.
“You look nervous,” he murmured.
“I’m not nervous.” Your voice was finally softer with him.
“You’re playing with your rings.”
Your hands immediately stilled. Jongho huffed out a quiet laugh, tilting his head as he looked at you. “Did Wooyoung say something?”
“He says a lot of things.” You shrugged, not wanting to talk about your mutual friend too much.
“Usually true things.”
You rolled your eyes, but it lacked any real bite. Mostly because Jongho was looking at you like that again.
Eyes soft, curious even as they moved around you to scan you. It made your chest ache.
“You know,” he said slowly, “for someone who claims not to like me very much, you get flustered around me a lot.”
“I do not.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re insufferable.” You fake whined, trying to be bothered.
“And yet you keep sitting next to me.” Your breath caught when he leaned a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to make you aware of every inch between you.
“You know what I think?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
“I think you like me.”
You let out a nervous laugh immediately. “You’re insane.”
“Am I?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
“Then look me in the eye and say you don’t.”
That should’ve been easy. Except Jongho was watching you so intently that your brain stopped functioning entirely. Your mouth opened but nothing came out. His lips curved slowly, clearly feeling victorious.
“There it is,” he murmured.
“I hate you.” You mumbled yet your burning cheeks betrayed you.
“No, you don’t.”Jongho shifted closer until your knees brushed. Your entire body went rigid when his hand slid against the couch cushion beside yours, pinky barely touching yours.
“So stubborn,” he said softly.
Your heart was pounding so loudly you were convinced he could hear it.
“You’re annoying,” you whispered weakly.
“But you still like me.” He taunted.
“You’re very confident.”
“I have reasons to be.”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. That tiny movement shattered whatever composure you had left. The room suddenly felt distant, muted, as if everyone else had disappeared. It was just him. Just Jongho
leaning closer and closer until your breathing stalled completely.
“Just admit it,” he whispered, lips barely inches from yours. “You like me.”
You should’ve denied it. Instead, your eyes flicked down to his mouth. Jongho noticed, of course he noticed. His hand moved first, fingers lightly brushing your jaw before he kissed you. Soft, careful. It felt like he’d been wanting to do it for a while. Your brain short-circuited instantly. You grabbed the front of his hoodie without thinking, kissing him back before you could get embarrassed about it later. Jongho made the quietest sound against your lips. Something pleased and surprised all at once and suddenly he was kissing you properly. Warm hands, mouth slow on yours. The entire world melted away. That was until a voice cut off the sweet butterflies in your stomach feeling.
“OH MY GOD FINALLY—” You both jerked apart violently. Wooyoung stood in the kitchen entrance looking ecstatic while San doubled over laughing behind him.
“I TOLD YOU,” Wooyoung shouted to literally everyone in the apartment. “I TOLD YOU THEY WERE IN LOVE.”
You covered your face immediately. Jongho, somehow, looked more annoyed than embarrassed. “Can you shut up?” he deadpanned.
“No actually,” Wooyoung said proudly. “This is the best day of my life.”
San pointed at the two of you, still laughing. “You guys were staring at each other for like six months. It was painful.”
“You interrupted on purpose,” you accused.
Wooyoung gasped dramatically. “And miss the climax of the slow burn? Never.”
Jongho sighed beside you, but when you peeked at him through your fingers, he was smiling. Actually smiling. “So… now can I say I was right?” He mumbled quietly.
You groaned, even though you were smiling too.
Jongho stared at Wooyoung for a long second. Then he laughed. His head tipped back slightly, shoulders shaking while Wooyoung pointed between the two of you like he’d just won the lottery. “I knew it!” Wooyoung shouted. “San owes me twenty bucks.”
“Worth every penny,” San muttered through his laughter.
Your entire face burned hot enough to melt through the floor. “Can you guys not—”
“No actually,” Wooyoung interrupted, “this is a monumental occasion. The sexual tension in this apartment was becoming a public health concern.”
Jongho groaned, dragging a hand down his face while you hid yours in your palms. “You’re all annoying.”
“But we’re right,” San grinned.
Jongho glanced at you. That softened look returned immediately. His amusement faded into something heavier. Something warmer. Something that made your stomach flip. “Alright,” he said simply, standing up.
Wooyoung blinked. “Alright what?”
“Get out.” The entire room went silent.
San barked out a laugh. “Wait...you’re serious?”
Jongho grabbed a couch pillow and threw it directly at Wooyoung’s face. “Out.”
“WOW.” Wooyoung clutched his chest dramatically. “You kiss one person and suddenly you forget your friends.”
“You interrupted me.”
“And I’d do it again.”
Jongho pointed toward the door. “Leave.”
“You’re insane,” Wooyoung muttered, though he was already dragging San toward the entrance. “This man has been waiting for this moment his entire life.”
“Goodnight!” San yelled.
“Use protection!” Wooyoung added.
“Wooyoung!” You shouted.
The door slammed seconds later followed by loud cackling in the hallway. Silence settled over the apartment again. A very different kind this time. You slowly lowered your hands from your face only to find Jongho already looking at you. Now there was nobody interrupting. Nobody teasing. Just the two of you and the thick tension hanging in the room. Your heart started racing all over again.
Jongho exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “Sorry about them.”
“It’s okay.”
The silence filling the room was different now. It felt slightly dangerous all of the sudden. Because now you were noticing everything again. How close he was standing. How pink his lips looked after kissing you. How his chest rose slowly with each breath while his eyes stayed fixed on yours. Neither of you moved and neither of you spoke. Like if either one of you acknowledged what this actually was, it’d ruin it somehow.
Then Jongho took one step closer. Your breath caught instantly. “You know,” he murmured softly, “I had a whole thing planned.”
You blinked. “You did?”
“Mhm.”
“What happened to it?”
His mouth twitched. “Don’t really feel like talking anymore.”
Heat flooded your stomach. The look in his eyes nearly took you out completely.
You swallowed hard. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hand slid around your waist. His hold on you firm. You were pulled against him so fast you barely had time to gasp before he kissed you again. This one wasn’t careful. It wasn’t hesitant. It was weeks, maybe months of tension finally snapping.
You kissed him back immediately, fingers tangling in the front of his hoodie as Jongho backed you toward the couch without breaking the kiss once. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs brushing under the hem of your shirt just enough to make you shiver. The sound he made against your mouth was low and wrecked. Like he’d been holding himself back for way too long.
“God,” he muttered breathlessly between kisses, forehead falling briefly against yours. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Your face burned hotter. But before embarrassment could settle in, Jongho kissed you again. Slow at first. Then deeper when your fingers slid into his hair. The tension between you dissolved into something warm and dizzying, all stolen breaths and soft laughter when your teeth accidentally bumped. Jongho smiled against your lips before kissing you again like he couldn’t help himself.
His hands slid fully beneath your shirt now, palms warm and rough against your skin as they traced up your sides with agonizing slowness. The calluses on his fingertips caught slightly on your skin, sending shivers racing up your spine. You arched into the touch instinctively, and Jongho groaned, a deep, desperate sound that went straight through you.
"You're so soft," he murmured against your mouth, hands spanning your ribcage, thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts. "I've wanted to touch you like this for so long."
Your breath hitched. "Jongho—"
He kissed you again before you could finish, one hand sliding up your back while the other stayed at your waist, holding you against him. His touch was reverent, exploratory, like he was mapping out every curve and dip of your body through sheer determination to memorize it all. When his fingers traced along your spine, you shivered hard enough that he pulled back slightly, eyes dark and searching.
"Cold?" he asked, voice rough.
"No," you managed. "The opposite."
Something flickered in his expression. A mixture of heat and satisfaction and barely restrained want. "Good," he breathed, and then his mouth was on your jaw, trailing slow kisses down to your neck.
The first press of his lips against your pulse point made you gasp. Jongho hummed in response, the vibration sending sparks through your nervous system. He kissed there again, then lower, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to make your hips jerk forward involuntarily.
"Fuck," you whispered, fingers tightening in his hair.
Jongho made a sound that was almost a laugh, but too breathless to be anything but desperate. "You have no idea what those sounds do to me," he muttered against your throat, punctuating the words with another kiss. "I've been imagining this imagining— you—"
"Yeah?" Your voice came out shakier than intended.
"Yeah." His hands slid higher beneath your shirt, fingers splaying across your ribs. "Can I—" He paused, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Can I take this off?"
"Please," you breathed.
Jongho's pupils dilated even further. He moved slowly, deliberately, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt and lifting it inch by inch. His knuckles brushed your skin as the fabric rose, and he paused halfway to press a kiss to your sternum, then another just above your navel.
"You're killing me," you gasped.
"Good," he murmured against your skin, smiling. "You've been killing me for months."
Your shirt finally came off, tossed somewhere behind the couch, and Jongho just looked at you for a long moment. His gaze traveled over your face, your shoulders, down to where you were still wearing your bra, and the expression on his face was so raw it made your chest ache.
"You're so beautiful," he said quietly, almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.
Heat flooded your cheeks. "Jongho—"
"I mean it." His hands settled on your waist again, thumbs stroking slow circles against your skin. "I've thought so since the first time I saw you. Drove me crazy that I couldn't tell you."
Before you could respond, he kissed you again. Deep and slow and thorough, like he had all the time in the world. His hands roamed your back, tracing the line of your spine, the curve of your shoulder blades, the dip of your lower back. Every touch felt deliberate, worshipful.
You tugged at his hoodie impatiently. "Your turn," you managed between kisses.
Jongho pulled back just enough to yank the hoodie over his head, and the brief moment of separation felt like too much. The second the fabric cleared his arms, you were pulling him back, hands finally able to touch bare skin. He was warm and solid under your palms, muscles shifting as he moved. You traced the lines of his shoulders, his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your fingertips.
You kissed his collarbone, then his shoulder, emboldened by the way he shivered. His skin tasted faintly of salt and something uniquely him, and you wanted more.
"You're not the only one who's been thinking about this," you admitted against his skin.
Jongho's hands tightened on your waist. "No?"
"No." You kissed along his collarbone again, feeling his breath catch. "I've wanted you for so long I thought I'd go crazy."
"Fuck," he muttered, and then his mouth was on yours again, kissing you harder now, more desperate. His hands slid up your back to the clasp of your bra, fingers fumbling slightly. "Can I—"
"Yes," you gasped, head nodding quickly. "Yes, please—"
The bra came undone and Jongho eased the straps down your shoulders slowly, pressing kisses to each inch of newly exposed skin. When it finally fell away, he pulled back to look at you again, and the naked want in his expression made heat pool low in your stomach.
"Perfect," he breathed. "You're perfect."
Within seconds his mouth was on your neck again, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin while his hands came up to cup your breasts. The first brush of his thumbs over your nipples made you gasp and arch into the touch.
"Jongho—"
"I know," he murmured, doing it again, watching your face intently. "I know, baby."
The name made something flutter in your chest. You pulled him closer, needing more contact, more of him. Your hands slid down his chest to the waistband of his jeans, fingers tracing the line of his abs.
Jongho's breath hitched. "You're going to kill me," he muttered, but he didn't stop you when your fingers dipped just beneath the waistband.
"Good," you echoed his earlier words, smiling against his mouth.
He laughed breathlessly and kissed you again, walking you backward until your legs hit the couch. You sank down onto the cushions and Jongho followed immediately, settling between your thighs with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache. His weight pressed you into the couch as he kissed you breathless, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other traced down your side, over your hip, along your thigh. Every touch sending sparks through you.
"You feel so good," he murmured against your lips. "So fucking good."
Your hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly, and Jongho groaned. He kissed down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, taking his time with each spot like he was trying to catalog every place that made you gasp. When his mouth closed around your nipple, you arched off the couch with a broken moan. Jongho hummed
in satisfaction, tongue swirling as his hand came up to palm your other breast.
"Jongho," you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. "Please—"
"Please what?" he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and pupils blown wide.
"I need—" You couldn't finish the sentence, too overwhelmed by sensation.
"Tell me," he urged, pressing a kiss to your sternum. "Tell me what you need."
"You," you managed. "I need you."
Something in his expression cracked open at that. He kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense, while his hand slid down your stomach to the button of your jeans.
"Can I?" he asked against your mouth.
"Please," you breathed. "Please, Jongho—"
He worked the button open with shaking fingers, then slowly dragged the zipper down. His knuckles brushed against you through your underwear and you both gasped at the contact.
"Fuck," Jongho muttered. "You're—" He pressed his palm against you more firmly and you whimpered. "So wet already."
Heat flooded your face but you couldn't bring yourself to be embarrassed, not when he was looking at you like that. Like you were something precious and desired and his.
"Only for you," you whispered.
Jongho's eyes darkened impossibly further. He kissed you hard as his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, fingers finding you without hesitation. The first direct touch made you gasp into his mouth, and Jongho swallowed the sound greedily.
"God," he breathed, fingers moving with careful precision, learning what made you gasp and shiver. "You're so perfect. So responsive."
His finger teased your slit as he coated it in your slick. His finger moving and working to circle your clit in painfully slow circles. You couldn't form words anymore, could only hold onto him as he touched you, building the tension higher and higher. He watched the way you moved beneath him carefully, his finger finding your entrance and pushing it in. You gasped at the feeling, his finger pumping in and out of you until he had a second one join. He curled his digits inside of you, making your hips jerk as you could feel him hit the spot that made you see stars. "Jongho—" You moaned out his name in a wrecked whine.
"There?" he asked, voice wrecked by just the sight of you.
"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, right there—"
He kept the pressure steady, watching your face intently like he was memorizing every expression. The intimacy of being touched like this while he looked at you like you hung the moon was almost overwhelming.
"Jongho," you managed, reaching for him, needing to touch him too. Your hand found the bulge in his jeans and palmed him through the denim.
Jongho's hips jerked forward involuntarily and he cursed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Wait—wait," he panted, catching your wrist gently even as he thrust into your touch. "I need—if you keep doing that I'm going to—"
"I want you to," you whispered.
He made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. "Not yet," he muttered. "Not until I'm inside you."
The words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. Jongho pulled back just enough to hook his fingers in the waistband of your jeans and underwear to finally rid you of the rest of your clothing.
"Lift up for me?" he asked, voice rough.
You did, and he eased both garments down your legs slowly, pressing kisses to your hip, your thigh, your knee as more skin was revealed. By the time he'd pulled them off completely and tossed them aside, you were trembling.
Jongho sat back on his heels between your legs, just looking at you. His chest was heaving, hands flexing like he was restraining himself from touching.
"You're staring," you whispered, fighting the urge to cover yourself.
"Can't help it," he said roughly. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Before you could respond, he was leaning down to kiss you again. His lips soft, sweet and reverent. His hands stroked up and down your sides, your hips, your thighs, like he couldn't stop touching you now that he was allowed.
"Your turn," you managed, tugging at his jeans.
Jongho pulled back just enough to fumble with his belt, fingers shaking slightly. You helped him, both of you working together to get his jeans and boxers down and off. When he was finally bare, settling back between your legs, you both just looked at each other.
The weight of the moment hung between you. Months of wanting, of waiting, of being afraid to cross this line. And now here you were, nothing between you anymore, and it felt like everything was about to change.
His pupils were blown wide, chest heaving as he looked down at you. His cock was hard and flushed, already leaking, and the sight of him completely undone before you even touched made heat pool low in your belly.
"You're sure?" he asked, voice rough and strained.
"I've never been more sure of anything," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face. "I need you, Jongho. Please."
That was all the permission he needed. Jongho kissed you hard as he settled between your thighs, the weight of him pressing you into the couch. You could feel him hot and hard against you, and when he rocked his hips slightly, the head of his cock dragged through your wetness.
"Fuck," he groaned against your mouth. "You're dripping already. Is this all for me?"
"Yes," you gasped. "All for you. Only you."
His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding you slick and ready. He circled your clit once, twice, making you whimper and buck against him.
"I need to be inside you," he muttered, positioning himself at your entrance. "I can't wait anymore."
"Then don't," you breathed. "Take me. I'm yours."
Jongho lined himself up and began to push inside. He moved slow and careful despite the desperation written all over his face. The stretch was immediate and intense, your body struggling to accommodate him even as wet as you were.
"Oh god," you gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. The feeling of him entering you, spreading you open inch by inch, was almost overwhelming. "Jongho—"
He paused, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. "You okay?" he asked roughly, voice strained with the effort of holding still. "You're so tight—fuck—"
"Keep going," you managed, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper. "Don't stop. I need all of you."
Jongho groaned and pushed in further, the thick length of him stretching you wider. You could feel every ridge, every vein as he sank deeper, filling you completely. The burn of the stretch mixed with pleasure until you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"So good," he panted against your neck. "You feel so fucking good. So perfect around me."
He pulled back slightly and thrust forward again, seating himself fully inside you. Both of you cried out at the feeling of him buried to the hilt, your body clenching around him like you never wanted to let go.
"God, you're taking me so well," Jongho groaned, staying still for a moment to let you adjust. "Look at you, stretched around my cock. So beautiful."
The filthy praise made you clench involuntarily, and Jongho cursed, hips jerking forward.
"Move," you finally whispered, nails dragging down his back. "Please, Jongho, I need you to move—"
He pulled back slowly, the drag of his cock against your walls making you both moan, and then thrust forward again. The angle made you see stars, finally feeling him so deep inside of you.
"Like that?" he asked, voice wrecked.
"Yes," you gasped. "Yes, just like that—"
Jongho set a rhythm that was deep and steady, each movement deliberate like he was trying to memorize exactly how you felt around him. Every thrust pushed deeper, hit harder, until you could feel him everywhere.
The couch creaked beneath you with every movement. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, obscene and perfect. The sounds eliciting from your pussy making him groan.
"Listen to that," Jongho groaned, picking up the pace. "Listen to how wet you are for me. How perfectly you take my cock."
Your hands slid into his hair, tugging hard, and Jongho moaned your name like a prayer. The sound of it made you clench around him, your walls fluttering and gripping him tighter.
"Fuck," he cursed, hips stuttering. "Don't do that or I'm going to—"
"I want you to lose control," you gasped, pulling him down for a desperate kiss. "Please...stop holding back. I can take it." You begged.
Something in him snapped at that. Jongho's control shattered completely. He pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, the force of it making you cry out. He did it again, and again, setting a punishing rhythm that had you gasping and moaning with every thrust.
"God, you feel—" He couldn't finish the sentence, just buried his face in your neck and fucked into you harder, deeper, like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. "So tight. So perfect. Mine."
"Yours," you agreed breathlessly, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks. "All yours, Jongho—"
Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper. The new angle made him hit that spot inside you that had you seeing stars, and you couldn't stop the broken moan that tore from your throat.
"There?" Jongho panted, adjusting slightly to hit that spot again. "Right there?"
"Yes!" you cried out, back arching off the couch. "Right there, don't stop, please don't stop—"
He didn't. Jongho kept the same angle, the same devastating rhythm, driving into you over and over while you fell apart beneath him. Every thrust sent pleasure sparking through your entire body.
"You're so beautiful like this," he groaned, pulling back to watch your face. "Taking my cock so well. Making such pretty sounds for me."
The praise combined with the relentless pace had you climbing higher and higher. You could feel your orgasm building, tension coiling tight in your core, but you weren't ready for this to end yet.
"More," you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. "Jongho, please, I need—"
"I know," he murmured, one hand sliding between your bodies. "I've got you."
His fingers found your clit and circled it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation made you cry out, hips bucking up to meet him desperately.
"That's it," Jongho groaned, watching you writhe beneath him. "Let me see you fall apart. Want to feel you come around my cock."
The tension built higher, tighter, until you were trembling with it. Every nerve ending felt like it was on fire. Jongho's cock filled you perfectly, stretched you wide, hit every spot that made you see stars.
"I'm close," you whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. "So close—"
"Not yet," he panted, slowing his pace slightly even though you could tell it was killing him. "Want to make this last. Want to feel you like this forever."
He rolled his hips in a slow, deep grind that had you gasping. You could feel every inch of him, thick and hard inside you, stretching you open. The slower pace was more intense, more intimate, making you feel everything.
"Jongho," you whimpered, clenching around him. "Please—"
"Please what?" he asked, voice rough. "Tell me what you need."
"Harder," you begged, past the point of shame. "Fuck me harder. I need it. Need you."
Jongho groaned like you'd punched him and immediately complied, snapping his hips forward with renewed intensity. The force of his thrusts pushed you up the couch, and he had to grab your hip to hold you in place.
"Like this?" he panted, driving into you relentlessly. "This what you need?"
"Yes!" you cried out, nails dragging down his back. "Yes, just like that, don't stop—"
The sound of your bodies coming together filled the room mixing with both of you moaning and gasping. It was filthy and perfect and everything you'd been dreaming about for months.
"You're so wet," Jongho groaned, looking down to where you were joined. "God, look at you taking me. Look at how well you take my cock."
You followed his gaze and the sight of him disappearing inside you over and over made you clench hard around him. Jongho cursed and thrust harder, chasing the sensation.
"I'm not gonna last," he panted against your skin, rhythm starting to falter. "You feel too good. Too perfect. I can't—"
"Don't care," you gasped, pulling him closer. "Want to feel you come inside me. Want you to fill me up."
Jongho made a sound that was almost broken, hips snapping forward desperately. His fingers worked your clit faster, more insistent, determined to bring you over the edge with him.
"Come for me," he demanded, voice wrecked. "Want to feel you come around my cock. Please, baby, I need it—"
The combination of his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you and his fingers on your clit was too much. The tension that had been building finally snapped.Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, pleasure exploding through every nerve ending. You cried out his name as your body clenched around him rhythmically, walls fluttering and gripping his cock like a vice.
"Fuck, yes," Jongho groaned, feeling you come apart beneath him. "Just like that. So perfect. So good for me."
He fucked you through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were shaking and oversensitive. Your walls were still clenching around him when his rhythm finally broke completely.
"I'm—" he gasped, thrusts becoming erratic. "I'm gonna—"
"Do it," you whimpered, legs tightening around his waist. "Come inside me. Want to feel it."
Jongho buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a guttural moan, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside you. You could feel the warmth of it, feel him throbbing as he emptied himself completely.
"God," he panted, hips still moving in small, involuntary thrusts as he rode out his orgasm. "So good. You feel so fucking good."
He collapsed on top of you, both of you trembling and gasping for breath. You could feel him still inside you, softening slowly, and the intimacy of it made your chest tight. Neither of you moved for a long moment, just stayed tangled together with hearts pounding in sync while you both tried to remember how to breathe.
Jongho shifted slightly, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "Holy shit," he whispered.
You laughed breathlessly. "Yeah."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the tenderness in his expression made your chest tight. Like he couldn't quite believe this had actually happened.
"Worth the wait?" you asked softly.
Jongho smiled. His soft smile that belonged only to you now. "So worth it."
Eventually, Jongho pulled out carefully, both of you wincing slightly at the sensitivity. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before standing, offering you his hand.
"Come on," he murmured, voice still rough. "Let's get you somewhere more comfortable than my couch."
You took his hand and let him pull you up, legs a little unsteady. Yet he steadied you immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist while his thumb traced absent circles against your hip.
"You okay?" he asked softly, searching your face.
"More than okay," you whispered.
Something in his expression softened even further. He grabbed his discarded hoodie from the floor and helped you slip it on, the fabric warm and smelling like him. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that it made your chest ache.
Jongho laced his fingers through yours and led you down the hallway to his bedroom. You'd been in here before for movie nights and the occasional late conversation but it felt different now. Intimate in a way it hadn't been before. He flicked on the small lamp on his nightstand instead of the overhead light, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. The bed was unmade from this morning, sheets rumpled and inviting.
"Here," Jongho said quietly, grabbing a clean shirt from his dresser and gently wiping away the evidence of what you'd just done. His touch was careful, reverent almost, like you were something precious. When he was done, he tossed the shirt aside and cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your flushed cheeks.
"Hi," he whispered, smiling slightly.
"Hi," you breathed back, unable to stop your own smile.
He kissed you again, slow and sweet this time, without the desperate urgency from before. Just soft and lingering, like he had all the time in the world now. When he finally pulled back, he tugged you toward the bed. You both climbed in, and Jongho immediately pulled you against his chest, arms wrapping around you like he'd been doing this forever. The sheets were cool against your overheated skin, and you could hear his heartbeat still racing beneath your ear.
His fingers traced lazy patterns up and down your spine while you tangled your legs with his. The room was quiet except for your breathing gradually evening out, the distant hum of the city outside, and the rustle of sheets as you both settled into each other.
This felt like coming home. His forehead rested against yours while both of you caught your breath, hands still tangled together like neither of you had realized it yet. Your cheeks hurt faintly from smiling so much, and Jongho looked just as gone as you felt. It made something warm settle deep in your chest. For once, neither of you rushed to fill the silence.
You traced your thumb absently over his knuckles. “So… Wooyoung was right.”
Jongho groaned immediately. “Don’t ever say that again.”
You laughed softly, and the sound seemed to undo him a little. His expression gentled as he looked at you like he was still trying to process that this was real. That you were real.
“You know what the worst part is?” he murmured.
“What?” You barely whispered, voice soft.
“I think I would’ve kept waiting forever.”
Your smile faded slightly at the honesty in his voice. Jongho glanced down at your joined hands before continuing quietly, “I kept thinking if I crossed the line and you didn’t feel the same, I’d lose you completely.”
“You wouldn’t have.”
“I know that now.”
Something tightened painfully in your chest. Because the truth was, you understood exactly what he meant.
All those months of almosts, the lingering looks, all the jealousy hidden behind teasing, your hands brushing for half a second too long. Both of you waiting for the other person to break first. Somehow, despite all of it, you still ended up here.
You smiled softly. “Guess we’re both idiots then.”
Jongho huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”
Then his hand lifted to your face again, thumb brushing your cheek with impossible care.
“But at least we’re idiots together.”
The words should’ve sounded teasing. Instead they landed somewhere deep. Your throat tightened unexpectedly, and Jongho noticed immediately. He always noticed.
His expression softened further before he leaned down to press one slow kiss against your forehead. A quiet promise wrapped inside something simple.
When he pulled back, you looked at him for a second before asking softly, “So what now?”
Jongho smiled then. The kind that only belonged to you now. “Now?” he murmured, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “Now I stop pretending I don’t belong to you.”
genre: non idol!au, college!au, fluff, kind of a slow burn with a very happy ending, mutual pining!!!!!!!! he falls first and hard, she too falls hard and fast :)))
word count: 25k, deadass.
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warnings: acquaintances to lovers, economics jumpscare, reader is a tutor and mingi is your not so average frat dude that does an athletic scholarship, eventual smut, praise kink!!!!!, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dry humping, lowk breeding kink mingi freaky, switch!mingi & reader, softdom!mingi, spanking (?), possessive!mingi, cockwarming (a lil!) / lmk if i missed any!
author's note: guys i finally locked in!!! this story has been such a bitch to write but i'm finally happy with it lmfaoaoo. the only reason why it took so long its cause i deadass remembered all my econ concepts from my first year at uni and i got flashbacks sooooo. if its inaccurate don't come for me. also ngl mingi ain't even that much of a fratboy, he is but he's a little nerd!! you'll see - i hope you guys enjoy!!
permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))
You hear him before you see him. The sound is impossible to miss—someone’s torn the universe open and stuffed it with a live wire; the room buzzes, vibrates, orbits around a single axis. Song Mingi is that axis, black hair messy from hands that are never his own, smile bright enough to reflect off the bottles lining the kitchen counter. It’s the kind of house party that exists more as myth than reality until you’re standing in the middle of it, your feet sticky with last weekend’s spilled vodka, your ears ringing from bass and laughter and the high-pitched screeching of people who either want to be him or be with him.
You don’t want either. In fact, you don’t really want to be here, but your roommate insisted—a rare Friday night without any assignments due—and now she’s traded you for a swarm of sweaty college kids in the living room. You’re left clutching a warm can of seltzer, surveying the landscape like a tourist on safari: here, the drunken pack of freshman girls hunched over a phone for a group selfie; there, the duo of varsity rowers relishing about morning practice, each trying to outdo the other’s misery; everywhere, the constant, inescapable gravitational pull of him.
He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.
You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.
But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.
You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.
Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.
Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”
You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”
He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”
You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.
“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”
You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you.
By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.
You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.
Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.
A shoulder bumps into his.
“What’s with that look on your face?”
Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”
Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”
Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.
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Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.
Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.
He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.
“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.
You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”
“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”
The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway?
“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”
He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”
“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”
“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”
Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.
“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”
The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”
He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”
“Yeah, you got it.”
Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.
“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”
You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”
A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”
The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.
“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”
The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.
“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”
“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”
You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”
Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.
“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”
“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”
Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”
Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.
“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”
You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.
══════════════════
True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.
At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.
You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.
It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.
“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.
You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”
He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”
You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”
“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”
“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”
Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”
You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”
“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”
Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”
Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”
The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision.
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.
“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”
The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.
“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”
You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.
“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”
Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”
“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”
“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”
“I’m serious, Mingi.”
“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”
You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”
The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.
As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.
Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?
══════════════════
You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.
At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”
You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”
He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”
The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.
“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”
For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for.
“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”
“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”
He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”
You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”
A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”
“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.
“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.
You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”
“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”
“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.
“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”
You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”
As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.
“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.
Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.
“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”
His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.
“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.
You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”
Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.
“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.
“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”
He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”
The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.
“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”
Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”
You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.
“You don’t have practice on Friday?”
“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”
“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”
As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”
You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.
“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”
“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”
He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”
You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”
“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”
“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.
His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.
You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.
As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.
Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”
“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”
Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”
You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.
“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.
As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.
══════════════════
The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.
“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.
You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”
“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.
“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”
Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”
You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”
His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”
The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.
“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.
Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.
“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.
His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“
“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.
The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.
“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”
He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”
“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”
You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.
“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”
“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”
You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”
“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”
“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”
His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”
“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”
“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”
The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.
“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”
“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.
“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”
The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.
══════════════════
As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.
“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.
“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.
He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.
The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?
You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.
His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.
You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.
“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.
“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”
You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.
I will, doll. Thank you.
On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.
When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.
“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.
“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”
“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.
“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”
You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”
“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”
You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.
“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”
You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”
“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”
When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”
You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.
“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.
“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”
He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”
“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”
“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”
“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”
His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”
“Mingi—”
“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”
“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”
You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope.
“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”
His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”
As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled.
Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.
“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”
“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”
“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”
You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”
“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”
“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”
“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.
“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”
══════════════════
On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.
“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”
You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”
Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.
“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”
You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.
“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.
She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”
You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.
And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.
You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.
“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.
You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.
You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.
You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.
Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.
He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.
“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.
You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.
The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”
You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”
You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.
The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.
“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”
You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.
“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”
“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.
“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.
“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.
“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.
You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.
“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”
“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”
The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.
“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”
Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”
“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.
“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”
You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”
Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.
“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”
Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”
“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.
The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.
After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”
You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”
He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.
“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”
“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.
“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.
You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.
“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”
He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”
You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”
“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”
“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.”
Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.
“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”
His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.
“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”
That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”
You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”
And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance.
“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”
“In your dreams.”
“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”
You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.
“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.
“You just did.”
He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”
You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”
“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”
“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”
He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”
“And what’s that?”
“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”
Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”
“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.
You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”
He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”
“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”
“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”
You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”
His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”
“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”
“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”
He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”
“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”
“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”
Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
You freeze. “I do not—”
“You do,”
You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”
He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.
“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”
Your heart stumbles over itself.
“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.
“Is it, doll?”
There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.
“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.
“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”
The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.
“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.
He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—
“Yo! Mingi!”
The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.
“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”
“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.
“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”
Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”
Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”
You hesitate. And Mingi notices.
His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”
You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.
“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”
His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”
“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”
It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”
“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.”
There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.
“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.
“I will.”
You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.
Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.
Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”
You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”
“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.
“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”
“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”
“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding.
“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”
“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”
“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”
You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“
“Like what?” she prompts.
“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”
“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”
“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.
“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”
“That sounds like a start.”
You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”
“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”
You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”
“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”
Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”
“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”
You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.
The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?
Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?
Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.
She grins. “See? Not ruined.”
You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.
His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.
Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.
“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”
“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”
You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.
══════════════════
Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.
“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.
By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?
Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.
“Still nothing?”
You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”
“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”
“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.
The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”
“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”
“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”
“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.
There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”
You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”
“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”
Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.
“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”
“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”
“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.
After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.
“Just ice cream, huh?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”
The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.
“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”
“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.
Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.
“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”
You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.
He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”
Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.
Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”
The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.
“I got scared,” you say simply.
His brow furrows. “Of me?”
“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“The plan?” he echoes.
“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.
The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.
Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.
“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.
The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.
“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”
You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”
The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.
“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.
You blink. “What?”
He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”
That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.
“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”
Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.
“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”
The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.
“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”
“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”
Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.
You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.
“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.
“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”
You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips. “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”
“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.
“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”
You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.
“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”
The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.
“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.
“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”
He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”
“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”
“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”
“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“
“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”
You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”
“Name it.”
“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously.
He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”
“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.
“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”
There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.
“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”
“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.
Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.
“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”
The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”
You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.
“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.
His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”
“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy.
A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.
“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.
“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.
You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.
Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.
══════════════════
The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.
It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.
Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.
“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”
“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”
“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.
Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.
“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”
You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”
“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”
Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.
One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.
“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk.
Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.
Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”
You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”
His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”
The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.
Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.
You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.
At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.
You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.
“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.
“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.
You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.
That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.
The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.
“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.
You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”
“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”
You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”
As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.
══════════════════
The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.
“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”
You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”
“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”
You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”
He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”
“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“
“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”
“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”
Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.
The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.
When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.
“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.
“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”
“See? I told you.”
He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”
Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.
Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.
Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.
“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“
His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”
Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist.
“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“
“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”
You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”
He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”
“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.
“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”
The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.
“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.
“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”
You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”
The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”
“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.
As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.
“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”
“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.
You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”
“Good surprised?”
“Very good surprised.”
He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.
“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.
“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”
By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.
“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“
“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”
Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.
Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”
You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.
“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”
“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”
“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”
The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.
Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.
“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.
“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.
You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”
“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”
The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.
“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.
He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”
The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”
“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”
“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.
The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.
“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”
“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”
“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”
The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”
He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”
“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”
“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”
You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”
“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”
The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”
His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere, “I know.”
The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.
“Of course.”
“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”
You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”
He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”
“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”
His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”
“Really? That early?”
He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”
“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”
“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”
As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.
“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”
“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.
He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”
“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.
Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.
“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”
He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”
There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.
You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”
Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.
Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.
“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”
He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.
The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.
“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.
His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”
In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.
“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.
The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.
“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.
His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.”
══════════════════
When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.
His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.
“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”
He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”
“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.
“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”
You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.
His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.
“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”
The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.
“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.
Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.
You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?
You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.
“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.
He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”
You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”
He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“I learned from the best.”
He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”
You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.
“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.
He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”
You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.
“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.
You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists.
“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.
“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”
Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.
“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows.
You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“
He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.
“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.
You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.
“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“
“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.
“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”
You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.
When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.
Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.
“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“
You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.
“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.
You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.
“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing
He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“
Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.
You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face
“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?”
He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.
“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.”
The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.
You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.
“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.”
He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”
You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.
You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you.
“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”
You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”
He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.
You decide he’s earned it.
“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”
The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.
All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.
Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.
“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”
Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold.
“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.
His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.”
You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.
“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”
“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue.
His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”
“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.
“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”
He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.
He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.
“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”
You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.
“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.
His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.
“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”
You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make.
Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.
“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.
“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.
With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.
“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”
You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“
He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.
You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name.
“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“
“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”
“Yesyesyes—fuck!”
The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.
“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”
He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.
You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.
Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.
“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”
He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin.
You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.
“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.
“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.
The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.
“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.
“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.
He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”
You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”
“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.
“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”
The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.
“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.
He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”
Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.
“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.
“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”
You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”
“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”
Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.
“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.
His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”
“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”
“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.
“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”
Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”
You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”
He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”
You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.
═══════════════════
Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?
Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.
Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.
When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.
“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”
“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.
He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”
You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”
“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”
You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”
“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”
The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.
“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”
You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:
According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?
It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.
“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”
The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.
When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.
“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”
“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.
Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.
⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART ONE ~28k
⪼ you can’t fucking stand jung wooyoung, mingi really really wants kim minjeong. when wooyoung and winter end up together, you and mingi have no choice but to figure out how to win winter’s favor, to stab wooyoung in the back. mingi needs a favor, and you want revenge... do you dare?
⪼ fake dating au, college au, slow burn, lowk enemies to lovers, this is my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! so happy to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, be sure to check out the masterlist for other banger college fics :)
⪼ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. i hope u enjoy this is my pride and joy in a fic i would eat this mingi as my last meal
“Fuck you.”
Jung Wooyoung has never promised you anything. In your four months of doing whatever the fuck this was, he’s never once lead you believe you’d be anything more than his bed warmer. At least not verbally, and honestly, you had to hand it to him, he’d repeat the same monologue over and over like it was his personal gospel: We’re too young to be in a serious relationship, don’t you think? We should be enjoying our youth, our freedom, doing whatever we want…
If you ever hear the words serious relationship, youth, or freedom ever again, you might actually fucking vomit. In the beginning, it was easy to believe him; you rarely spoke to him outside of the bedroom, yours, his, that one supply closet on campus, the bathroom of that stupid fucking dive bar he loves so much. When he began sleeping over, kissing you awake, leaving with promises of later just to do it all over again, you started feeling blasphemous. Questioning gospel, his words of wisdom, you started to think there was more than just sweat and saliva to your relationship– maybe he enjoyed spending time with you. Maybe he even likes you.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” leaning against the wall of his foyer, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle over the other, you didn’t even make it inside his apartment. The bare, beige walls seemed to laugh at you even if there were no pictures on them, no paintings, no decor.
Too good to be true, of course, since you caught him hand-in-hand with her, Kim Minjeong, Winter, that pretty little thing you’re positive you shared a class with at some point in your three years at ATZU. Your immediate reaction was defense, denial, naturally, because why on Earth would he need anyone but you? He’s told you plenty of times you’re not like anyone he’s met before, that your personality was unique, that you’re the best he’s ever had.
“You’re sorry?!” Your arms were flying around the space, you voice loud, harsh, angry. You didn’t care if his roommate was home, maybe you’d apologize to San if you saw him on campus somewhere. Maybe. Right now, your anger was behind the wheel, driving you to insanity, “Who’s next, Summer? Spring? Fall? You gonna fuck all four seasons, you asshole?”
He shakes his head, black hair falling around his face, the poster board for nonchalance. You wonder how many times he’s had this conversation, how many girls he’s done this to. Maybe you were the problem for thinking you were different, that he’d alter his Ten Commandments for you. He uncurls his arms, straightens out his legs, and motions for the door, voice frustratingly monotonous, “I think you should go.”
“Yeah, I should,” you bite, already turning towards the dark brown, wooden door, “I hope I never fucking see you again.”
“Should be easy,” he says through a much too casual breath, reaching around you to grab the worn, brassy knob, forcing you to step sideways so he can open it. You take a step through the threshold and he leans his lanky body into the frame, “Make sure you return the Chrome Hearts hoodie I left at your place, though, doll. Paid good money for it.”
Face morphing into sheer disbelief, the audacity, only your head turns to look at him, eye legitimately twitching, “You’ll be lucky if I don’t fucking burn it.”
A corner of his lips tug upward in a smile, “Now that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”
“Just like the last four months?” Your brows raise, a faux smile creeping onto your lips, “Don’t text me ever again. Hope she fucks you like I do.”
He doesn’t answer– just stares as you stand there, waiting for an argument, for a rebuttal. Your jaw clenches when you realize you aren’t getting one. Turning on your heel, you stomp down his hallway, down the three fucking flights of steps you’ve climbed every other day for the past four months.
Fuck him. Fuck him.
Humiliation sinks in as you leave his building, anger crumbling into something small, something sad, pathetic. You should have seen this coming, you aren’t stupid, you’re definitely not naïve. You could blame his pretty smile, his cheekbones so sharp they could be considered blades, his beautiful bronzy skin you’d miss tasting, the way he filled you up so perfectly you wondered how you fucked anyone else. You could blame his touch, the grace he used with your body, how he cared for you after he split you open.
The only person to blame here is you. And you know it, deep in your gut, in the ache in your back from carrying the entire relationship you made up in your head, you know it’s your fucking fault you’re hurt. Your friends would tell you soon, too, that they knew this was coming, that they told you he’d do this, they advised you to not get involved with him.
Sighing, looking up at the sky, you squint at the overcast, the blue sky that was now a deep, sad grey. Great, even the fucking sun didn’t want you.
Song Mingi didn’t care about much outside of football. He didn’t have time to.
Almost every day, his schedule was the same: wake up at six, eat his breakfast that was the same every single morning: egg white omelet, two slices of whole-wheat toast, a cup of fresh fruit, sometimes he’ll have cranberry juice diluted by water, usually just plain water.
He’s at the gym by seven, following his training program, by nine he’s in the meeting room in the same building as the gym, he meets his team, his coach, going over the practice schedule, reviewing any changes made for the day or the week. By ten, he’s showered and on his way to class, where he fights to keep his brain turned on until two.
By three, he’s getting taped, at three-thirty he’s out on the field, practicing. By six, he’s back in the gym, then he’s eating dinner until seven, when he showers, fighting to stay awake for the academics squad that arrives specifically for the football team, helping them with homework, plain old studying, any projects they might be involved in.
He’s lucky if he’s finished by eight thirty, where he can finally go back home, to the house the entire fucking team lives in. In the beginning of the season, it’s usually quiet by nine, everyone so exhausted by the day they don’t have the energy to be rowdy– but that never lasts long, once everyone is comfortable in their routines, Mingi’s convinced they have endless pits of energy. Music, laughter, conversation, video games, it’s so fucking loud Mingi has to put on noise-cancelling headphones when he reaches his bedroom.
He doesn’t have the energy for anything outside of his schedule. His days are grid-locked, no room to pencil anything in, no time for partying, for socializing, for anything that would damage his D1-starting-quarterback reputation. He thinks he’s the only person in this whole fucking university that has a reputation, everywhere he goes, people watch. Everyone he speaks to, people listen. When he raises his hand in class, the whole fucking room turns their heads. It doesn’t help that he gets escorted to class. It’s unfortunate that his treatment comes with the gig.
It’s nauseating, the pressure of football was enough, there’s so much added bullshit that comes with it. On his good days, when his adrenaline is pumping, when he feels restless, when he’s really fucking tired of being Mr. Perfect, he makes time. He goes to the party the LAX house is throwing, he takes shots with his teammates, he even dances a little if Woozi’s mixing– if it’s Vernon DJing, he’s probably standing on the side, bobbing his head to whatever funky shit is playing while the nth girl of the night is in his ear.
The girls, the girls, that’s a whole other issue he tackles daily. Nightly. Literally. The cheerleading team, the dance team, the girls on campus he makes eyes at that quite literally fold. Well, he folds them, on the nights he doesn’t feel like releasing his pent up energy at a party, or when he needs to release his frustrations after an especially bad practice. There’s always girls, there’s an endless supply on a college campus, even more in his DMs, he’d assume half of his forty-three-thousand Instagram followers are women, at least that’s what it seems when he clicks his requests folder.
Mingi hasn’t really ever been denied in his life, not with women, not with his college applications, he was getting scouted by university after university in high school. Which is why he can’t wrap his mind around what happened to him last week, a typical crazy night at the LAX house, who throws weekly in their off-season, celebrating absolutely nothing but partying like it was everyone’s birthday.
Mingi was in his favorite outfit, short, dark hair slicked back, jewelry on his neck, his wrists, his fingers, he felt good. He felt lucky, even, when he eyed up the dark-haired beauty across the kitchen, standing alone, staring at her phone like she was waiting to be approached by him. He put on his pretty boy smile and crossed the room, running a hand through his hair, and approached her with every ounce of swagger he could conjure.
Winter. Such a pretty name for such a beautiful girl, Mingi was nearly drooling, her voice sweet like honey, her outfit screamed danger, he needed her. She didn’t smile when she looked at him, didn’t ask for his name, he didn’t think twice, Mingi just assumed she didn’t need to ask, everyone on campus knew his name.
“Do you know when Wooyoung will get here?”
He thinks his heart might have flatlined.
Mingi isn’t like his bitchless teammates, who jump at every opportunity to fuck just because they can. Mingi fucks, but it’s with purpose, every woman he approaches, every woman he hits on, it’s because they fit the criteria.
He coughed a little, brows furrowed, head tilted in confusion. He knew that name, he knew Wooyoung, he’s roommates with San who’s friends with Jongho, one of his teammates, on the starting offensive line.
“Wooyoung?” He found himself asking, choking on a laugh. “Like, the guy who got some girl pregnant last semester?”
She rolled her eyes, “That was a rumour, he didn’t get anyone pregnant.”
Then her phone lit up, and so did her entire fucking face. That smile, Mingi nearly groaned, she’s perfect, she’d look so good on his arm, flaunting her to the entire campus, to his teammates, his coach. He watched as she walked away, taking all of his hopes and dreams with her. His future, the mother of his unborn children, gone in a flash, off to find that leather-jacket-wearing fucking asshole that didn’t even have a career. Is she kidding? Mingi was on the brink of getting drafted to the fucking NFL, and she wanted Wooyoung? What did he fucking have that Mingi didn’t?
He stood there for at least another two minutes, stunned into silence, fingers slowly gripping his solo cup harder until he could hear the crackling of hard plastic bending in his palm. Then and there, Mingi decided she wasn’t worth it. How could she be worth his time, when she wants him? It showed a lot about her.
Mingi spent the night burying himself into whatever girl he could find that looked closest to her. For the week that followed, his mind was clouded by a dark vignette, the picture of her at the center. Winter. He didn’t even fucking like snow, that’s why he went to school somewhere warm.
Slowly, day after day, the rejection began to eat away at him, making him look inward, a practice he doesn’t have much experience in. What does Wooyoung have that he doesn’t? He came to the conclusion that there’s nothing. In every which way possible, Mingi’s better than Wooyoung, so why the fuck did she want him so bad when Mingi was standing right in front of her, in his favorite black party shirt, rings on his fingers, Aquaphor freshly applied on his lips?
She wouldn’t leave his mind. He replayed the rejection so many times, involuntarily and voluntarily, Mingi found himself attracted to the bored stare she gave him. Eyebrows straight, lips wet from liquor, shoulders slouched, not even a hint of a smile. She’s beautiful. She doesn’t care about him. She’s perfect for him.
He has to do something, has to commit some kind of crime, or somehow get Wooyoung kicked out of the school. He sat his teammates down in the dining room days later, the whiteboard they kept for discussing gameplay filled with scribbles and lines in red at the head of the table, in the center was a circled photo of her. His teammates called him crazy, down bad, but Mingi considers himself the next Albert fuckin’ Einstein.
All he has to do is prove to Winter that he’s better than Wooyoung. Easy.
“...I’m sorry you feel that way?” Your eyes, so wide they took over the entire upper half of your face as you all but screeched, “doll?!”
Yeosang and Jongho eyed each other from across the table, then redirected their gaze back onto you. The three of you at the most popular coffee shop on campus, Lucent, you didn’t even care to have this conversation somewhere private, all the ears who might listen should take it as a warning. You considered it a service to the ATZU campus.
Yeosang, green hair messily waved over his cheekbones, sighed, “I can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I know,” you bit back, eyes pointed, already prepared for that response. “But can you wait before saying I told you so and comfort me first?”
“Thank you,” you grumbled, “it’s just stupid. She’s not even prettier than me.”
Yeosang and Jongho shared another look, but it’s Jongho who spoke up this time, “I bet she’s not, probably just easy.”
“Exactly!” You screeched again, eyes wide, jumping out of your seat a little. After receiving looks from around the semi-crowded shop, you shrank in your seat again, cheeks heating up. In a quieter, but still sharp voice, you continued, “Because that’s what Wooyoung likes. He’s a no-good piece of shit who just wants to get his dick wet, it doesn’t matter who wets it.”
“I wish someone would have told you that before you jumped in bed with him,” quips Yeosang, a small grin playing on his lips. When you cursed him out with nothing but your eyes, his smile disappeared.
“Why are we blaming me?” Your fingers curled onto the table as your eyes danced between your two best friends, probably looking insane, but you didn’t care. “I’m the victim here. He played me.”
Jongho runs a hand through his hair, still half-damp from his training this morning, or maybe he actually showered after the gym this time. He sits back in the booth, eyeing you with a bored look, “Wooyoung plays everything. All he does is play, that’s who he is.”
“Well, forgive a girl for wanting to be different.”
Yeosang snorts, and the way your eyes pierce his soul makes his laugh die on his tongue. “What are you laughing at?” You scoff, “You can’t even look your girl in the eye publicly.”
Yeosang gasps, “Do not bring up my situation because you’re pissed about your own.”
“Well?” Your head shakes, arms flailing about in front of you to say What the fuck is the difference?
“Okay!” Jongho intervenes, his arm literally laying over the black table between you to cut the two of you off. “I’m sorry you’re upset, and I’m sorry he hurt you. But he seriously isn’t worth a shred of emotion, you aren’t losing anything by cutting him off.”
You bury your face in your palms, elbows holding you up. Muffled from the edges of your hands over your mouth, you mutter, “He’s so hot, and he’s so good at sex.”
Jongho chuckles, his head shaking, you could see it even with your hands over your eyes. “Is that why all the girls on campus flock to him? Because he’s a good fuck?”
You split four fingers down the middle to peek an eye out, “Yes. And he has this, like, magnetizing aura about him, I don’t know. He’s good at talking, at making you feel special, like wanting him was your idea all along.”
“Hm,” Yeosang’s head tilts, plopping back into the booth, arms crossed. “So he’s just… a manipulator?”
You whine, faking an annoying, high-pitched crying noise. “Yes, he’s really good at it.”
“Damn,” Jongho mutters under his breath, “he’s giving the whole campus problems. How long until he runs through everybody, you think?”
“Not long,” you grumble, “who else is he giving problems?”
“Mingi,” Jongho’s lips scrunch to one side, and a shiver runs down your spine. Mingi. “He wanted to bag this one girl and she dubbed him for Wooyoung. He’s torn up about it.”
“He should be torn up,” you snatch Yeosang’s coffee cup from in front of him and take a long sip. He makes a face like he’s disgusted you’re drinking from his cup, so you make the same one back, mocking him.
Yeosang turns to Jongho, “Mingi never gets dubbed. What is Wooyoung, like a sex god?”
“He’s the bad boy trope in every shitty coming-of-age movie you’ve ever seen,” you sip again until you hear the rattle of the last bits of liquid between ice cubes. Yeosang makes the same face when you slide the coffee cup back to him.
“Mingi is genuinely losing his fucking mind,” Jongho laughs a little, shaking his head like he didn’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I don’t think the man has ever been told no in his life.”
“I wouldn’t tell him no, that’s for sure,” you say with the smallest laugh, and Jongho gives you a long stare, like he’s putting puzzle pieces together. You look on either side of you, then down at your shirt, then back up to him, “Do I have something on my face?”
Jongho shakes his head, eyes widening like he was about to shout eureka, “This could work.”
“What could work?” You ask, and within four seconds of him not responding, you ask again, “Ho, what could work?”
“Stop calling me Ho,” Jongho’s lip lifts in distaste, “Mingi’s trying to figure out a way to get revenge on Wooyoung, or prove that he’s better than Wooyoung, I guess, so he can steal the girl from him.”
“Just tell him to wait a month and she’ll be free again,” you shrug, “he doesn’t need an elaborate plan.”
Yeosang’s brows raise, bottom lip flipped over, shoulders slightly shrugging as if to say Yeah, true.
Jongho holds a finger up between you, “What if I set you up with Mingi?”
Your jaw drops, a disgusting sound leaving your lips that you’d die if anyone else heard. “Me? And Mingi? Are you stupid?”
“No, no, no,” he shakes his finger back and forth, “hear me out. Wouldn’t Wooyoung be pissed off if you bounced back with the star QB mere days after he cut you off?”
You, still sitting in anxious disbelief, plant your palms against the black table, shaking your head rapidly. “Even if he is–”
“Hear me out,” Jongho says a little stronger, and your lips smack back together. “Wooyoung will be so enraged that he cuts the girl off and gets back with you, maybe he’ll even be so mad he realizes his feelings for you were stronger than he thought–”
Yeosang cuts him off, “Hold on a second–”
“–Mingi gets the girl, and then you can break Wooyoung’s heart to get back at him.”
You sit back in the booth, arms crossing, face scrunching together in thought because it actually doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Jongho is grinning like he’d just solved one of the seven wonders of the world, and Yeosang is looking back and forth between you like he’s never heard anything so fucking stupid.
“There’s no way in hell you’re actually considering this,” Yeosang’s voice is shaky, drenched in disbelief, “have you ever watched To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before?”
“This is different,” you’re quick to answer, “I’m not Lara Jean, there are no letters, there’s just an Wooyoung who needs to learn what it feels like to be on the opposite end of the knife.”
“And Mingi won’t shut up until he sinks his claws into that girl, I think it’s a pretty even exchange,” Jongho adds, both of you two peas in an optimistic pod while Yeosang just stares, dumbfounded.
He blinks once, twice, before his lips part to speak, sucking in a breath. They close, and his face twists in confusion, “Let me get this straight, you’re suggesting fake dating Song Mingi, like, football player Song Mingi. And you think he’ll agree?”
You turn to Jongho who just shrugs. “Why not?”
“I don’t know how to say this without insulting you, girl,” Yeosang’s bottom lip is tugged down to expose his bottom row of teeth, a nervous but apologetic look. “But his taste is… refined. Of snotty girls and like, barbie dolls. Plus, you’re opposites.”
“Fuck you Yeosang, I’m hot!” You immediately bark out, then turn to Jongho, “I’m hot, aren’t I?”
“Yeah Yeo, she’s hot,” Jongho nodded, saying Yeosang’s name like it was an insult, then immediately cringing because those words feel gross on his tongue, “Mingi will be into it, trust me. And if he’s not, I’ll just remind him of the bigger picture, it’s not like he has to kiss her or anything.”
You make a face that is nowhere near pleased, lips thinning, brows flattening. “You guys have known me too long, you’re too comfortable insulting me to my face.”
Yeosang barely gives you a glance, “She doesn’t party anymore, she doesn’t socialize with anyone outside her study group and us. They’re opposites, even if she’s–” he cringes, “–hot.”
“Her study group goes out!” Jongho argues, also not sparing you a glance, “Jia and Riyo are always at the LAX house, she can just tag along with them or with Mingi or whatever. I don’t know, once I get him to agree, it’s out of our hands.”
Your jaw drops again. “Out of your hands? Hello? I’m right here, first of all, second, this is your idea, Ho.”
The flex in Jongho’s jaw is his way of saying stop it with the fucking nickname. Deadpanning, he responds, “It’s just an idea, you and Mingi can figure out the details.”
“Stop acting like he said yes already,” Yeosang argues, amusement in his voice now, “you’ll get her hopes up of fucking a football guy.”
You can’t react to the response, because fucking Song Mingi would be a dream— not that the football part has anything to do with it. Your face reflects the thought.
“He’ll say yes,” Jongho nods, “trust me.”
“Fuck no. Are you stupid?”
Maybe Jongho should have waited until they got to the gym, or at least until after Mingi had consumed four bites of his breakfast. Maybe waking him up a minute before his alarm went off at a mere six in the morning wasn’t the best idea, but his anxiety wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Come on,” Jongho whines, legitimately whines, because if Mingi didn’t say yes he’d have to hear about it for weeks to come, and he can’t bear to hear another complaint from the older man’s mouth. “She said yes already, it’s the perfect plan. Girls are jealous like that, they want what they can’t have.”
Dark hair, a little oily and piecey on his head, shooting out in every which way, he was shirtless under the navy blue comforter, sheets crumpled at the foot of his bed. Jongho can’t remember the last time Mingi used the washing machine in the basement of the football house.
Mingi sits up a little, yawning, before looking up to Jongho with an uninterested look, “Is she hot?”
Jongho can’t help the face he makes. Head craning back and forth, almost touching each shoulder as a high pitched, unconvincing, “Yeah,” slides from his lips.
Mingi smacks his lips, laying back in his bed and turning away, pulling the comforter over his shoulders as he utters, “Waking me up before my alarm for some bullshit, Jongho.”
Jongho tries defending himself, “I’ve known her since she was fourteen, she’s like a sister. If you’re talking about, like, conventionally attractive then I guess, yes—”
“I don’t even know what conventionally means,” Mingi huffs, “get out of my room.”
“Mingi, Wooyoung just broke her heart, she wants revenge, and you want the girl. It's an even exchange, no strings. You have nothing to lose.”
Mingi’s grumble slowly grows in volume as he turns back over, eyes still closed. “What about my pride? Making some elaborate scheme just to get a girl who I shouldn’t even care about.”
Jongho’s lips thin— not the pity party, again. He can’t listen to it another time or else he might explode. They’ve already hidden the whiteboard.
He bends at the knees, arms folding over the empty space at the edge of Mingi’s mattress, “Listen, bro, it’ll stay between me, you and her—” and Yeosang, “—it’s the perfect plan. You don’t even have to learn her last name, just stand next to her for a little while until your dream girl’s interest is piqued. Easy peasy.”
One of Mingi’s eyes opened, “It’ll work?”
Jongho nods.
“And she’s hot?”
Jongho’s lips thin again, but he nods.
“Fine,” Mingi huffs, “tell her to come over or something so I can get a good look before I agree to this.”
If it was any other circumstance, your fingertips would be buzzing at your sides, heart pounding in your chest with having a man so beautiful in front of you. Plump lips, dark hair still a little damp laying over his sculpted cheekbones, strong shoulders on display in his sleeveless tank. He sat sunken into the couch, one leg folded over the other with his ankle kissing his knee, arms crossed over his chest. Gorgeous. His skin looks so soft you want to touch it— maybe lick it.
But he did not look pleased. On top of ruining the fantasy, you’re disappointed that men like him still exist.
Standing before him across the living room, a hip popped with your arms crossed, the only thing Jongho said to you before walking inside the football house was that Mingi wanted to meet you. Not that you’d be put on display for him to judge your appearance before he agreed to being your fake fucking boyfriend.
“This is misogynistic in ways my mind can’t even comprehend right now,” you huffed the words to Jongho, your best friend of nearly a decade, not even looking at Mingi. As far as you’re concerned, he’s not in the room anymore. He no longer fucking exists.
There was an apology in his deep brown eyes, his features softened, lips tightened. But he didn’t answer. Mingi’s thick eyebrows were furrowed, top lip curled, but his eyes didn’t read distaste even if his body language portrayed it. With the rage simmering within you right now, he should thank whatever god he prayed to that you weren’t at the boiling point yet.
“I don’t know what that means,” Mingi shakes his head a little, voice lazy, “this will do, though. I guess.”
“You guess?” Your entire face jerks forward, “You fucking guess? I’m a human, you know. Standing right in front of you.”
“No shit,” Mingi sighs, head leaning back into the couch cushion, chin tipped up, face reading utter boredom. “You’ll get me the girl, though? You’re sure she’ll want me if I pretend I’m… dating you?”
He said the words like you casted a fucking curse on him.
Your eye twitched as you glance at Jongho. Meeting his apprehensive stare you uncurled your arms from your chest, legs moving for the front door, “Fuck no, I’m not doing this. Absolutely not, plan is cancelled.”
“Wait!” Jongho stands, eyes wide, palms pressing into your shoulders to stop you from walking straight out the front door. “He’s tired, we had a hard practice today. He’s not usually this bad, I swear, I swear.”
“What do you mean?” Mingi sits up a little, turning halfway to see the two of you, “What do you mean ‘this bad’? I’m being normal.”
“See?” Your arm flies in his direction, “he’s being normal. You never told me he’s a fucking asshole, Ho.”
“An asshole!?” Mingi stands up straight, arms at his side, jaw dropped. “I have to tell every single person in my life I’m dating you, and I’m an asshole for wanting to make sure it’s fitting?”
“What are you so worried about?” You raise your voice, “you’re twenty-one years old, it’s college, it’s not like you have a reputation to uphold, no one cares. You play football, big fuckin’ deal.”
Mingi gasps, insulted, “Big deal? Big deal? It’s my entire future, thank you very much.”
“You won’t have a future if you treat women like they’re your little playthings,” you snap, voice bitter, “is the NFL gonna draft a misogynist?” You smack your lips, eyes meeting the floor, regretting the words as soon as you said them. The NFL would in fact draft a misogynist. Plenty of them, actually.
“Why do you even care? We just have to show face a few times,” Mingi responds, voice bored yet again, “you don’t have to like me, I don’t have to like you. I just want her.”
Rage bubbles up inside you again as Wooyoung crosses your mind. It would feel really, really good to hurt him after he hurt you. And Mingi’s right, you guess, you don’t have to get to know him, or speak to him ever again after this. You could look past the flaws you were sure ran deep if it was just temporary. Situational.
You look up, brows flat, mumbling the reiteration, “A few times.”
Jongho is nodding, smile growing as his eyes bounce between you, whispering, “Yes, friendly, this is good, this is good.”
You face Mingi from across the couch, holding up a flat hand, curling a finger into your palm with each rule, “We don’t speak to each other outside of pre-scheduled meetings, we only act like a couple when there’s people watching, and do not fucking touch me.”
“Don’t touch you?” Mingi pops a brow, “people won’t believe we’re a couple. How am I gonna prove to her I’m boyfriend-worthy if I can’t show off my boyfriend skills?”
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking away, “you’re right. Wooyoung won’t be jealous if you don’t make him jealous.”
“Exactly,” Mingi’s brows raise, pleased, dimples out to play as his lips thin in a tight smile. “I don’t want to touch you as much as you don’t want to touch me, trust.”
Your head snaps up to shoot him another pointed stare, grumbling under your breath, “Asshole.”
Mingi’s smile morphs into a nasty little smirk, “Your asshole now, baby.” You give him an unimpressed, blank stare and his smirk falters as what he said sinks in. Sheepishly, he mumbles, “Sounded better in my head.”
“Like you actually think before you speak,” you snap, rolling your eyes, bringing your attention back to Jongho who looks like if he breathes wrong his entire plan will go in the shitter. “I’ll figure out where Woo will be next, you can tell Mingi and plan out when we’re meeting and where, whatever. Keeping this very much so in your hands, Ho.”
“Good,” you nod, then glance back at Mingi, “don’t embarrass me by saying stupid shit around people, ‘kay?”
Mingi cocks his head to the side wearing the biggest smile, “Don’t embarrass me by wearing that outfit in public again, ‘kay?”
FIRST OUTING: SOFT LAUNCH, THE LAX HOUSE. 11:20 PM.
“How the hell did you get Song Mingi to be your boyfriend?” Riyo is on your hip, bright red hair in a single braid down her back, denim booty-shorts hugging her hips, a cropped, tight bandeau top covering her chest. You suppose for where you went to school that was the uniform, something you quickly realized weeks into your freshman year, clothes were optional here.
You scoff, walking in-step with her, grass from the lawn of the LAX house sneaking around the edges of your flip-flop covered feet. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”
She giggles, a step ahead of you as she walks up the front stairs, “It’s weird, you have no correlation to the football team. Where did you even meet him?”
“On campus,” your voice is high-pitched, certainly not convincing. You clear your throat, “I mean, I applied to be a part of the football team’s academics unit, I just got in, like, a month ago.”
Riyo pauses at the door, a hand on her hip, eyebrows furrowed, “The fuck? And you just didn’t tell me that you,” she counts on her fingers, “applied, got accepted, and started?”
“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug, nervously laughing to cover up the so fucking obvious lie, “I’m just helping them study, Mingi and I.. clicked.”
God, the words feel sour. So unconvincing you could vomit– and he’s inside, waiting for you, you could really fucking empty your guts on the LAX house’s porch. It’s already cluttered with lacrosse sticks, solo cups, backpacks, containers of white balls you can only assume are used in the game, your vomit would probably go unnoticed. Or washed away by beer, maybe your tears by the end of the night.
You don’t know why you agreed to this, it was a moment of weakness. Of rage. Wanting revenge. Because behind the stained, scratched white door, was the entire lacrosse team, the entire football team, God knows who the fuck else if Riyo’s here. You could hear the music bleeding through the walls, something with heavy bass, something rap, something you might know if you opened the door.
Jongho texted you yesterday that Mingi asked for you to make your first appearance here, he said it was the perfect spot, that Wooyoung and Winter might even be here. As much as you were regretting your decision, you hoped he was here. You want to see the look on his face when he spots you at Mingi’s side, when word spreads that you’re dating him, you want to watch his face morph into confusion, into regret, hopefully something lustful that you could use to your advantage.
“That’s gotta go in, like, the top five most insane things to ever happen on this campus,” Riyo wears a supportive smile, yet her head still shakes in disbelief, “I’m happy for you, though. Actually, I think you kinda suit each other.”
You fight the cringe, that was an insult. You smile instead, already hating the words about to come out of your mouth, “Let’s go inside, I wanna see him.”
You’ve been here before, you frequented the LAX house plenty freshman year, a lot less sophomore year after your fling with Kim Mingyu, you haven’t been here once yet this year. It hasn’t changed, medium-sized house, open floor plan, giant kitchen, silver appliances. The furniture was dull, broken in, old, thrifted. It’s nostalgic, being here, these people, you barely see the lacrosse team on campus, you know a few of them from your times here as a freshman, mornings escaping after a night with Mingyu, you don’t know anyone well enough to be considered a friend.
Riyo is immediately squealing upon walking inside, hugging girls you only know the first names of, you smile in greeting from behind her. Jia, another girl from your study group that you’re close with, approaches with the same squeal Riyo had unleashed on the room, her dark hair styled in waves behind her back, deep, golden-olive skin glowing beneath the barely-there lights in the room.
Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees you, “Hello? Shut the fuck up?”
“Hey baby,” your tongue sneaks out between your teeth and she squeals again, throwing her arms over your shoulders in a tight hug. Swaying you side to side, she’s a giggling mess, sandal-covered feet tapping against the floor.
“I haven’t seen you here since last year!” She yells, grin spread wide, showing her dazzling white teeth you couldn’t believe shone so bright in a room this dark.
You shrug, smiling, “I have good reason.”
“She’s seeing her boyfriend,” Riyo teases, nudging you with her shoulder, smiling like a fucking crazy person. Leaning in close to Jia, her voice is still loud, even if she was trying to be secretive, “Song Mingi.”
Jia looks like nothing in the world makes sense, and she’s been transported to another dimension. “I saw you two nights ago, babe, and there was not one mention of a boyfriend, most certainly not a word about Song Mingi.”
“We’re not being, like, super public about it,” you shake your head, cheeks burning, “it’s chill guys, seriously, don’t make a huge deal about it, he’s not a celebrity.”
“Closest we’ll ever get to one, plus, last I heard you were still fucking Wooyoung,” the look on Jia’s face hasn’t left, and God you wish you thought out a better plan with Mingi before you left the football house the other day, you’re scrambling for a story.
“Ew, why are you talking about him?”
Speak of the fucking devil– a shiver racks down your now rigid spine, you fix your eyes that involuntarily widened. Jia and Riyo watch with dropped jaws as Mingi slides an arm over your shoulder, an easygoing smile on his face, looking at you so fucking fondly it makes your heart skip a beat. Fuck him for being so damn beautiful.
Dark shirt clinging to his torso, showing off every fucking muscle that was etched into his skin beneath it, his hair was styled, purposely messy how it hung over the sides of his head where it was shorter, faded into his skin. Baggy jeans on his legs, low enough to show the Calvins under them, he wore a skinny, silver chain around his neck, one to match on his wrist, with pretty, bulky rings on his fingers.
This is so fucking unfortunate– he’s beautiful and he sucks, you hate him, his personality, the misogyny he so easily wields as a weapon, it makes you sick. He doesn’t deserve a perfect face and an even more perfect body. Fuck him.
“We were talking about you,” you force a smile on your lips, turning back to Jia and Riyo as your stiff body leans into Mingi’s huge one, so stiff and broad and muscled you tried to not pay too much attention to it. “Of course you missed it.”
“Start again,” his smile is cheesy, so fucking cheesy you want to slap it off his face. “I wanna hear all the cute things my baby said about me.”
Spit lodges in your throat that constricts around nothing, you choke. Coughing, you pull away from his grip, turning around, smacking your chest with a fist, eyes tearing– he did not just call you baby unironically.
He leans in close, feigning concern, “Are you okay?”
Your other hand flies up, back still facing him, “Fine– fuck.”
Gathering yourself, you turn back around, plastering a smile onto your face. Bidding a wave to the two girls, through gritted teeth, you ask him in a false, sweet voice, “Don’t you have people to introduce me to?”
He quirks a brow, but nods, slinging his arm over your shoulder again as he guides you away from your group of friends. Voice low, keeping himself tight to your ear, he asks, “What the fuck was that?”
“Do not ever call me baby again,” you keep your smile, but your voice is venomous, “that was fucking disgusting.”
“You think I enjoyed it?” He whispers back, voice pitched sharply, “It’s kinda part of boyfriendism, no? Pet names and shit?”
You’re wading through the crowd, Mingi shooting smiles and dapping up tens of people you don’t know, mainly men, all beefy and drunk and eyes dilated like they just railed lines in the kitchen. You shift your shoulders under his heavy ass arm, “Jesus, Mingi, I’m not a fucking ledge for you to put your whole weight on, big ass.”
He grins as he looks down at you, wiggling his brows, “You think my ass is big?”
You roll your eyes, “I don’t think I’m gonna survive you.”
“You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that line,” his grin is proud, he’s not even looking at you as he says it, eyes focused on the people in front of him, in the hallway where a large table is set up, holding a messy game of beer pong. Water beneath the table, a shallow film on top of the painted surface, swirls of brown covering your school’s logo shittily lined in black, gross.
You don’t have time to scoff– you know these guys, Jeno, Chris, Kai, Haechan, Soobin, Changbin. All on the football team, all huge, you’re already vibrating, body stiffening under Mingi’s arm that’s so casually thrown over your shoulders, heavy and thick. Suffocating.
You wish you could be meeting them under different circumstances. You’re tainted now, if they even cared about boy-code, which they might not usually, but you wondered if Mingi pulled rank with them, or if girlfriends were off limits compared to casual lays. Your answer is quickly delivered to you on a silver platter as Jeno eyes you from across the table, hip to hip with Chris who does the same, eyes sliding down your body and back up like they were sizing you up, waiting to pounce.
Your posture changes, subtle, but your arms uncurl from in front of you, back arching slightly, eyes drooping into that pretty, low stare that did Wooyoung in when you first met him. A small smile on your lips, you tilt your head away from Mingi while he introduces you– as his girlfriend. Right. You lock back in, blinking into focus, smiling and nodding to each man that introduces himself like you didn’t already know all of their names and their positions.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Changbin has one palm planted on the painted table, clearly he didn’t care about the murky water, one of his hands palms a can of beer close to his chest, “you were crying over what’s-her-face two minutes ago.”
Mingi makes a face, head nodding towards you with his eyebrows raised like he was silently telling Changbin to shut the fuck up, like you weren’t supposed to hear that, as if you didn’t know already. He’s playing it up, smart.
“Nice to meet you,” Chris grins from the other side of the table, his voice warm, smile pretty, it makes you feel fuzzy inside. You can’t wait to fake-break-up with Mingi. “Your boyfriend didn’t get you a drink yet?”
“Was waiting for one of you to do it for me,” Mingi juts his chin out in Kai’s direction and he nods, eyes wide as he receives the order, and he scrambles. Like, literally scrambles. Nonchalantly you nudge your elbow into Mingi’s ribs, silently telling him to stop being an asshole.
Hiding his hiss in a forced laugh, he steals his arm back from around your shoulders, hiding his formerly exposed ribs, “You should have one hand-delivered to you, ba– sweetheart.”
God, you can feel the bile churning in your gut. You fix your face before it morphs into full disgust.
“How did you two meet?” Haechan asks, his voice whiney– you were not expecting that from his bulky build, broad and toned, so hot. His cherry-red hair is a mess of curls atop his head, skin bronzy under the far light dimming the hallway, allowing them to see the game, you presume.
“The library.”
“On campus.”
You and Mingi respond at the same time, then look at each other, eyes panic-stricken at the fumble. You couldn’t repeat your lie from earlier, they would know you aren't a part of their study team, all you could think was on campus, a generic answer.
You stutter, “The– The library.”
“The one that’s on campus,” Mingi nods, assured.
“Why the fuck were you at the library?” Soobin asks, leaned up against the wall of the hallway, dark brows furrowed, two hands around his can of beer. Valid question, your heart picks up speed in your chest, you weren’t expecting them to pry.
“Studying,” Mingi responds nonchalantly, his voice high, shoulders shrugging.
“Extra tutoring,” you add, “on top of what you guys have, yeah. One of the girls on your academics team told me Mingi needed extra help and volunteered me because our schedules lined up.”
“Exactly,” Mingi nods, lips pursed in an attempt to be more convincing, “love at first sight type shit.”
You tuck your lips between your teeth to hide your smile, smothering the snort that fights to climb to the surface, redirecting your gaze to the floor beneath you. You can’t wait to make fun of him for that line later.
“Right,” Changbin’s brows are tied together, dark hair sprawled across his forehead, almost hiding his skepticism. He redirects his attention to Jeno, the silver-haired hunk of a man beside him, Chris splitting the three. Tilting his chin up, he asks, “Keep playing?”
Mingi’s lips tighten, turning to you again, “Should we go find where Kai is?”
“Sure,” you sigh, flipping your hair off your now slightly sticky shoulders, “I could use a drink.” One of his hands slides to your lower back, guiding you away, and you realize then that he doesn’t have a drink– moving in-step towards the kitchen, you ask, “You’re not drinking?”
“No, not tonight,” his voice is monotonous, he doesn’t look down, keeps his eyes ahead. “Need a clear mind if I’m gonna lie to a hundred people.”
“It’s hot in here,” you complain, face crunching to cringe, it’s humid for November, even for where you live.
“I can tell, you’re sweating all over me, bro,” he responds, voice dripping in boredom, pressing his hand to your back a little harder instead of removing it from your body altogether. “Gross.”
“Then take your hand off me, bro,” you huff, turning the corner, the kitchen coming into view. Surprising high ceilings, white cabinets, silver appliances, marble countertops, probably the nicest room in the whole house, you wondered if there was still a hole in the back door from that one night Hoshi got a little too drunk. You sneer, “You probably smell like a wet dog after practice.”
You spot a few members of the lacrosse team in the corner, standing in front of the back door, a black mesh screen severing the house from the backyard, letting cool air from outside in. Joshua, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, a joint lit in Seungkwan’s mouth, the youngest of the three, a sophomore. Guess they really chilled out during their off-season, no worries about a drug test in their future. Good for them.
“I smell like a beautiful woman after practice,” Mingi scoffs, guiding you in front of him with his palm, hands gliding up to sit on your shoulders, pushing you through people that parted at the sight of him. You keep a tight-lipped smile on your face, giving a small nod each time you make eye contact with someone new. He leans down into your ear, “You’d probably like it, you’re the gross one. Pheremone-lover.”
“Keep your androstenone away from me,” you answer with disgust in your voice, without changing your face an inch, “you probably don’t even know what that is.”
“Guilty as charged, smart girl,” he catches Kai’s head of blonde hair over the crowd, the two men probably the tallest in the entire kitchen. “Huening!” Mingi yells, stealing Kai’s attention, he wears a wide, excited grin, holding two cans of beer over his head like he’d discovered the One Piece.
“I got beer!” He yells across the kitchen, immediately wading through people to get to you and Mingi. A freshman, you think, also on the offensive line, Jongho’s told you about him– a smart kid with great instincts for football, uses his build to his advantage. Innocent, ignorant like a child, a little stupid, he’s cute. Chubby cheeks, a kind smile, your already heated skin rises in temperature as he approaches, opening your can for you.
You introduce yourself properly, thanking him for the beer, “How’s your first year on the team?”
Mingi’s head snaps down to look at you, brows tied together in surprise.
Kai grins, blushing immediately, running a hand through his blonde hair, “Great, thanks for asking, the guys are really cool, Coach is terrifying lowkey, but he’s cool, too.”
You giggle, head tilting, “I’ve heard that, he’s famous though, right? Coach Suh?”
“Yeah, he’s like, renowned in the football world,” Kai babbles on, the two of you erupting into easy conversation, all while Mingi’s head bobs back and forth, watching, listening, his confusion growing with each new word that falls from your lips.
He can’t help but interject, “Since when do you know so much about the team?”
Your giggle slows to a stop, smile faltering, “What do you mean? I’ve always known, this is a D1 school, silly.”
Silly is synonymous with stupid fuck, he can feel it in how your pointed eyes stare into him.
“She couldn’t be your girlfriend if she didn’t know football, Song,” Kai adds, so innocent, so easygoing, oh my God you love him.
Mingi nods like he was the one who reminded himself you were his girlfriend, not Kai, forcing a laugh out, more punched and nervous than anything. “Right, yeah, yeah.”
Your blood runs cold as you catch a head of recognizable black hair around Kai’s ridiculously huge bicep, bronzy skin, a cloud of smoke surrounding him like it was his brand, his aura. Your eyes widen, head swerving around Kai’s arm to get a better look, taking in his leather jacket, the rings on his fingers, the cigarette dangling between his teeth as he smiles, Corona in one of his hands.
“Nice meeting you, Kai,” you don’t even look at the boy, grabbing onto Mingi’s arm, dragging him sideways, away from Kai’s earshot. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.”
“Who? Who?”
“Who do you think, dumbass?” You spit, chin pointing in Wooyoung’s direction, “The only man who’s more of an asshole than you.”
“Oh my God, she’s with him,” a hand comes up to cover Mingi’s mouth, his brown eyes wide, excitement gleaming in chocolate, drawing them hazel. Beside Wooyoung is Winter, long, dark hair pinned up halfway, a short, black skirt on her hips, halter top tugging her upper half just right. He lowers his voice, “Fuck, she’s so hot.”
“Pause,” you turn to him as the realization sinks in– he wants Winter? Winter is the girl you’re helping him get? Kim Minjeong? “You want Winter?!”
“Yes,” he groans out, head tilting back, a whine to his voice like he was four years old and you just took away his favorite toy. “She’s perfect, dude. Like, perfection in a human, I love her, I think.”
“What the fuck?” Completely baffled, you shake your head in disbelief at how perfect this is lined up. You don’t know how you didn’t put it together sooner, you didn’t once think about who Mingi wants, who the girl might be. You didn’t really care. “This is good, this works in our favor, this is perfect, actually,” you’re rambling as you turn around, watching Wooyoung and Winter across the room, how Wooyoung introduces her to the lacrosse trio at the backdoor, how he pulls his cigarette from his lips to press them to her cheek in a short kiss.
“Ew, he’s touching her, that’s my wife,” Mingi props his forearm on your shoulder, you immediately shake yourself out of his grip, eyes never leaving them, laser-focused. He whines, “Comfort me, I’m heartbroken. He’s touching her, bro.”
“They’re together, what do you expect?” You whisper-yell, twisting around to get him out of your personal space. “How can we get their attention? We need them to see us together, being coupled up and shit.”
“I’m boys with Shua and Wonwoo, we can go over there,” Mingi suggests, finally looking at you, and the excited gleam in his eye was now dulled down to desperation, a sadness only caused by yearning. If he wasn’t such an asshole, you might feel bad for him.
You nod, “Good idea, let’s do it. Let’s go, come on, football boy.”
With his hands on your shoulders again, you guzzle the beer in your hands as you cross the kitchen, eyes screwing shut as the spicy carbonation burns your throat. Beer is so fucking gross, at least it’s cold, it gets the job done– you burp before you approach them, a closed fist covering your mouth in an attempt to hide the noise.
“Ew!” Mingi gasps from behind you, “Did you just burp? You’re disgusting, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Shut up,” you spit, “I couldn’t help it, and they’ll hear you, go back to boyfriendism and make it believable.”
“You want me to put on a show?” You can hear the amusement in his voice, the wiggle of his stupid thick brows.
“I do, actually,” you answer with a defeated sigh, “do your worst.”
Approaching the lacrosse trio, Wooyoung and Winter, Mingi throws his arms fully around your front, tucking your back into his chest, his chin sitting on the top of your head. In an obnoxious yell, he makes his presence known, “Hey guys, how we doin’ tonight?”
Ew. One of your hands wraps around his forearm glued to your chest, a wide grin on your cheeks, your head leaned up against one of his biceps that boxes you into his hold, “Hey guys.”
“Song!” Joshua yells, smile widening, lighting up his whole face, “I was hoping you’d show tonight.”
Wooyoung’s smile drops when he sees you, you meet his eyes immediately, your fake grin turning real. Yes, be mad, be so angry you flip the fuck out.
“Of course I’d show,” there’s so much confidence in Mingi’s voice it’s nauseating, “had to introduce my girl to all my people, do you guys know her?”
With a coy smile, you introduce yourself as Mingi’s girlfriend, head leaning into his chest impossibly further, forcing a stupid, lovestruck look on your face, you prayed it was believable.
Joshua nods, as does Wonwoo, both recognizing you from all the times you’ve been here, probably also your fling with Mingyu. The two lacrosse boys greet you kindly, where Seungkwan introduces himself, newer to the team, to those who party in their house.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Wonwoo’s brows furrowed, “the campus isn’t burned down, I’m confused.”
You and Mingi both laugh, but Mingi says, “I don’t think word has spread yet, don’t worry, expect the heat soon.”
“It’s hot enough,” you add, rolling your eyes, “your fangirls will be just fine, there won’t be a fire.”
“You have no idea,” Joshua snorts, “I remember one girl having to deactivate her Instagram account because word got out you were sleeping with her, remember that, Min?”
“Let’s not talk about the past in front of my girlfriend,” Mingi’s voice slips into something strict, “it’s disrespectful, Shua.”
You stiffen in his arms, that’s oddly kind, it makes your situation more believable. You briefly wonder how Mingi is with his girlfriends, if there’s any form of chivalry in his cold, chauvinist heart.
Joshua snorts, shaking his head, “‘m sorry, you’re right, my bad.” His pretty brown eyes fall to meet yours and you melt into Mingi all over again, “Blame the weed, sweetheart, my social awareness has depleted to zero.”
“It’s okay,” you smile softly, liking the word as it falls from Joshua’s plump, wet lips, eyes wandering back over to Wooyoung who’s still staring, lips slightly parted, the cherry on his cigarette so long it’d fall soon. You avert your eyes to it, cocky amusement in your tone, “Planning to start the fire yourself?”
His eyes find his cigarette and he jumps into action, twisting around to flick it in the ashtray behind him, sitting full on the corner of the kitchen island. Your eyes find Winter who’s eyes are staring up at Mingi, looking at him the same way Wooyoung was looking at you.
Your smile turns devious– it’s fucking working. You knew it would, but it’s still surprising, how stupid could these two be? Maybe they deserve each other. You remind yourself that Mingi’s stupid, too– maybe they could explore polyamory together.
“Preseason start yet?” Mingi asks, either unaware of Winter’s eyes or he’s playing his cards right, the three lacrosse boys erupt into conversation, complaining about their coach, their training, the program they go through in the fall season to ensure they’re in shape come Spring.
Wooyoung leans into Winter, a hand around her waist, pulling her into him to whisper something in her ear. It’s like she’s forced back into reality, how her hand lays over his chest, giggling at whatever he said. Gross. You could probably bet money on what nasty shit he just whispered in her ear, dirty talk so smooth it used to make you go weak in the knees, clinging to him like a moth to a flame, how she arched into him you assumed he probably asked to pull her into the bathroom. A move you’d fallen victim to plenty of times yourself.
Jealousy stems in your gut, anger pushing blood through your veins, you look up to Mingi, batting your lashes. You could do it, too. His eyes meet yours and blink into focus, into realization, you watch as his brows ever so slightly knit together, so slight it could go unnoticed, you’re sure you wouldn’t have if you weren’t so close.
A smirk creeps onto his cheeks, voice velvety and smooth, “I know what you want.” Thank God. “Excuse us,” Mingi winks at the lacrosse boys who start snickering upon the words leaving his mouth, “what the princess wants, she gets.”
You catch Wooyoung’s eye, his head whipping around Winter’s, a flicker of surprise. Winter turns too, eyes on Mingi’s biceps around your head, sinking down his build, you hope she’s thinking about fucking him. You hope Wooyoung’s thinking about all the things you’re about to fake-do to Mingi.
You wave as Mingi turns you around, voice light, “Nice to meet you, Seungkwan.”
A few steps away, his biceps flex around your head to get your attention, “Nice move, smart girl.”
You giggle to yourself in victory, bringing your beer up to your lips, “I do have to pee, though, we have to actually go to the bathroom.”
“There’s one at the end of the hallway,” he pulls his arms from around your head to sink down to your hips, his fingers curling through the loops of your denim shorts, guiding you where to go like you’ve never been here before.
Does he think you’re a LAX house newb? You run a hand through your hair, “And there’s two upstairs, one connected to Mingyu and Cheol’s room, another between Dino and Hoshi’s rooms.”
“Look at you, flexing how many bathrooms you’ve gotten laid in.”
“Only the one connected to Mingyu’s room, he’s huge, you can’t blame me.”
“Disrespectful,” he snickers, smacking his teeth, winking at his teammates he passes by in the hallway, you give them all a feigned, bashful smile. “Telling your boyfriend who you’ve slept with.”
“You don’t want to know who I’ve slept with,” you stop in front of the bathroom door, twisting the knob carefully, and thankfully, it opens. You rush inside and Mingi follows, closing the door behind him, locking it. You stare at him with furrowed brows, “What the hell are you doing?”
“We’re supposed to be fucking, remember?” His brows raise, hands landing on his hips, his face falling into the usual disgust. You didn’t have to pretend in here.
You groan, head tipping back, “I have to pee.”
“Then pee!” A hand flies out from his side, five fingers pointing to the toilet, “I’m not stopping you, there’s a toilet right there.”
“What are you gonna do, watch?”
“Are you offering?”
“Fuck you, you’re disgusting,” you spit, a revolted chill making you shiver, he laughs like it’s funny. The weight in your bladder is clear, you whine, shoving your beer into his chest, “I can’t pee if you’re in here, I’m pee-shy.”
“Do you want me to sing? Do a little dance for you?”
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, “Actually, yeah.”
His amused smile drops, “Deadass?”
“You offered,” you shrug, “turn around, do a lil’ dance for me, football boy.”
His face morphs into regret, but he turns around, facing the shower, he takes a sip of your beer before he clears his throat, spreading his legs for comfort, his other hand finding his front pocket.
“...Seventeen-thirty-eight… Ay… I’m like hey, whatsup, hello…”
You burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth, the weight in your bladder growing excruciatingly heavy, “Fuck, I’m gonna piss my pants.”
Flipping the lid, you shove your shorts down, squatting over the gross toilet, Mingi keeps fucking singing. You’re laughing as you pee, snorting, holding onto the bathroom counter for dear life until tears cloud your vision, he’s purposely singing badly, sounding insane, he has no shame. You suppose neither do you, peeing in the same room as Song Mingi, for a second you forget who he is.
Starting quarterback for your university’s football team, he’s a known figure, important. The face of sports for your school, everyone knows his name, everyone wants him– and he’s with you, singing fucking Trap Queen in the LAX house bathroom so you can successfully empty your bladder.
Wiping, flushing, he turns around as you finish buttoning your shorts again, his voice filled with amusement. “How was that? Should I switch careers, or what?”
“Stick to football,” you mutter, then snort again as you side-step to the sink, turning the water on to wash your hands. “Also, love at first sight? We need to work on your lying skills, and your vocabulary.”
“I thought it was cute!” He defends himself, setting your beer down beside you on the countertop, “People ask too many questions, I wasn’t expecting to make up a full-fledged story every time I opened my mouth tonight.”
“You forget who you are,” you eye him through the mirror, “I wasn’t prepared, either. But enough people know now, word will spread on its own. When can we stop? Like, break up?”
“Damn, one night with me and you already want to break up?” He clutches his heart in hurt, then grins, the tip of his back leaning up against the wall, hips blocking the pole that holds the hand-towels. “Soon, though. Did you see how she was looking at me?”
You turn around, shaking your hands out on either side of you to air-dry since he’s unknowingly hiding the damn towels, clutching the countertop to haul your ass onto it, beside the sink. “Of course I saw, I also saw how you didn’t even spare her a glance.”
He smirks, wiggling his brows, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever the fuck.”
Your face morphs into confusion, “I don’t think you can use that saying here.”
“Whatever,” he scoffs, “you know what I mean. Jongho told me girls want what they can’t have, so I’m trying to make myself look very unavailable. It seemed to be working, right?”
“Yeah, she seemed into it,” you shrug, “you think Wooyoung looked pissed?”
“I don’t think he puffed that disgusting cigarette once,” Mingi gives you an impressed look, “his jaw was too busy mopping the floor.”
You giggle at that, legs swaying back and forth where they hung off the counter. Tilting your head, you wonder out loud, “I think three-ish weeks max should be enough, what do you think? If they’re showing interest now, it shouldn’t take much longer.”
He groans, “I have to endure you for three more weeks?”
“Don’t act like you aren’t having fun,” you bite back, “I’m the one who has to endure you.”
“You weren’t complaining when I was holding onto you, smushing your cheeks with my arms, girls would fight to be in your position. Your back was probably getting my shirt wet, you know, sweaty ass.”
Your jaw drops, offended, “It’s fucking hot!” Throwing yourself off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a smack, your hand flies for the doorknob, “I’ve had enough of you, actually. We’ve done plenty of damage for one night, the rest should fall in place.”
“I got it,” he turns off the bathroom light, closing the door behind him, his hand immediately going for your lower back.
“There’s no one in the hallway,” you reach back to shove his hand off you, “don’t touch me, pervert.”
“I just fucked you, and now I can’t put my hand on your sweaty ass back?”
“You didn’t even make me cum, so no.”
He laughs, a genuine belly laugh, straight from his gut, “Don’t talk shit when you have no fucking idea the things I can do.”
Under other circumstances, in another life, if he wasn’t Song Mingi, you’d love to find out. You don’t answer, cheeks flaming, ears tipping with heat, you’re forgetting yourself, a few days without consistent sex and now your stomach is dropping from words said by him? Out of all people?
You walk a little faster, aiming for your escape. At the end of the hallway, you turn your head halfway, “I’m leaving.”
He pauses in the archway, brows furrowed, voice clearly disappointed, “So soon?”
Swallowing, you nod, “I have class early tomorrow, I’ll let Jongho know what the next outing is, kay?”
SECOND OUTING: LUCENT, TWO DAYS LATER. 12:24 PM
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come to lucent
xxx-xxx-xxxx: they’re here
you: the fuck
you: who is this
xxx-xxx-xxxx: arent u the smart one bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: its mingi
you: lose my number
xxx-xxx-xxxx: bruh
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wooyoung and winter are here can u come
you: oh
you: i get out of class in 15
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i cant be here long
xxx-xxx-xxxx: theyll start to ask questions
you: mad ominous. who is they
you: ill leave early tho
The air is thick, humidity wrapping around your body like a blanket, so hot you tug your sweatshirt off your body upon leaving the lecture hall, leaving you in a thin-strapped tank, shorts on your legs, backpack slung over one shoulder. Headphones in your ears, the trek to Lucent is quick even if by the time you make it to the glass double-doors you’re sweating like a whore in church.
It’s air-conditioned, at least, battling the floor to ceiling windows that begged to let the heat inside, bright, white light invading the room, a perpetrator. It helped you find Mingi easy enough, not that you had to search, eight men squished into one booth had you snorting at the entrance.
Approaching the table, you put on your best girlfriend-smile before you even spotted Mingi. At the edge of the booth, dressed casually, much like how he looked the day you met him, he wore sweatpants and a cut-off tee, dark hair messy and sprawled across his face like he didn’t bother styling it. Heaving a breath from rushing over, you tucked your hair behind your ear, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”
He looked you up and down before meeting your eye, a smile spreading across his cheeks, “Hey, princess.”
Your nostrils flared, lips tightening in a fight to not morph into disgust, you guess that was the nickname that stuck. Searching the rest of the table, you find seven men smiling back at you, Jaemin, Taehyun, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Seungmin, Beomgyu and… Jongho. Your eyes widen, smile dropping, hands falling to your sides, words rushing from your lips, “I didn’t know you were here.”
The others turn to Jongho, who looks scared, eyes wide and lips pursed like he didn’t know what the fuck to do. He forces a smile, a nervous chuckle, “I didn’t know I’d be coming here.” His eyes cross the room, leading you to the back corner of the establishment, where Wooyoung sat on one of the comfy chairs, legs stretched out to rest on the small table in front of him, Winter perched on his lap.
You swallow, ice prickling at your scalp. You never went anywhere public with him, even at fucking Eonian, his favorite stupid dive bar, the only time you interacted was either in the bathroom, or if he was drunk enough to address you in front of other people. Your jaw clenches for a split second, fists forming at your sides before you remember where you are, who’s watching.
“Do you want anything to drink?” It’s Mingi who pulls you back up to earth, half your body already in the depths of hell from what you were mentally planning to do to Jung Wooyoung.
Plastering that same, stupid fake-smile back on your lips, you realize you’re still standing, and the booth is clearly full. The boys are nearly on top of each other, large bodies pressed together by their shoulders and thighs, you refuse his question, instead asking, “Should I pull up a chair?”
Mingi’s lips warp into a small smirk as he leans back in the booth, two hands sliding down his thighs before he slaps them twice, “Here’s your chair.”
Your smile tightens, lips flat, eyes scrunched to hide the twitch. “Of course,” there’s nothing but sarcasm in your tone, enough for Mingi to notice, more than enough for Jongho to notice, but hopefully not the others.
Pulling your backpack from your shoulder, you set it on the floor beside the booth, resting your headphones and hoodie on top. Carefully, slowly, hesitantly, you slide a leg between Mingi’s body and the table splitting the seats, trying not to cringe as you sit on the edge of his thigh. In the back of his throat he makes a strained, tight noise, one low enough for only you to hear, it makes your head snap to look at him, eyes pointed and lips thinned.
He’s just smiling, fully amused by your reaction. You wish you could speak telepathically, call him a fucking asshole for pretending you’re heavy when he lifts six days a fucking week.
His arms wrap around you, settling on your thighs, you’re too aware of the silence at the table as he shifts you farther back, in a more comfortable position– if a comfortable position actually exists on Song Mingi’s lap.
“Are you guys between classes?” You turn to the table, smile back on your cheeks, hands in your lap, “I never see you here.”
“Why are we here?” Taehyun leaned forward, dark brows that matched his hair furrowed, plump lips scrunched in question. He’s a DB, if your memory serves, on the smaller side but fucking strong.
Heeseung, from across the table, replies simply, “Mingi wanted to come.”
The table’s eyes lead to the six-foot moron behind you. You can feel him shrug, voice casual like he didn’t care that this is clearly weird, “Was feeling coffee.”
“We’ve never been here before,” Jaemin comments, or argues, you think. He sips his water bottle, no coffee on the table before him, lean build with a wide upper body, he’s fucking gorgeous. He catches your eye, flashing you a smile held in his eyes, you have to look down at the table to stop yourself from asking for his number.
“We come here all the time,” Jongho adds, your head picks up to see something playful in his eyes, lips upcurved slightly, “probably wanted to see your girlfriend’s hangout spot, right, Min?”
It’s then that you realize Jongho arranged this, Jongho knew Wooyoung was here, but why wasn’t Jongho the one to text you? Your eye twitches remembering Mingi now has your number.
He’s having too much fun chuckling from behind you, knees bouncing, making your whole body shift. His voice is coated in rock-hard candy, “Of course I wanted to see the coffee shop my girlfriend loves so much.”
Your lips tighten again, embarrassed. You’re embarrassed. He’s embarrassing you right now, and it’s on purpose.
“You’re so sweet,” you turn your head halfway, shoulders lifted into your cheeks, forcing a cheeriness to your voice that makes Jongho snort from across the table, “I’m so lucky.”
It renders Mingi’s face flat, unimpressed, he reaches forward and grabs the half-filled plastic cup filled with what looks like watered down shit, bringing it up to take a sip. Your brow pops, “Are you drinking espresso water?”
The table erupts in laughter and your head turns, brows fully furrowing at the commotion, “What?”
“Have you ever heard of an americano, du–” Mingi stops himself mid-insult, lips snapping shut.
Your top lip curls, but instead of reacting your head turns to the table again, seven fucking football players staring at you like you’re an alien, “What the fuck is an americano?”
They all laugh again, slapping each other’s chests like it was the funniest thing they’ve ever heard and unfortunately it makes you laugh with them, a nervous-confused combination of a breathy giggle, their laughter too contagious for you to not join.
Mingi holds the cup up to your mouth, making you flinch as the straw approaches your lips. He smacks his teeth, “It’s espresso diluted by water, try it, it’s good.”
Your eyes flicker up to his, and he’s not laughing, not smiling. His brows are lifted with the offer, lips slightly pouted, he looks genuine. Reluctantly you lean forward, lips wrapping around the straw, taking a sip– and it tastes exactly how it looks.
Face scrunching up in disgust, you shake your head twice, “This is why god created cream and sugar.”
That makes him laugh, a smile curving his lips, he takes another sip right after you. An indirect kiss, the immature part of your brain realizes, you wonder how many women on your campus would kill to have exactly that with Song Mingi. How many women would die to sit exactly where you sat; to feel the sheer strength of his thighs beneath them, arms brushing his chest with each movement, his biceps stretched out on either side of them.
The thought is fleeting as you hear the table laugh again, this time it startles you, jumping slightly on Mingi’s lap out of surprise. His other arm wraps around you a little tighter, your movement startling him, you quickly mumble, “My bad.”
“You’re funny,” Seungmin notes from across the booth, as you look at him you realize he’s talking to you. He’s cute, mousy face, maybe more like a hamster, or a puppy– his eyes are soft and his smile is kind, it takes the edge off his attention on you. His eyes slide to Mingi behind you, “How did you guys meet again?”
“We met here,” Mingi responds casually and your lips tighten again, the lie spins once more. He keeps going, completely theatric, “She bought me coffee because she tripped me outside the cafe.”
You gasp, brows furrowing, head twisting behind you to scold him, “That did not happen!”
His eyes are playful, smile menacing, “Oh, yes it did, we cannot have this argument again, princess.”
Your tongue pokes your cheek, following now. Fine, let’s play. Straightening your back, you respond, “It’s not my fault you tripped over your feet, I just happened to be there. You blamed it on me and threatened to call campus security if I didn’t buy you a coffee.”
Mingi shrugs, “It got me a free coffee and a girlfriend, didn’t it? Well-played, if you ask me.”
Your smile grows, shaking your head in disbelief, at the story he created, how smooth he’s playing it. Fuck him. “You’re such an asshole,” you mutter with a small laugh, “I guess it did.”
Turning to the table, they all seem so locked in you almost forget you told five or six of his other teammates a completely different story. You suppose D1 football players won’t be gossiping about where you and Mingi met.
Catching Jongho’s eye in your scan, he looks surprised, almost. Maybe disbelief, how he was blinking at the two of you, his jaw dropped, lips slightly curved. You thin your eyes at him, “You know this story Ho, don’t look so surprised.”
His face quickly morphs to irritation as the table sings a chorus of laughter once more, all six of them adding the nickname to their arsenals upon it gracing their ears. You smile, proud of the work you’ve done, Jongho can do nothing but scowl.
“If any of you call me Ho I’m putting dog shit in the vents of your bedrooms,” he looks around the table, voice threatening, eyes cold.
The laughter dies down but humor dances in the air, Beomgyu is the only one still verbally giggling with his whole chest, “I don’t even care, that is so fucking funny, I’m calling you that forever.”
Jongho redirects his scowl to you, exasperated, “Look at what you did.”
“And I’d do it again,” you’re giggling too, cocky, feeling big-dicked that Jongho’s teammates find you so funny.
The feeling of being watched strikes alarm bells in your head, you turn your head to scan the room, landing on where Wooyoung sits, his lap now empty. He eyes you from across the room and you can’t read his expression, mostly boredom, but the more you look, the more the clench in jaw is visible. Elbow on the armrest, forearm bent upward, fist clenching and unclenching, he’s analyzing.
You sink further into Mingi which he accepts easily, hand lazily thrown over your thigh, you looked like a real, proper couple getting coffee between classes. The smell of cedar beckons your attention, warm and woodsy, a little spicy, it makes it easier to forget who’s beneath you, who’s body you’re so easily and openly and publicly attached to.
Two taps to your thigh grabs your attention, you pull your gaze back to the table, to the dark-headed fuck behind you, “Hm?”
“Park asked you a question, princess,” Mingi tips his chin in Sunghoon’s direction, his voice light but direct, it has your head turning to follow his motion in an instant.
“Is this your first time dating a D1 athlete?” He asks the question with innocence, expression curious, “It has to be different than dating someone who isn’t an athlete.”
You resist the urge to say first time dating, because you’ve certainly slept with a few. Instead you nod politely, humming your answer, “Definitely my first time dating someone as high-profile as Mingi.”
Sunghoon snorts, body leaning back in the booth, his build leaner than the others, strong all the same. Pretty face, structured, timeless features, you briefly wonder what he’s doing on the football team and not on a stage somewhere.
“Not gonna lie, we never thought Song would date,” Heeseung leans forward again, eyeing you from the other side of the booth, a smile playing on his lips, but there’s more truth to his words than humor.
“Not again,” Taehyun quips, “we always assumed he was too focused on his diet and his training program to actually put effort into another human.”
Mingi stiffens beneath you– a slight movement, one you can feel too easily while perched on his lap. There’s still laughter in the air, the comments read light-hearted, but you wonder if it feels that way to Mingi.
Jaemin cackles, “What the hell do you guys mean? He’s never alone.”
“Did you have him tested before you fucked him?” Seungmin wears a smirk, brows raised in your direction, “Because if you haven’t, I think you both probably should at this point.”
Mingi’s chest leans into your back, his chin popping over your shoulder, “Alright, enough.”
You can feel every single muscle pressed to your back, the plush of his broad pecs against your shoulderblades, his fucking washboard of an abdomen against your spine, you can’t even register the tension consuming the table, how everyone quiets down on Mingi’s command, holy shit. You need to get laid.
Your eyes find Wooyoung, too aware of his presence, his eyes that are still fucking on you. Dark clothes, boots crossed over one another, he held up his caseless phone like he wanted you to check yours. Blinking into focus, you reach between you and Mingi to your back pocket, pulling out your phone, clicking it on to look at your home screen.
wooyo: can we talk
wooyo: outside
You pick your head up to look at Jongho, heart picking up speed in your chest, drowning out the sounds of the men around you in another conversation. He meets your eye, furrowing his brows for a split second and fuck you wish you could speak out loud.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” you say quietly to Mingi, barely turning your head to see his face.
His hand lifts from your thigh, “I have to leave soon.”
“That’s fine,” your voice is low, “wait until I get back so I can say goodbye.”
Don’t catch me outside talking to Wooyoung with half of your team in tow.
The restrooms are beside the exit, your escape is easy. On the far side of the building, you ignore how foul your heart feels in your chest, the pounding bass feeling like nerves instead of excitement.
It’s still putrid, hot, humid, disgusting outside, it only adds to the feeling of wrongness. It feels like an eternity before you hear the scrape of his boots against concrete, the smell of cigarette smoke circling where you stood.
“Hey,” his voice is low, casual, rough around the edges like that was his umpteenth cigarette of the day. His black tee is fitted, jeans baggy, one of his pantlegs tucked into a boot. He looked like danger personified but his skin still gleamed summer, bronzy and sparkling, pink dusting his cheeks.
“Why did you want to talk?” Your voice is sharp, no room for it to be taken any other way than rude.
Wooyoung chuckles a little, lips scrunching to blow smoke up into the air, above your bodies. He leaves room between you, enough for you to feel comfortable, but you’re sure there was a purpose. With him, there’s always a purpose.
He flicks the butt, ashing on the concrete below, eyes trained on his own movements before they slowly trail up your body to meet your gaze, making a show of checking you out, it makes you sick. Kind of.
“You’re really dating him?” It’s between a statement and a question, two of his fingers bringing the cigarette back up to his lips.
Your brows furrow, arms crossing tighter over your chest, “Yes?”
“We broke up a week ago, baby,” he chuckles, smoke escaping his mouth with each burst of breath, “that’s a little quick, don’t you think?”
“You’re one to talk,” your jaw clenches, standing straighter, “where’s your arm candy? Or did you cheat on her already?”
“She’s in there,” his voice is too light, so unbothered it genuinely pisses you off how fast your heart is beating. You wished you had a fraction of his nonchalance. “And I didn’t cheat on you, doll, we were never together in the first place.”
“Right,” you blow disbelief through your nose, rolling your eyes, body turning away from him, facing the parking lot that looked deserted even if it was packed with college kids inside. Turning your head only, you ask, “Why are you out here, Wooyoung? What do you want?”
“I still haven’t gotten my hoodie back,” his eyes are low, catching a honey bronze color in the sunlight, you hate how they steal your attention.
You crack a nasty grin, “I burned that ugly fucking hoodie.”
Inside the cafe, Mingi has caught on easily. He watched Wooyoung stand about forty-five seconds after you left for the bathroom, he doesn’t need to look to understand what’s going on, where you are. For such a shitty plan, he can’t believe it’s working so well, it’s as if Wooyoung and Winter were falling into Mingi’s palms without him having to lift a finger.
He doesn’t mind having you around, it doesn’t feel like work. You’re funny, quick-witted and smart, so smart he wonders what your major is. He wonders a lot about you, your relationship with Jongho, what you do in your free time, what the hell you were doing sleeping with Wooyoung, of all people. In the small amount of time he’s spent with you, he already knows you deserve better than a fucking asshole like him, you deserve someone who will meet you on your level.
Mingi wonders if there’s anyone on the team he can set you up with after the two of you break up. Looking around the table, there doesn’t seem to be any winners, maybe Seungmin could keep up with your banter, but Mingi thinks you might destroy him. Jaemin’s funny, but he’s stupid, he can't keep up with your smarts, he thinks Jaemin will irritate you before he entertains you. Maybe Chris, he’s smart, he’s a lot like Mingi, but he’s not one to date.
You don’t need another fuckboy asshole taking advantage of you.
It doesn’t matter, anyhow, maybe after your talk with Wooyoung the scheme will be cut short and everything will go back to normal. He won’t have to see you ever again, he’ll have Winter at his side and he can forget this ever happened, forget about you fully. Training, academics, practice, games. Playoffs are coming up– he hopes he’ll have Winter by then, cheering for him in the stands, wearing his jersey.
“Hi.”
Eyes flickering upward to a voice he recognizes, he sits a little straighter when he sees the dark-haired beauty standing at the head of the table, holding two coffee cups, wearing the prettiest, shy smile.
Winter. He could see his future like it was his past.
“Hey,” Mingi keeps his voice steady, only letting his lips curve ever so slightly. “You need something?”
She shakes her head, pink kissing her round cheeks, she looks down at her shoes, toes knocking together. “Just wanted to wish you luck with playoffs. I know your conference game is next weekend, you must be stressed.”
Mingi swallows down his giddiness, she knows who he is? She’s standing here, at the table, in front of a quarter of his team, talking to him? Wishing him luck?
“Thanks,” Mingi nods, smile growing, “no stress, we’ve got it in the bag. You’ll be there?”
She nods, “Definitely, wouldn’t miss it.” Finally looking at the rest of the table, her eyes land on each one of his teammates, and he’s loving the way each man looks like they want to devour her. Little do they know, she’s his. Her voice coy and soft, she says, “Good luck to you guys, too.”
She made it clear she was only here for Mingi.
He’d kiss her right now if he could.
She winks at Mingi as she walks away, long lashes fluttering as she makes her way back toward where she was sitting with Wooyoung before, setting the plastic coffee cups down on the table. Straight posture, dainty fingers, hair shiny and long, cascading down her back, fuck, she’s perfect.
“Your luck is crazy, Mingi,” Jaemin comments when she’s out of ear-shot, “Winter approaching when your girl goes to the bathroom? You’re one of God’s favorites.”
“Huh?” Mingi pops a brow before you pop into his mind again. “Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I really lucked out.”
“What are you gonna do?” Taehyun asks, “She wants you.”
Mingi scrunches his lips to one side, catching Jongho’s eye from across the table. Playing with the coffee cup on the table, spinning it in a circle between his fingers, he’s reminded who you are to Jongho. He can’t be openly disrespectful.
Mingi answers plainly, “Nothing, I have a girlfriend.”
They all snort, table erupting in laughter like that was the most stupid thing that could have left his mouth. And Mingi guesses it is, Jongho knows who he is, that this is all a plan, a ploy, for the sole purpose of Mingi dating Winter. It doesn’t matter how it all unfolds.
You startle him by barreling back to the table, barely sparing Mingi a glance as you grab your hoodie, your backpack, your headphones. Your eyes find Jongho across the table, flaring something panicked before looking back at Mingi, “I have to go.”
You don’t sound happy. Your jaw is clenched, your chest is flushed, your eyes seem glossy, Mingi finds himself concerned, internally questioning what the fuck happened outside.
“You okay?” He asks, body turning sideways, knees poking out from below the table.
Wooyoung walks by behind you, not even looking as he leisurely strolls past, the smell of cigarette smoke following him like he was purposely leaving a trail behind.
“I’m fine,” you mumble, chest rising and falling in quick succession, “but I gotta go.”
Mingi, apparently out of his fucking mind, stands abruptly, stepping toward you with furrowed brows, “I’ll come.”
“No,” you answer harshly, then lick your lips, mouth tightening like you wished you could reel the word back in. “I’m sorry, I– I’ll text you, ‘kay?”
Your eyes find the table behind Mingi, everyone staring up at you, some with furrowed brows, some acting like they didn’t hear anything at all. You reach up to put your hands on Mingi’s shoulders, standing on your tippy toes to plant a small kiss on his cheek, then whisper, “Bye.”
Mingi’s dumbfounded as you haul ass out of Lucent. Backpack bouncing behind you, you rip the door open and leave the place like an intruder had just told everyone to put their hands up. His fingers find his cheek, though, confused as he is, he turns back to the table, all of his boys already staring up at him.
“You’re fucked,” Seungmin says plainly, “she definitely saw Winter at the table, she’s pissed.”
Mingi sits back in the booth, eyes sliding to where Winter sits, meeting Wooyoung’s already-there stare. He’s smirking, eyes trained on Mingi while Winter is speaking to him, a hand on his shoulder, it makes Mingi’s top lip lift in distaste, he’s such a fucking asshole it makes him sick.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: next sunday
xxx-xxx-xxxx: four highest ranked teams get a first round bye for playoffs
you: so youre planning to be top 4 i assume
xxx-xxx-xxxx: im planning to be top 1 fym
you: hmmmm
xxx-xxx-xxxx: idk how much time ill have between now and then tho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: we might not be able to flex our fake relationship as hard
you: absence makes the heart grow fonder
you: winter will be at the game tho
you: think shell kiss you if you win???
xxx-xxx-xxxx: stop dont make me delusional bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: and dont steal my line
you: acting like you made it up is crazy
you: saying been around for decades and here you go
you: claiming it as your own
You’re smiling at your phone, not realizing you’re giggling while Jongho and Yeosang stare at you with pointed eyes from across the living room, the two sitting comfortably on Yeosang’s couch, laptops on their laps. You came over to catch up on schoolwork after Jongho left practice, not wanting to do it at your own apartment, plus, you had to catch them up on the newest development in the Wooyoung saga.
Since you ended things, you haven’t really had time to process what happened. Quickly shoved into the fake dating scheme, you were focused on something shiny and new, you forgot to pay attention to the small part inside you that ached. Four months is a solid chunk of time, especially when most of it was over the summer where most of the campus wasn’t in attendance, the only thing on your agenda was your part-time job and Wooyoung.
Despite having something shiny and new to focus on, the loss of him still hurts. Sleeping alone, not having anyone to touch, to kiss, to tell your work drama and have them fuck it better, despite being an avoidant asshole, Wooyoung filled a gap for you the entire four months you were ‘together’.
He spoke to you the other day like you meant nothing to him. Which you knew, but to have further confirmation in such a setting, standing outside your favorite coffee shop where the other woman sat just inside, it hurt. By the end of the conversation all your pent-up, repressed feelings rose to the surface, you needed to get the fuck out of there before you sobbed all over Mingi’s americano.
Mingi. Fuck him, his pretty hair and strong body, fuck him for looking at you like he cared about your feelings. It’s all bullshit and it’s not what you need right now, you should be focused on doubling your pain and passing it straight back to Wooyoung. School should really be top priority, your weekly study group, your shifts on the weekend, your top priority should be your degree and making sure you’re stable. You didn’t think this plan would come with so much added shit.
“Who are you texting?” Yeosang asks, green and black hair straight, tucked behind his ears, showing his piercings. He wore a dark sweater, ripped at the collar bone, jeans painted onto his legs, his pink bunny socks tucked beneath his body completely ruining the bad boy vibe.
Yeosang’s never been a bad boy, he doesn’t have it in him. A soft lover boy, one that cares, one that sees what others don’t see, that’s who Yeosang is.
Mindlessly, eyes still glued to your screen, you mumble, “Mingi.”
Jongho and Yeosang share a look. Jongho, face flat, looks over his laptop screen to you, “I still can’t get over seeing you two together.”
You look up, popping a brow, “Why?”
“You look too comfortable,” a very physical shiver runs through Jongho, ruffling his fitted white tee, gray sweats a contrast to the black couch, “it’s weird.”
“Are they friendly?” Yeosang asks Jongho, the two once again acting like you’re not in the room. You roll your eyes.
“Very,” Jongho nods, then turns to look at you, “what’d I miss at that party?”
“What do you mean?” Your face morphs into confusion, small shakes of your head enforcing your bewilderment, “It’s weird because we aren’t ripping each other’s faces off? Can’t really do that in front of people who think we’re dating.”
Jongho’s face stays flat, eyes knowing, “How about the fake ass story of where you met? That was bullshit, you were bickering like you’ve known him as long as you’ve known us.”
You giggle again upon remembering, “Wait, that was funny because half his team thinks we met at the library, it’s like an ongoing bit–”
Jongho cuts you off, looking at Yeosang, “Do you see what I mean?”
Yeosang narrows his eyes, “Are you into him?”
“Do you think I’m a moron?”
“Yes,” they answer simultaneously.
You scoff, “I don’t know why I hang out with you just to get verbally degraded.”
Looking down at your phone, you notice three more messages from the number you still refuse to save.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: shut up who even are u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u coming to the game? if shes there wooyoung will be too
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill give u my jersey to wear lmfao
“Do football players do this?” You ask, brows furrowing, showing Jongho and Yeosang your phone screen. Holding it over the coffee table splitting where you sat on the floor and the couch they occupied, you sat up on your knees as they bent over their laptop screens, squinting to read.
“Give their jerseys out?” Jongho asks, still mid-read.
You snatch your phone away when he starts to scroll, “Yes, fucker, is that normal?”
“Girl,” Yeosang makes a disappointed face, sitting back on the couch, “that’s standard.”
Your repulsion is physical, “Do you think he washes it?”
“It gets washed for him,” Jongho responds, “I’m surprised the staff doesn’t do all his laundry for him. If it weren’t for them, it wouldn’t get washed.”
“Do the staff really do that much?”
“He doesn’t really have to think,” Jongho continues, “he’s the star, the prized possession, vital to the football team, to the school’s popularity and income. They’d do anything he asked.”
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, processing each word out of his mouth, “there’s really a whole world out there I don’t know shit about.”
The two men laugh, Jongo harder than Yeosang, the younger man’s giggles high-pitched and shameless, “Have you not paid attention my entire football career?”
“No,” your answer is short, plain, “why would I?”
“Because there was a time we both played football and you were glued to us,” Yeosang answers, “there are some things you should probably know already.”
“Neither of you have had a girlfriend during the season!” Your voice is high-pitched, defensive, you bring your attention back to your phone. “You’re riding me for what right now, all of this will be over in like, two weeks, anyway.”
you: whatever football boy
you: ya im coming
xxx-xxx-xxxx: cool
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u actually gonna wear my jersey
you: do i have to
xxx-xxx-xxxx: kinda
you: man
you: whatever
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wow
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i can feel ur excitement through the phone
“Are you bringing him to my gig?” You look up from your phone to see Yeosang already looking at you, “It’s at Eonian, so Wooyoung will definitely be there.”
You groan, throwing your phone to the side, stretching your body out as you lay down on the rug, whining. “Your shows are our time, Yeo.”
Bass player for his band, Yeosang playing shows on and off campus was a frequent event. Always somewhere lowkey, somewhere fun, you always went with Jongho, Jia or Riyo. Bringing a man, especially Mingi, would debase the entire meaning of Yeosang’s shows. You go to support him, not to keep tabs on Wooyoung all night or feel uncomfortable with Mingi attached to your hip.
“All that shit just happened with Wooyoung, though,” Jongho says matter-of-factly, “it’s smart to show up with Mingi on your arm. Where Wooyoung goes, Winter follows.”
You pick only your head up, squinting at him over the table, “Yeosang’s shows are off limits. I need to be able to scream my excitement freely, Mingi’s presence will hinder my enjoyment.”
“Whatever,” Yeosang sings, “it’s just one show, but okay.”
You whine, head banging against the floor beneath the rug as you lay it back down, “He’s busy, anyways. He just told me he won’t have time to hang before the conference game.”
“Yet here I am,” Jongho argues, “and at that show, I will be.”
You mumble a curse, “Whatever.”
Picking up your phone again, a notification from Instagram sticks out on your home screen, a message request.
blondenbeautiful: Heard you’re dating Song Mingi?
blondenbeautiful: Biggest joke i’ve ever heard LMFAO
blondenbeautiful: Lying for attention is pathetic, I hope he sues you for defamation
You sit up abruptly, eyes wide as you stare at the screen, “What the fuck?!”
Seeing the fear in your eyes, hearing the shock in your voice, Jongho and Yeosang hop up from their spots, throwing their laptops to the side, racing around the coffee table to look at your phone screen.
“Ew,” Yeosang huffs, “no way this is happening already.”
“What do you mean already?” You look at your green haired friend, shocked and confused.
“Turn off your DM requests,” Jongho adds, “fuck that, dude, fuck no.”
“I’m not turning them off,” you scoff, “that’s pussy shit. Her username is blonde n’ beautiful, Ho.”
You click on her profile, scroll through her feed, watch her story, she lives across the fucking country. You think this is what Yeosang meant when he said Mingi had refined taste; barbie dolls, rich bitch attitude, this was his typical.
“Who cares about pussy shit?” Jongho’s brows are tied together, his eyes pleading, “That’s not the point. He has a fanbase of Warrior Barbies, have you even looked at his Instagram?”
Scrolling out of your requests and opening up the search bar, your eyes widen upon seeing his profile. You followed him already, probably from your freshman year, but he definitely didn’t have near fifty thousand followers back then, or so many posts professionally photographed.
For some reason it’s this that opens your eyes, a chill racking down your spine. You knew how detrimental he was to the university, his level of popularity, but you didn’t think it was outside of your campus, too. He was popular, known, and it spread wider than you ever thought was possible for a guy who sings Trap Queen in sports house bathrooms.
Voice shaky, you whisper, “I feel like I’m in a who the fuck did I marry subreddit.”
Yeosang can’t help the laugh that escapes him, head dipping down with an amused breath, he snaps back to deadpanning in a second’s time. “You should turn off your requests before it gets worse.”
“I’m not even dating him for realsies,” you argue, “the insults are empty. None of them are true, so they don’t count.”
Jongho sits beside you, flopping down on the rug from where he was crouched, “I just don’t want them to get to you. The whole Wooyoung thing upset you enough, you don’t need social media harassment to put the cherry on top.”
“I’ll be fine,” you lock your phone, tossing it to the floor beside you, “that shit won’t bother me. I’m strong.”
“Yeah, alright,” sarcasm swims in Yeosang’s voice, “is it a crime to listen to us every once in a while?”
You sneer, “Yes.”
you: btw yeosang is playing a show friday at 10
you: at eonian on 4th ave
you: woo and winter will be there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: just told u i dont have time
you: why are you acting like i want you there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill be there
THIRD OUTING: EONIAN, FRIDAY. 9:42 PM
“Did you hire a personal stylist or something?”
You scoff, standing in your doorway, looking down at your own outfit. You supposed it was different for you, more stylish than you’d normally shoot for when going anywhere, let alone the dinky dive bar you’ve gone to a thousand times. The doormen have seen you in sweatpants, chain-smoking cigarettes because you had too much to drink, the bartenders have seen you in stained overalls, making out with a random person in the corner because you had too much to drink, you don’t know why you chose today, of all days, to put in an effort when everyone there has seen you at your worst.
Looking at Mingi, he seemed to have the same idea. Although he always looked put together in a way, even if he was in sweats and a cutoff tank, it never looked necessarily bad. All black, leather jacket, boots, his hair styled away from his face, messily but purposeful, he looked good. Really good. It pissed you off.
“Did your staff pick out that outfit for you?” You sneer, “I’m not used to seeing you without sweatpants on.”
“Insulting the man who came all the way here to pick you up,” he nods, bottom lip folded over in the most attitude-stricken look he’s ever given you, “smart.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, heels clicking against the floor as you step through the threshold of your apartment. “Let’s just go.”
Mingi’s car is ridiculous. Ever since seeing his stupid Instagram page, there seems to be a constant reminder everywhere of who he is, what he has. It still smelled new inside, black leather interior, red detail, gear shift looking untouched, pristine. Not a spec of dust on the dash or in the backseat that held only one black duffel bag unzipped, your instincts told you it could hold a lot more.
“Have you been to Eonian?” You ask, turning your head to face him after he pulled out of your complex’s parking lot.
Pressure forces you back into your seat as he picks up speed, knees shifting below the steering wheel, palm wrapped around the gearstick, his face goes unchanged. He leans his head toward you but doesn’t turn it, “Maybe once, why?”
“Just wondering,” your voice is pitched, shaky, eyes widened while you swallow down your heart that shot up so high you could taste it. Your fingers curl into your jeans, thanking god seatbelts exist in your head, you turn your head to the window so you could close your eyes in peace without being caught as a wimp.
You hear him laugh after a second, a small, snarky giggle. The car slows and you can feel it in your chest, body sinking into leather, free to move as you please, your fingers uncurl from your pantlegs, shoulders slouching in relief.
“My bad, should have warned you.”
“I want to survive,” you don’t let him hear the shakiness in your voice, keeping it laced with clear irritation, “if I died beside you I’d have to resurrect myself just to walk ten feet away and die there instead.”
“You’re really sweet, y’know that?” Sarcasm evident, he continues, “I can’t understand why Wooyoung would cheat on such a nice, kind girl.”
Your neck twists to eye him, gaze harsh enough to cut. What the fuck? “We weren’t even together, he didn’t cheat.”
“Oh!” His laughter is punched, eyes condescending, lips half surprised and half amused, “Excuse me, he didn’t cheat, right. He didn’t want to date you at all.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you mumble, head turning to face the window again. It rained earlier, there’s still droplets of water sprinkled on the glass, the gloomy evening looking like the pit in your gut, soggy, heavy, dark. “That’s why Winter rejected you.”
“Well she wants me now,” he adds and you can hear the stupid smirk in his voice.
You snap your head toward him again, “Where did that even come from?”
“Did I strike a nerve?”
Your jaw clenches, facing the window again, mumbling, “This isn’t even worth it anymore.”
He turns the music up, letting it fill the cabin of the car, you can barely feel the road beneath you, his car drives so smoothly. You can hear him switch gears, the roar of the engine picking up, the feel of force in your chest as his speed increases, your hair moving when he slows again, it’s torture.
It’s worse when you step out to go inside the bar, the ground bendy beneath you, feet unsteady on pavement. Your stomach feels icky, your chest heavy and weird, and to top it off, the cigarette-smoking-stupid-fucking-asshole is standing right outside the front door, talking to the bouncer, doused in leather and silver. You suck in a deep breath, straightening your back, part of you forgetting Mingi’s there as you start for the door. Maybe you just wish he wasn’t with you at all.
Mingi calls your name, you don’t stop. A little firmer, a little louder, “Hey.” Jaw clenched, you stop in your tracks, the fur on your jacket whipping as you turn around. Lazily he strolls toward you, holding out a hand, to which you don’t grab.
“Hold my hand,” he wiggles his palm a little, voice edged with annoyance, “come on.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Is it what I said in the car?” He lowers his palm, head tilting, “I’m sorry if I went too far, I won’t do it again. Now please hold my hand so we can go inside together, they’ll be watching.”
Shooting daggers at him, your hand peeks out from your sleeve, reluctantly reaching forward; he spreads out his fingers with a satisfied grin, tangling them with yours, palms pressed together. There’s a certain intimacy to holding someone’s hand, not something you do often, not something you’ve done in a very long time; yet there’s no warmth that spreads through you at the contact, no electricity that stems in the tip of your spine. Strictly business.
Taking a step forward, he comments, “Your hand is clammy.”
“Wonder why,” you roll your eyes, “you have calluses, it’s gross, like sandpaper. Or cat tongue.”
Mingi smacks his lips together, walking in-step with you now, his head dipping down to hide how your words made him laugh. “You’re seriously deranged.”
It makes a smile claw at your lips, turning your head away so he can’t see the grin that fights its way to the surface. He squeezes your hand once like he can see through your wall of hair, snickering from beside you, by the time you get to the front door you’re both fighting to crack a smile like a pair of stubborn idiots.
Tall and buff, a head of light brown, curly hair hidden beneath a snapback, the bouncer eyes you over your ID, then looks at Mingi, deadpanning, “Make sure she doesn’t get near a pack of Marlboro Reds tonight.”
Wooyoung is behind him now, smiling as smoke pours from the corner of his mouth, losing its opacity as it melts into the humid air around him. He’s quiet, but he watches as your face falls, then makes it clear he’s inspecting every article of clothing on your body.
“I’m not even a smoker, Minho.”
“Minho?” Mingi questions, head bobbing in surprise and confusion. He looks at you with a dumbfounded face, “Marlboro Reds?”
“Can we just go inside?” You tug on Mingi’s hand, he takes your ID back from Minho before following you inside Eonian, his brows still furrowed.
“I thought you said you don’t really come here,” Mingi sounds lost as you pull him inside the door, the smell of humid air and alcohol meeting your nose upon entrance.
You do a quick scan of the bar, mindlessly answering, “I’ve been here a few times with Wooyoung.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with the bouncer,” he hisses his argument, standing close to you now, leaning down just enough to whisper-yell it into your ear.
Spotting Jongho in the far corner, just beside the stage at a table, your grin is finally real and takes over your entire face. “Yeah, well, he fucked my friend,” you pull him in Jongho’s direction, “I found Ho, come on.”
It takes longer than you thought it would to get across the crowded bar, you stopped three different times for Mingi to dap up strangers you’ve maybe seen before, all people who tucked Mingi into a quick hug with grins so bright it was as if they were meeting God. Antagonizing, remembering how many people love him, not that you showed your distaste as Mingi introduced you to every single person as his girlfriend, in which they all drank up your figure and complimented Mingi on how well he did scoring you.
It almost made up for what happened in the car. Almost.
Dick two inches bigger, you had more swag in your step as you dragged him to Jongho’s table, where he stood around the high-top wooden surface with two others beside him. Lee Minho, Lee Felix, tight-end, kicker. Felix, bright, blonde and bushy-tailed, stood a little shorter than Minho, who was everything dark and brooding, at least on the outside. Light seemed to return to his eyes when you approached the table, a small smile on your face, already in-character.
Jongho looked less wary as you approached this time, a pink hue to his cheeks, shoulders slightly slouched, a tall beer on the table before him. It looks appealing, even for a beer, at this point you think you’d take a swig of whiskey just to ease the lingering weight in your chest.
He notices your eyes lingering on his beer, he tugs it toward him, eyes pointed, “No.”
It makes a small laugh pass through your lips before you greet the table. Felix’s warm brown eyes seem brighter after Mingi introduces you, his freckled cheeks pink at the apples, “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
“Me?” You’re still smiling, one brow popped, “Why?”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho is quick to answer as if that was now a title of sorts.
Your head tilts, confusion spreading, Mingi’s hand slides to the small of your back, his pinky lining the hem of your jeans. The girl who tamed Song Mingi, your initial reaction is to laugh through the confusion, it comes out staggered, airy, uneasy.
Felix is beaming, grin spread wide like excitement was oozing from his pores, “The whole team has been talking about you, they say you’re funny, and hot, which is clearly true.”
Now heat is spreading through you, smile shifting to something of a smirk, he’s pretty. Like a girl, in a way, blonde hair straight past his shoulders, you can tell there’s a lean, disciplined body beneath the oversized clothes on his body. Backwards hat, lips plump and rosy like he’d been kissing someone for hours, you wonder how hot he thinks you are.
“Is your jacket from Anthro? I’ve been looking at it online, waiting for it to go on sale,” his eyes are on the faux fur on your shoulders, the jacket you thrifted ages ago for ten bucks, you have no idea what brand is on the tag.
Gaydar going off, you ask, “No idea, wanna check?”
His eyes flare brighter, you don’t wait for his answer as you break away from Mingi’s heavy hand, walking around the table. You feel soft fingers moving your hair out of the way as your eyes lead to Jongho, “When does Yeo go on?”
“I think in twenty minutes or so,” he shrugs, bringing his beer up to his lips.
You shiver when you feel the warmth of Felix’s fingertips at the base of your neck, “They’re late?”
Head down to allow Felix access to your tag, your eyes slide to look at the stage, lights on and empty. You got here right before ten, he should be going on any minute now.
“Technical difficulties,” Minho comments in a sing-song tone, reminding you he’s also at the table. Taller than you, beefier than Felix, his elbows sit on the table, biceps straining the sleeves of his fitted tee. Dark hair, eyes feline, lips small and pouty, shit, he’s hot, too.
You hum, storing the info for later, “I hope they play soon.”
“This is Anthro,” Felix gasps, “so cute, I want one.”
“I thrifted it a long time ago, if you ever want to borrow it, ask Mingi for my number,” you offer as you turn around, hands grabbing the hem of it to pull it forward, fixing where it sank backward.
Felix’s head turns to Mingi across the table, feigning a pout, “I like this one, can I keep her?”
In-character, Mingi shakes his head, a smooth, proud chuckle tumbling from his lips. “Sorry to break it to you, Lix, but that one’s mine.”
Mine.
Hand holding didn’t get a reaction out of you, but a singular word makes your stomach curl. You barely remember the last time you were considered someone’s partner, significant other, girlfriend, you don’t know if you ever have been; you’ve been a fuck-buddy, a situationship, a friends with benefits, everything under the fucking sun besides owned. At least five, maybe six years it’s been since someone used the word mine to describe what you are to them, and back then it was purely adolescent, puppy-love at fifteen that made you feel lovesick instead of violently nauseous.
“I need a drink,” you blurt, “from the bar.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, “Where else would you get one, princess?”
That fucking nickname. Your nose crinkles with disgust, you don’t even care about forcing a smile on your face or putting on a show, your irritation returns tenfold. Giving him a long, blank stare, you turn and beeline for the bar.
Deep, shiny oak littered with splotches of wetness, signed receipts soaked, smudged and clinging to the surface, loose, skinny black straws thrown about the bar like some drunk idiot threw a handful in the air, it was a typical Friday night here. Elbows on the bar, you push yourself up by the ledge attached to the base, you keep your chest pressed above your folded arms so the sexy bartender would help you first.
“What’s wrong?”
You smack your lips again, but you don’t turn around. Just his voice is getting on your last nerve.
“Tell me what’s wrong, you’re acting bitchier than usual.”
You can feel the words in your spine. You snap your neck to the side, “Is that why it’s so understandable for me to get cheated on? Because I’m bitchy?”
“You’re still mad about that?” Mingi asks, sounding genuine. You hear him sigh before he forces himself between you and the guy standing beside you at the bar, someone shorter than him, smaller. “Do you want me to apologize again?”
“I don’t want anything from you,” you say quietly, voice laced with venom, keeping your eyes on the tall bartender juggling bottles like they’re toys, his movements fluid. You attempt to telepathize with him, maybe he’ll hear your calls of his name in his mind.
“I thought we moved past that already,” he sighs, “you’re not even gonna look at me? I’m trying–”
“Why do you give a fuck?” You finally look at him and his brows are upturned, lips pouty, but that arrogance that’s embedded in him is so fucking clear you regret looking. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. I’m here for Yeosang, you’re here to impress Winter, wherever the fuck she is. You should go find her.”
“Hey, baby,” you turn to find the bartender finally answering your calls, “he bothering you?”
“Yes,” you smile back, giddiness forming in the pit of your stomach. Slit through his eyebrow, buzz-cut bleached a sandy blonde color, he wears a mesh tank that sits loose on his skin, flowing with each movement. “But he’s paying, so I can’t escape him just yet. Wanna do a shot with me on his tab?”
You lean in closer, eyes low, smile playful. He chuckles, eyes sliding to Mingi and then back to you, “A shot with my favorite girl? Of course. Is he doing one too?”
You shrug, “Ask him, not me.”
You both look at Mingi whose brows are in his hairline, lips parted and slightly curled in a small sneer. It takes him a second to process Hyunjin’s staring at him with a question, he shakes his head slightly before reaching into his pocket, muttering, “Nah, I’m good.”
Hyunjin pours you your favorite drink before placing two plastic shot-cups on the bar, messily pouring liquor that spills onto the grated surface below, “Cheers, to Yeosangie.”
“To Yeosangie,” your grin spreads wide, clinking plastic before smacking them on the bar and shooting them back. “Thanks, Jinnie.”
“Anything for my favorite girl,” his voice is warm, almost as warm as his pretty brown eyes when he looks at you, it makes your insides feel fuzzy. He turns to Mingi who passes him his credit card with that same confused-annoyed look, but he stays quiet. Good.
When Hyunjin walks away, he speaks, and you groan upon the first word leaving his lips. “You’re such a liar, you lied to me.”
“Whatever,” you huff, bringing the straw up to your lips. Fruity, bitter, strong, necessary. “You don’t need to know the truth all the time.”
Mingi’s shaking his head, an annoyed chuckle falling past his lips, “Is there anyone else here you’ve slept with that your boyfriend should know about?”
You shrug as he gets his card back, signing the receipt. You eye it to make sure he left Hyunjin a nice tip, which he does without a word from you. “I’ll let you know if any more show up, if you’re really that curious.”
“I’m sorry for what I said in the car,” he tries again, voice sounding strained, “I’m exhausted, the coaches are working me to the fucking bone with playoffs so close, and I’m here for you.”
Mine.
“You are not here for me,” you bite back, “you meant what you said in the car, don’t go back on it now because it pissed me off. You’re here for Winter and that’s it, Mingi. Like I said earlier, go find her.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No!”
“Fine!” You huff, “Then leave! I didn’t want you here to begin with.”
“You invited me!” He argues back, eyes blowing wide, “I came because you invited me. I picked you up after a three-hour practice. I skipped the second half of studying with exams soon to be here.”
Mine. Your chest constricts.
“You shouldn’t skip studying,” you mutter, “you can’t afford to, moron.”
“Yet I did,” his arms raising on either side of him, defeated. You look at him, really look at him, and you don’t know how you didn’t notice the bags beneath his eyes earlier, he hasn’t had that energetic, snarky-spark since he picked you up.
The lights dim around the stage, music playing through the speakers silencing, the TouchTunes turned off. Mingi sighs, “Can we just watch the show? Wooyoung saw us, which means Winter's here somewhere. They’ll see us at some point.”
“Sorry for being a bitch,” you mumble, voice small, cheeks burning.
A smile tugs at his lips, “I’m sorry for being a bitch, too.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, “Come on, it’s time to pretend you like me again.”
There’s a smile on your face when you groan, body falling beneath his arm, he walks you up towards the table again, through the crowd that parts for him as if he’s a celebrity, standing beside Jongho like he knows it’s where you’d be most comfortable.
He pushes you in front of him as people start closing in, hands sliding down, hooking into your belt loops as Yeosang’s band walks out onstage. Excitement blooming, a grin breaks out across your face, head tipping back with a hand curled around your mouth to release a sharp, pitched whistle.
Mingi echoes the noise, leaning forward to cheer for Yeosang, the back of your head touching his chest. Your head follows his body as he stands straight again, leaning on him with a smile etched into your skin, holding the plastic cup between your hands as the band takes their positions.
Yeosang’s eyes scan the crowd, you follow where his gaze gets stuck, in the back corner, sitting at one of the high-top tables. She’s here, your eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight, warmth filling your chest, a semblance of pride. Good.
“Who’s that?” Mingi leans down to ask in your ear.
“Yeosang’s kind-of girlfriend,” you tear your eyes away from her to tilt your head up, looking at him. “Their relationship is weird.”
“Hm,” Mingi’s head tilts, “doesn’t look like Yeo’s type.”
“She’s exactly his type,” you giggle, “you should know that.”
A smile forms as he looks down at you, “I guess you’re right, don’t know why I assumed everything changed after he quit playing football.”
“Running-back-gone-stoner still likes his cheerleaders,” you sing, bringing your attention back to the stage, taking a sip from your drink. “He seems happier now that he doesn’t play anymore.”
“This is the most confident I’ve ever seen him and he hasn’t played a single chord yet,” Mingi adds, nodding his agreement.
“He’s good,” there’s pride in your voice, “you’ll like their music.”
As if they could hear you, Jay strums his guitar, a striking chord that pulls the attention of the entire room. You squeal, turning your head to see Jongho who’s looking at the stage with the same amount of fondness and pride in his eyes that you wore, the same feeling you have every time you see Yeosang on stage.
Their opening song is one original out of three, the rest covers. You know every word, singing along with Jay, their lead singer and guitarist, head bopping to the beat.
Mingi doesn’t know where to look. Yeosang, who was once his good friend, onstage, or you, smiling, giggling and dancing between his arms. It’s only the third time you’ve been out in public together, but with all the texting, the updates you send each other throughout the day, the constant banter, there’s a feeling in Mingi’s chest he can’t really explain.
He’s not into you. But there’s an urge in his consciousness somewhere, to keep you close, to protect you, it makes him fucking cringe every time the thoughts cross his mind. You’re not friends, you won’t stay in contact after your alignment fulfills its purpose, it’s something he reminds himself after he thinks about you for just a little too long.
He’s tired. His bones ache, his eyes feel heavy, there’s a slouch in his shoulders he doesn’t have the strength to straighten. Your energy bleeds into him, he’s found himself going along with you the entire time you’ve been associated, as if he’s a horse you’re leading to water. So he keeps his mindless grin, a hand steady on your hip since you jumped his fingers out of your belt loops, he holds your drink with the other, keeping his palm blanketed over the open top.
He’s never seen you so happy.
He’s seen you angry, irritated, maybe he’s made you laugh once or twice now, but it’s nothing compared to the joy on your face now, how your body moves out of excitement. It’s not the liquor, it’s Yeosang onstage, who plays so well and looks so fucking cool Mingi finds himself a little jealous, a feeling he pretends isn’t there as soon as he recognizes it. The way you care for him, for Jongho, it adds to the list of things he keeps learning about you, like layers of a fucking onion.
You come to Eonian. Often. You know the bouncer, the bartender, Mingi can’t figure out why you lied. He wonders what else you’ve lied about– what more he can learn about you just by sharing space. He wonders about Wooyoung, what he said to you outside of Lucent, what made you so nervous and eager to leave. He wonders why you wanted to fake-date in the first place, if Wooyoung has done worse than cheat, if that’s why you want revenge so deeply.
The way your eyes wander across the room, finding Wooyoung and Winter, his arms thrown over her shoulders, keeping her close. How they sway together, Winter’s fingers holding onto his forearms, a small smile on her face, cheeks pink. It makes your movements smaller, the bubble of excitement surrounding your being dwindles to a flicker, you turn around and ask Mingi for your drink.
“No,” Mingi shakes his head.
Your face contorts, “What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“You don’t need to drink because you’re upset,” he keeps his voice low, “liquor isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not upset,” you sound defensive, which only confirms what Mingi’s thinking is true. “I’m at a bar watching my best friend kill it onstage, why would I be upset?”
Your brows are furrowed, lips pouty, the gloss you wore faded by now, leaving a pinkish stain behind. There’s heat in your cheeks, a pretty flush, he hates the realization that determination in your features is kind of cute.
“Come here,” Mingi offers, placing your drink on the table behind him before twisting you back around by your hips, throwing his own arms over your shoulders, tucking you into him.
You squirm, making a whiney noise, shifting your shoulders and looking down to untuck your hair where it got trapped against Mingi’s body. “You’re fucking huge,” you mumble, soft fingers coming up to hook around his forearms, Mingi can’t tell if it’s a compliment, but it’s definitely not an insult.
“You have no idea,” he smirks to himself.
You groan, “Stop saying shit like that to me.”
“Why?” Smiling, his tone comes out playful, “Curious?”
Your head tilts back to look up at him, eyes pointed, lips bent in a frown. “No.”
“Liar,” Mingi smacks his teeth, “all you’ve done tonight is lie.”
“Like I said,” you bring your attention back to the stage, “you don’t always need to know the truth.”
“So you admit you’re curious.”
“No!”
Mingi chuckles, squeezing you with his arms clamped around your front. You stay there for the rest of the show, in Mingi’s hold, head pressed to his chest, your eyes don’t wander again. They stay locked on Yeosang onstage, singing along to each song. At one point you and Mingi started swaying together when he recognized one of the covers they performed, singing along with you.
“You two are so fucking cute,” Felix comments when Yeosang’s band runs off the stage after bowing to the crowd. Mingi finally let you go at that point, where you attached to your iced-down drink like a moth to a flame.
“Yeah?” Mingi smiles at Felix before jumping into action when you bring the straw to your lips. “Don’t drink that, I didn’t have eyes on it. I’ll get you another.”
You pout, but you let him pull the straw away from your lips, “Boo.”
“What’d you think of the show?” Jongho asks, a little drunk now, Mingi thinks, as he smacks a hand on his shoulder.
Mingi’s grinning again, nodding his head, “They’re good, Yeosang is really talented.”
You squeal again, stealing his attention, “Isn’t he? He’s so fucking talented, he makes me so jealous. I wish I could play an instrument.”
Cute. He doesn’t think before reaching up to ruffle your hair, “You’re talented at lots of stuff, princess.” He doesn’t know why he said it, he doesn’t even know what you do in your free time. He blames it on it feeling right. He’s tired.
You quickly fix your hair, mumbling, “Motherfucker.”
It makes Mingi’s grin spread wider. Weird, how your insults are starting to feel like compliments.
“Are you coming to the conference game?” Minho asks, and your brows perk up at the attention, that smooth smile appearing on your cheeks, the one you use when you look at any one of his teammates. Anyone you find attractive, actually, he’s noticed.
You nod, “I’ll be there, supporting Jongho.”
“Not your boyfriend?” Minho asks, popping a brow.
“Oh shit, yeah, Mingi too,” you nod, “duh.”
He has to fight his laugh, lips tying together. You meet his eye, the look of him biting back his laugh, and crack a stupid smile at the sight. “You ready to go?” You ask, brows lifted.
Mingi’s neck cranes in confusion, “You don’t wanna wait for Yeo?”
“He has people to see,” you say casually, but Mingi knows who. “Plus, you’re tired, and you need to study before bed.”
Hesitantly, seeing the honesty in your eyes, no disappointment evident, Mingi nods. “You’re right.”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho sing-songs, and Mingi’s neck snaps to glare. He hates that nickname, the way they use it in the house, in practice, how it rolls off his teammates tongues with a sneer. Minho’s smile is devilish, daring; he’s one of Mingi’s only teammates that doesn’t suck-up to him completely. It’s not the right time or place to berate him for it.
You say your goodbyes politely and grab Mingi by his hand, pulling him towards the crowd, in the direction of the exit. Mingi ignores everyone who tries to steal him for a chat, giving small smiles, nods, waves of acknowledgement, but he lets you drag him all the way to the exit, where you give the bouncer, Minho, a small wave goodbye.
A little colder now, enough to rack a chill down Mingi’s spine, you stop in your tracks when you open the exit door. Winter is pressed against the wall of the building, Wooyoung’s hand over her head, forehead touching hers. He plants his lips against hers once before realizing he has company.
“Leaving so soon?” He’s smirking as he tucks his arm back into himself, standing straight, turning to face the two of you. “Yeosang played a good show.”
Winter’s eyes locked on Mingi, widened, pupils dilated like she didn’t want to be caught where Mingi had indeed caught her. She swallows, licking her lips, fixing the baggy denim on her legs as she stands straighter, moving slightly behind Wooyoung as if it’d put her out of Mingi’s eyesight.
“He always does,” your voice is cold, venomous. No warmth at all.
Wooyoung’s eyes find Mingi, taking a second to look him up and down. “Nice outfit, different for you.”
Mingi pops a brow, “Because I’m not in a jersey?”
“Sure,” Wooyoung nods, then moves his eyes to you. “Same goes for you, doll. Find my hoodie yet?”
Your fingers flex at your side, fist clenching, “I told you I burned it.”
Wooyoung chuckles, arm lifting for Winter to tuck herself into his side, it makes Mingi grimace. Gross. He’s slimey, the energy he gives off, Mingi can’t understand what the fuck girls see in him in the first place.
“Did you see Hyunjin inside?” Wooyoung asks, “He asked me about you, said your little plaything was bothering you.” Wooyoung looks at Mingi again, “I take it that’s you? But you’re her boyfriend, right?”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you speak up before he can open his mouth. “Don’t speak to Hyunjin about me or Mingi. The only plaything you have to worry about is the one under your arm.”
Winter straightens, brows furrowing, “I’m the plaything? Me?”
“What do you think he’s gonna do with you when he’s bored?” You laugh a little, eyes so piercing it renders Mingi silent, all he can do is stare. “Toss you to the side, just like he did with me. There’s another one, you know, it’s never just you.”
Wooyoung tucks her closer, his features devoid of all amusement, back going rigid. “Lying, huh? Just ‘cus you’re butthurt? Always leads to lies, you haven’t changed one bit.”
“You’ll never change,” you whisper, but the chilly air is quiet enough that it hits its mark. “When she calls, you’ll run back to her, it doesn’t matter who’s occupying your boredom at the time.” Your eyes find Winter, “You’ll see. I feel bad for you.”
Mingi, confused, watches Winter’s face fall, the slow realization that there’s not a lick of jealousy in your voice, just sheer honesty. His head bobs back and forth between the two of you, but he grabs your wrist when steam starts pouring from your ears. “Time to go, baby. Come on.”
You pull your wrist away from him, tucking it into your chest, keeping your eyes steady on Wooyoung who doesn’t falter for a moment. A staring contest of sorts, it makes Mingi feel nervous, uncomfortable at the least.
“Time to go,” Mingi reiterates, voice heavier, hands on your waist now. “It’s not worth it. I’ll take you home, c’mon.”
It takes you a second to turn your head away from Wooyoung as Mingi starts pulling you away, but once you’re out of eyesight, in front of Mingi’s build that engulfs you whole, the shakes begin. Your fingertips, your shoulders, your teeth chatter in your fucking skull.
“In the car,” he’s whispering, encouraging, ushering you into his passenger seat. “There you go,” he closes it behind you, making sure you’re tucked inside.
When he’s behind the wheel, engine roaring to life, he takes a second to gather his bearings. He turns to you slowly, only his head, and you’re staring into nothing, body still shaking. It makes him swallow, nerves etching into his vision.
“Are you okay?” He asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of. He doesn’t know how to comfort you. You hum an agreement, a slight nod of your head, it does nothing to ease the discomfort in his chest. His lips tighten, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “What just happened?”
You shake your head, still staring into space. Voice small, battered and broken, you whisper, “I don’t know.”
Mingi feels something swirling in his gut, something foul. Like before a big game, when he isn’t positive he’s going to win. Voice low, he asks, “What actually happened between you?”
“He didn’t just cheat on me with Winter,” you finally look down at your lap, “there’s another girl. I don’t know who she is, what she looks like, I just know she exists. She’s like, the girl version of him, she made him like that.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you keep talking after a deep, shaky breath. “He called me a liar, I am a liar.” You shake your head, staring at your lap. “I lied to everyone when I was with him. I lied to him, I lied to myself, not to mention Jongho and Yeosang.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier that way,” you finally look at Mingi, eyes glassy, pupils dilated, “if I told the truth, I couldn’t be held accountable for my own actions.” When you notice his confusion, you laugh, a short, disbelieving chuckle. “I knew about her the whole fucking time, the nature of their relationship, I even tried competing with her at one point.”
When Mingi asks why again, you sigh. “I think because I knew I’d never win. Him and I would never be real no matter how hard I tried, and that was safety to me, in a way.”
“I don’t understand,” Mingi sinks into his seat, carefully peeling back another layer.
You shake your head again, silent for a moment. “Have you ever wanted something so bad that it terrifies you?”
“All the time.”
“This is gonna sound self-deprecating, don’t make fun of me or else I’ll fucking kill you,” you start, and Mingi’s lips curve at the corners, but he nods. “That’s how I feel about relationships, or being loved, I guess. I want it, but do I deserve it?”
Mingi’s brows furrow again, “Do you deserve it?” You blink at him, and he shakes his head in confusion, “Who cares? You want it, don’t you?”
Mingi swears your eyes get rounder, your lips plumper. He’s never seen you look so… delicate. Small, vulnerable, like your walls have crumbled away and left what’s at your core bare for him to see.
“I do,” you whisper, staring at him, into him, he feels just as bare as you. He feels the moonlight pouring into the cabin, he hears the light hum of his idling car, and he realizes he hasn’t been in this position in a long, long time.
His relationship with women has been strict since… her. Transactional, never more, never less. Give and take. He doesn’t make friends, he doesn’t form bonds, he does nothing more than fuck– when’s the last time he had a real fucking conversation with a woman? When’s the last time his chest has felt so twisted from emotion?
He stares back, eyes dropping to your lips for a millisecond. Glossy, from the spit you swiped over them with your tongue moments prior, plump and opaque with color. This is the longest you’ve gone without arguing since the moment you met. This is the first time he’s looking at you so clearly, seeing you as more than a means to an end. He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.
“Take what you want,” Mingi whispers back, “who gives a fuck about being worthy of it?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips, “That’s easy for you to say, you get whatever you want.”
“Not everything,” he shifts in his seat, sinking down, stretching out his legs as much as he can. “Not even a lot, actually.”
When your brows furrow, he makes a face like he doesn’t want to keep going, but he does anyway. “I don’t have control over anything in my life. What I eat, how I train, how much I sleep, what I do in my free time, that’s all coordinated by someone else. Dating you is the most freedom I’ve had in years.”
“They don’t do whatever you say?”
“I do whatever they say,” he corrects you, lips flattening. “I don’t have to think if I don’t want to, and I fucking hate it. I’m a twenty-one year old man that doesn’t do anything for myself, it’s suffocating. Like I’m a puppet.”
Your lips are tucked between your teeth, swept to the side, head tilted. “I thought it was the other way around. Are they mad you’re… dating me?”
Mingi laughs a little, “More than mad. Consequences-mad.”
You gasp, leaning forward, palm planted on the center console. “Then why are you still doing it?”
“Because I want to,” he’s looking at you now, “for once, I’m doing something I want, and I’m having fun.”
“You’re having fun with me?” Your smile makes Mingi feel like he’s just handed you a thousand dollars. “For realsies?”
Chuckling, nodding, Mingi nods, “For realsies, princess.”
You sit back in the passenger seat, body deflating dramatically, head sinking to the side, silly smile still on your lips. Looking up at him through your brows, you say, “I’m having fun with you, too.”
Mingi doesn’t understand why the sentence fills his stomach with… butterflies, like you’d just said the words he’s been waiting the whole night to hear. He pushes the feeling down, shifting himself upward, finally plugging his phone into the car’s speaker system. “You ready?”
“Yes,” you nod, sitting up, pulling the seatbelt over your torso. “Drive nicely though, please, or else I might throw up.”
FOURTH OUTING: CONFERENCE GAME, SUNDAY. 7:02 PM.
Bass pumps through the stadium, so deep and booming you can feel it in your heels that touch the concrete beneath you, it vibrates through the navy blue, plastic chair you sat on. Only in a mini-skirt, your thighs sat bare against the cool, hard chair, a relief in contrast to the humid air that rudely asks you to put your hair up.
In the tenth row, just above the fifty-yard line, your view was immaculate. Just above where the players stood on the field, you could see the field, the players clearer than you ever have, Jongho always gifted you and Yeosang nosebleeds. A routine, up in the stands, guzzling beers because what else was there to do if you couldn’t see? You’d trust the commentator with a tall-boy of Miller and pretend you were enjoying it until you got drunk enough to not care, and to you, that was the true college football experience.
But here, almost eye-level with Mingi who lines up directly under center to take the snap, this was different. Dark hair covered by his kelly-green helmet, the only reason you knew it was him was because of his last name and the number eighty-eight on his back.
It mirrored the one on your back, the kelly-green jersey that offset his white one, it hung more than oversized in your body, off one shoulder, tucked into your skirt. You haven’t seen Mingi in a week, and when Yeosang delivered it to you this morning the pang of disappointment in your chest was so uncomfortable you pretended you didn’t feel it.
“Mingi gave it to Jongho who gave it to me to give to you.”
Yeosang threw the jersey onto your couch, oversized and… green. So green you looked down at the jersey then back up to Yeosang’s head of hair, a smirk crawled onto your cheeks. Yeosang squinted, “Don’t.”
“Oh, you can make fun of me, but I can’t make fun of you?” A hand on your hip, one knee bent, you exuded nothing but attitude. You took a step forward to pick the jersey off your couch, held it up in the air in front of you by the shoulders, “Can dish it out but can’t take it, huh?”
The mini-skirt in your closet you haven’t been able to face since sometime last year popped into your brain, a tall pair of boots you already started mentally picturing with the outfit. It looked good enough in the mirror, his jersey hung off your shoulder, you did a little twirl in the mirror to see how it swayed with your movement.
A smile was stamped onto your cheeks when you glanced at your back in the mirror, reading a very clear Song written above the number 88. After noticing the grin, you forced your lips flat, arms straightening at your sides. You turned back around, lips tucked in as you ran your palms over the jersey, blowing a sharp breath through curved lips, then left your bedroom once more.
You kind of missed him, which was a strange pit-in-your-stomach feeling you didn’t let yourself think too much about. You haven’t seen him in a week, not since your explosion on Wooyoung at Eonian, he’s been too busy with this game approaching, strategizing, practicing, training. Not seeing him after sharing something vulnerable with him, something you haven’t even shared with the green-headed-motherfucker in the room just to get something vulnerable in return, you felt strangely closer to him. Like maybe you two could actually be friends.
Silly thought. Silly you.
He stands crouched on the field, your chest still heaves from cheering when his name was announced throughout the stadium, excitement vibrating through you as much as when bass bled through your skin. The stadium looks bigger from down here, more open, yet there was less air to fill your lungs, to ease the discomfort in your chest.
There were messages in your DMs, more messages now than when you entered the parking lot to tailgate. You read the first ones upon your first step through the wired, silver gates, not telling Yeosang who was already slurring his words because it didn’t matter. The messages have never grown too personal, nowhere close to a threat, until today.
Don’t go to the game today.
His minions, the army assembled of Mingi-lovers who haunted your requests folder, you wonder what they’d think if they knew you weren’t really together. If they knew Mingi only looked at you affectionately in public. You wondered what they’d think if they looked at your text thread, if they saw the slew of insults you threw at each other on a daily basis, between the updates with time stamps because Mingi said it’s proof he’s busy.
Now, there were more.
Thought we told you not to go
We saw you tailgating.
Should we expose you for cheating on him?
In his jersey too, you must be fucking stupid
Drinking beer, so trashy
Don’t you think you eat enough?
A tall-boy in the cupholder across from you, a cup of cheese fries split between you and Yeosang, a fucking hotdog in your hand. This was normal, this is what you always did, what you always fucking ate when you came to these games. You looked behind you, the crowd was busy talking to each other, laughing, drinking, eating, there were no eyes on you. You couldn’t figure out who was looking at you. Who was waiting.
Unsettling isn’t the word for how uncomfortable being seen was, when you didn’t want to be.
The game begins and you attempt to force yourself into focusing. Yeosang, drunk and belligerent beside you, luckily didn’t notice your discomfort, you don’t think he’d notice if you dropped a fucking brick on his head right now. You pull out your phone when focusing proves impossible, rereading your last text thread with Mingi again, the only thing keeping you from grabbing Yeosang by the scruff and dragging him out of the stadium.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come down to the field when games over
xxx-xxx-xxxx: go down the stairs inside, tell security ur name. they should let u through
you: okay
you: play good or else ill cheer for jongho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come on now
xxx-xxx-xxxx: whos name is on ur back
you: some guy
you: streets are calling me mrs. song
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wait that has a nice ring to it
xxx-xxx-xxxx: if u see winter let her know what her future looks like
you: i hate you
you: break a leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i dont think u say that for football
you: no like i hope you break your leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: oh bro fuck u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: dont say that before a game
xxx-xxx-xxxx: asshole
you: go stretch or something stop texting me
You haven’t seen Winter, you haven’t seen Wooyoung. You didn’t see them in the parking lot, either, where you tailgated with not only Jia and Riyo, but Mingyu, Seokmin, Hoshi, Dino and Seungkwan. Nine of you taking up two parking spots, drinking beside Mingyu’s ninety-six Ford pickup, playing pong with the table he brought in the truck bed, sitting in folding chairs, watching from the roof panel.
Riyo claims they’re the only people she could convince to tailgate. You think they’re the first and only people she tried convincing, especially since she’s hooking up with Seokmin on the DL, but you’d believe there’s some truth to it just because Mingyu’s the easiest person to convince of anything on the planet. You can remember convincing him chocolate milk comes from brown cows and strawberry milk comes from pink cows– he was elated to find out photoshop-generated pink cows exist in real life.
Tall, buff, bronzy and handsome, he was the first one to refer to you as Mrs. Song with a slippery smirk and a wiggle of his brows. For the entire two hours you tailgated, you don’t think you heard your name once; like parrots, once one of them says something, the rest follow.
It was nice to be friendly with him, even if you eyed him up with a smirk of your own two or twenty times, advances only understood by him, and each time you remembered whose name and number was painted on your back and forced your face to fall.
Boring.
“That pass was,” Yeosang hiccups, “disgusting.”
You lock your phone, picking your head up, “I missed it, what happened? Disgusting good, or disgusting bad?”
“Good,” Yeosang nods, watching the game with a different, analytical eye, “Mingi’s so fucking good.”
“Do you ever miss playing?” You ask, tucking your phone into your pocket, picking up your beer to take a sip. Cringing, you wish you’d drank more at the tailgate.
“Of course,” he says like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked, “but I don’t regret quitting. Everything is better now.”
You can hear the liquor in his voice, it makes you crack a smile. Taking advantage of the situation, you lean in a little closer, “Do you miss her cheering you on?”
With his feet propped up on the empty chair in front of him, body lazily strewn in his own chair like it was deadweight, it might be, the way he only turns his head to look at you. “You don’t think she cheers for me anywhere else?”
Your top lip curls, leaning backward, putting space between you. “I don’t know if I should take that in a sexual way or not.”
Yeosang snorts loudly, head dipping back like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore, “You saw her at my show last week. She was cheering me on like she didn’t give a fuck who saw, it was awesome.”
“Good,” you nod, turning back to the field, eyes closing in on the pretty cheerleader dressed in little to nothing, green and white pompoms in her hands. Whispering, watching her, you nod again, “Good.”
Checking your phone again, you see more DMs, but you don’t open them. Ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself as you sit rigid up until halftime, where the cheers and boos from the crowd went right over your head the entire time. Twenty minutes to pee, buy another beer and more cheese fries because you should’ve eaten before you fucking came and you didn’t.
On edge, speed-walking through the crowds in the concourse, your eyes worked a mile-a-minute to scan every face you saw, to analyze if anyone was looking at you a certain way. It’s terrifying, knowing someone is watching, not knowing who, or from where. You stared above you, through the cracks in the stall doors while you peed, you kept an eye on your surroundings while you bought another beer, more cheese fries.
Maybe you should turn off your requests, you think as you sit back down in your seat, Yeosang leaned sideways with his head in his fist, eyes half-open.
“Are you alive?” You ask with a laugh as you sit down, handing him another tall-boy can, “Here, got you another beer.”
He resurrects like the second coming of Jesus, eyes wide and brows lifted like you’d woken him from hibernation. Back straightening, he grabs the can from your hand, sucking in a breath, “You’re my best friend.”
You laugh as you sit back in your seat, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs, the game had already begun again while you were up in the concourse. Peeking up at the scoreboard, seeing nine-zero clear as day, your head snaps to Yeosang, “When the fuck did that happen?”
“Mostly in the first quarter,” his voice is heavy with carbonation, he closes a fist over his mouth in an attempt to silently burp into it, a failed attempt.
You snicker at the sound, giggling through your words, “Who?”
“Haechan, Jaemin.”
“Jaemin’s a kicker?”
“Him and Felix.”
“Ah,” you nod, taking a sip of your own beer. Turning to him again, you ask, “Haechan’s the whiney one with the red hair?”
“Wide receiver,” Yeosang nods, “and a good one. Mingi’s passes are perfect, though, can’t give Hyuck all the credit.”
“Hyuck?”
“Haechan.”
“Oh,” you mumble, searching the field again. Mingi looks so much bigger with all the padding on, bulkier, you can see his chest heaving despite the layers, his run turning to a slowed drag of his legs as he walks towards the edge of the field.
Arms flexing as he pulls his helmet off his head, he shakes his hair back, running a gloved hand through the sweaty strands, away from his face. It’s like slow motion, his shoulders pushed back, lips parted, jaw clean and angular, teeth poking out from beneath his top lip.
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, he looks hot. Fuck him.
That clean smirk lifting his lips on one side as he shakes hands with another one of his teammates, you don’t care to figure out which one, you can’t take your eyes off him. He tilts his chin up, keeping that same cocky smirk as he says something too far for your ears to catch, his eyebrows twitching upward. Shit.
Your stomach rumbles something unwelcome, a feeling of interest, sweat prickling at the back of your neck that isn’t from the humidity in the air. You know he’s hot, you knew he was hot before you started fake-dating him, you quickly remind yourself who he is. A narcissistic asshole, a misogynist, a lonely twenty-one year old that doesn’t have the freedom to make decisions for himself. One that likes spending his free time with you, one that laughs at your jokes, one that throws his arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side like there’s no other place he’d want you.
Mine.
You shake your head, turning to Yeosang again, “You know how I said I got those DMs the other day?”
Yeosang blinks in half-focus, “Kinda, why?”
“Nevermind,” you shake your head, sighing. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Can I have a fry?” He asks, giving you puppy eyes, you hand him the cup of cheese fries without looking at him.
By the grace of God, as if you fucking summoned her with damning thoughts, walking into the row before yours, sitting in the seat directly in front of Yeosang, is Winter.
Where the fuck is Wooyoung?
Yeosang stiffens, a cheese fry halfway in his mouth, he pulls his feet back down to the concrete, mumbling apologies through his already-full mouth. Winter is everything polite, she gives him a warm smile, tucking her skirt beneath her as she sits into the seat. Slowly she drags her hair to one side as she relaxes in the plastic, body not hitting the backrest, giving you a full, front-seat view of Song and 88 on her back.
Your lips part, eyes widening as you read it, you blink once, twice, six fucking times and the name and number doesn’t change. It’s a jersey bought from the school store, not official like the one on your back, but she’s fucking here, in front of you, with your boyfriend’s name and number on her fucking back.
“Excuse me,” you lean forward, heart beating out of your chest, brain spewing words onto your tongue and not one of them is nice.
She turns like she’s surprised, brows lifted, “Hm?”
“Your jersey?” You tilt your chin, what the fuck else would you be asking about?
“Oh,” she grins, cheeks pink, a hand coming up to cover her mouth like she’s fucking bashful. “I’m just a huge fan.”
“Right,” you say slowly, eyes thinned to shoot daggers, nodding like this shit does not add up.
Yeosang rests a heavy hand on your back, you turn your head to look at him still shooting missiles from your eyes and his face is twisted up to say what the fuck are you doing?!
Your face snaps back into reality, quickly straightening in your seat, pupils shaking beneath your lids and lips pursed hard enough to bruise, an embarrassing heat turns your body to lava. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing but the mortifying pulse of your own heartbeat, what are you doing? What the fuck was that? This is the whole point.
You’re going insane, that’s the only answer, the only reason for what you just did. The DMs, sitting in seats he got you because they’re the best view, having eyes on you somewhere in the crowd, remembering how he looked at you from the driver’s seat of his car, telling you to go get what you want just because you fucking want it. It's all going to your head.
You need to break up. Now.
You don’t see the rest of the game. You don’t hear the music, the sirens of triumph, the roars of the crowd, you don’t even process that they won until you’re standing up, clapping, staring out at the field with your face utterly blank. This is fear. This is real, genuine, raw fucking fear.
“Let’s go,” Yeosang is tugging on your arm and your gaze is elsewhere, confused, your mind somewhere along with it.
You tug your arm back, “Go where?”
“Down to the field?” Yeosang furrows his brows, “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” you give him a weak smile, “yeah, ‘m fine.”
You’re gliding up the stairs into the concourse, fuzzy finding the staircase to lead you back down, you’re shaking your head, trying to snap yourself out of it before you reach the bottom platform. There’s a man shuffling around like he was waiting for bodies to approach, earpiece connecting to a small black box clipped onto his slacks, a black polo to match, his face reading focus, professionalism. You mumble yours and Yeosang’s names and he lets you through with a stretch of his arm, you heave another breath when the LED lights come into view at the end of the tunnel.
The field is vast, it’s warmer down here, the air is wet. Bodies seem to cover every inch of sideline, cameras, lights, people with clipboards and hats on their head with your university’s logo, you’re too aware of your fingers at your sides.
You spot him and he’s smiling, laughing as he talks to an interviewer, already standing before a camera, it makes your heart drop to your asshole. You shuffle closer to Yeosang who’s already on the hunt for Jongho, you’re sure he doesn’t want to be caught down here by his old coach or any of the staff, if they’d even recognize his bright green hair.
“You’re down here?” Jongho finds you before you find him, brows furrowed, hair sweaty and chest heaving, he wears confused brows and a winded smile.
Chest puffed from padding, sweat dribbling down his forearms that aren’t covered by nylon, you actually feel a semblance of relief when you see him. “Mingi invited me, I wasn’t coming without Yeo.”
“Oh,” his smile spreads, “how was it?”
Yeosang claps his hand, throwing another on his shoulder, “You’re a fucking boulder, wish I was down here with you.”
Jongho looks confused, “Are you drunk?”
Your eyes travel, landing on Mingi, who catches you just as you look over. You see him brighten, smile widening, a sparkle in his eyes that makes your stomach do flips. Fuck.
You watch him mouth the words excuse me, nodding his head before escaping the press, running over to you with that stupid fucking smile you might have seen in your dream last night.
“You came!” He yells when he gets close enough to pull you into his chest, acting as if his sweat didn’t soak through his padding. Huge, massive, he swallows you, it makes your knees weak.
You verbally cringe, muttering a noise of disgust before pulling away, “I was right, you smell like wet dog.”
“Beautiful woman,” he corrects, face reading amusement, “like you in my jersey, green looks good on you, princess.”
Your eyes meet the turf beneath your boots, “You don’t have to say that, no one can hear you, Mingi.”
“Damn, no insulting rebuttal?” The more he looks at you the more his smile falters. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
You look up at him through your brows, surprise written on your face as you take in the concern on his. He can tell? You shake your head, plastering a fake smile on your cheeks, “I’m great, I’m fine, I’m good. Did you hear me cheering?”
“For me?” He’s cheesing, excited like a little kid.
You laugh a little, tucking your hair behind your ear, “Duh, you told me I had to since I’m wearing your jersey.”
“Let me see,” he pulls his arm from where it laid over your shoulder back to his side, “do a little twirl for me, smart girl.”
The heat on your cheeks is molten, you roll your eyes as you make a ponytail in your fist, twirling to give him full access of him on your back.
He cheers, woo-ing loud and shameless, his smile takes over his entire face. “Wow, look at you, like a real-life WAG.”
“What’s a WAG?”
He shakes his head, “Means you’re mine.”
Mine.
You panic, words spilling from your lips, “Guess who else is in your jersey.”
His smile falls, body going still with knowing disbelief, “No.”
You force a tight-lipped smile, nodding, “Yup.”
“Oh my god!” Yeosang cuts you off, loud and obnoxious. Now he chooses to get rowdy? “I almost forgot, you guys should take pictures.”
In boyfriend mode again, Mingi’s gloved palm finds the small of your back, coming to your side when you twist around to look at Yeosang, face screaming no. Yeosang giggles, a nasty little smirk on his lips that tells you he’s playing the game, too, maybe better than you are at this point.
He pulls his phone from his back pocket, “Come on, pose.”
You look at Mingi, uneasy. He shrugs, unbothered. Hand tighter around your waist, he leans into you, smiling. You try to force light into your eyes, doing your best to grin like a proud girlfriend, not that these pictures would ever see the light of day.
“Cute,” Yeosang crouches, “move over, the lighting is weird.”
You huff, but move in the direction Yeosang’s pointed palm is ushering you in, Mingi following, the both of you quiet. Too aware of where you are, eyes, cameras, lights— it’s overstimulating just having his fucking hand on you, his body pressed to yours.
Yeosang eyes you over the top of his phone screen, flashing something mischievous, “Now kiss.”
“What?” There’s barely a moment between his order and your reaction. Mingi stiffens beside you, you think you’ve gone cold, you think you might drop dead on the turf.
“Kiss!” Yeosang nearly whines, “Come on, what are you, children? One kiss for a picture, you’ll thank me for it later.”
Your jaw drops. Blinking at him, stuttering a rebuttal, head shaking and a hand moving to wave in front of you out of denial, Mingi speaks before you do.
“Okay.”
“Huh?!” You look at him like he’s insane.
He shoots daggers, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and Yeosang as if to say don’t blow our cover. Little does he know, Yeosang was present when the plan was fucking formed.
“No,” the shake of your head is final, “absolutely not.”
“One kiss,” Mingi argues, “it would be a cute picture.”
You whisper, “Why are you encouraging this?”
He shrugs, his smile effortlessly stupid, “It’s just one kiss.”
Your eyes lower to his lips for a split second. Round, plump, pink, wet with spit from his tongue that glides over them seamlessly, there’s an anxious pit in your stomach, your fight or flight kicks in.
He uses the angle in which you turned, one hand sliding to your waist, the other on your jaw, tilting your head upward. Warm, his touch delicate, you feel your heart in your throat as he leans in, kissing you with a softness no one has ever kissed you with.
You’ve been someone’s situationship, friends with benefits, fuckbuddy— all things that require a disconnection to function, a wall you were far too good at putting up, keeping stable. You’ve been kissed with haste, with fervor, just to add a touch of romanticism because the rest that followed lacked respect in its purest form.
This was different. It wasn’t a peck, your lips parted for him, your body melted into him, his hand on your jaw was guiding, grounding, his gloved thumb swiped along your skin like he fucking meant it. He tasted clean, like he just drank a gallon of water, still fresh on his plump lips that tucked yours in like they belonged there. It's not right, it’s not right but it’s working and you’re fucking terrified.
He pulls away just as softly as he leaned in, a dopey smile stretching his lips wide. Keeping himself close, he hums, “See? Just a kiss.”
You don’t realize your fingers wrapped around his forearm, or that your spine bent towards him. Breath shaky, grip iron, your eyes flicker upward and even the way he’s looking at you is different.
You swallow down your discombobulation just enough to utter, “We need to break up. Now.”
Kinktober Day 31 - Yandere!Balrog!Mingi + Queen & Marking
Pairing: Mingi X Fem!Chubby!Reader
A/n: There's a plethora of reasons as to why this is so late (almost a year and a half, oops!), so I really hope you'll all forgive me. Also, the reason there's no 'request' attached to this one is mainly because the person who asked for it and I have simply gone our separate ways in life. That being said, I always had full intentions to finish and post this kinktober drabble at some point. I'm just sorry it took so long. Please also forgive any mistakes as the last little bit isn't properly edited since I really wanted to get this out. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! I hope you all enjoy!
Warnings/Genre/Rating: 18+ MDNI - Smut, Mature, Established Relationship, Possession, Monster Features, Yandere, Predator/Prey dynamics at the start (but it's all consensual), Size Kink (if you squint... I mean, he starts out like, twenty feet tall, so...), Use of King/Queen pet names, Mingi calls you his 'Pretty Girl', Biting/Marking, Blood, Oral (fem. rec), Squirting, Overstimulation, Praise, Very Minor Dacryphilia (Again, if you squint), Knotting, Implied Knot fucking, Monster fucking, Mingi has a monster appetite... and a monster cock ;)
Word Count: 5,856
Kinktober 2024 Mini Masterlist
“Where do you think you’re going, Little One?”
The deep, rumbling voice that fills the chamber seems to come from every direction. Your heart beats frantically, sweat beading on your brow as you look this way and that, attempting desperately to determine your next move. Already, your legs feel as if they’re about to give out beneath you, each step causing your whole body to tremble.
A loud boom echoes around you, the walls shaking as the creature chasing you takes another menacing step closer. You may not be able to see him, but his mere presence is omniscient. Everywhere you turn, you just know his eyes are on you.
“You cannot hide.”
The sound of rocks tumbling to the floor causes your breath to hitch in your throat, another thunderous step shaking the chamber around you. He’s getting closer, and it’s only a matter of time before he finally catches up. You swear you can already feel the heat of his body radiating against your skin, only causing tingles to shoot up your spine.
You’ve already wasted enough time. You need to move.
Dust kicks up with your every step, feet pounding against the stone pathway. Deeper and deeper you sink, dirt and grime clinging to the ends of your dress. The thin material of your skirt is already tattered and shredded, the fabric fluttering like wisps of smoke as you descend deeper into the madness surrounding you. All that you have to guide you are small torches, their flames seeming to burn into naught but embers when you turn back to glance the monster lurking over your shoulder.
You should have realized that he’s always been much closer than you think.
As if he’d ever let you get away…
When you first met Mingi, he appeared to you no different than an elf. He kept his hair short and his nails long. Both of which were quite unusual for his kind, in your opinion. Not that he seemed unkempt, he just didn’t blend in to the usual company that you surrounded yourself with. Plus, he lived on the outside of town near the mountains, mainly keeping to himself away from others. Much different than the dwellings you know elves prefer to have deep inside of forests.
Mingi hated trees. In fact, he hated almost all forms of plant life that grew around the area. The only type he seemed to tolerate was moss. Not the kind that grew in the forests surrounding the mountains, but the type that made its home on rocks. Something about the will to cling to life despite not being able to take root deep in the softness of soil.
The only thing Mingi hated more than trees was water. Any time it rained, you’d never see him dip his head out of his little cave that he called home. No matter how often you pried, or attempted to offer him a better home, he had always been perfectly content residing near the mouth of the mines. ‘Homely’, he called it. A place meant for only him and the one that was meant to return back to him after being so long apart.
You asked him about that once. About why he lingered in such a damp and dreary location if he hated it so much. Why would he force himself to stay if this one person he had been waiting for had yet to return to him in centuries?
Every time, without fail, he would reply with the same sad smile on his face: “They’ve just simply forgotten the way home.”
Now, glancing his imposing figure beneath the stone archway of the stairs, you realize the severity of your situation. Large wisps of wings stretch out behind his back, smoke emanating from his entire form. Two sharp horns, as black as night, rest on the top of his head, curving outwards before pointing straight up into the air. Bright embers burn within his towering figure, only causing his very silhouette to shine as if surrounded by a halo. Though, you know that he is no angel.
No. Mingi has made that fact explicitly clear.
Gone are the soft, yet callused hands you’ve come to love. Instead, each finger has been replaced by black talons, his palms larger than the length of your torso. Every exhale breathes more smoke into the area, black wisps billowing out from deep within his being. There’s something within his glowing eyes that lets you know that they’re fixated on you, his spine straightening as he lets out another earth shattering roar.
Slowly, Mingi begins to descend the stairs.
Each step is calculated, the weight of his true form causing the chamber to rumble around you. You nearly go tumbling forward as the shockwaves caress against your feet, breath hitching as you slip down the stone stairs.
Your eyes go wide, heart sinking in your chest as the world around you begins to move in slow motion. A feeling of absolute weightlessness surrounds you, and for a brief moment, you swear you see your life flash before your very eyes. The air is stolen from your lungs, bracing yourself for impact as you begin to tumble forward, and down the stone steps you had so desperately been using flee.
Only, the pain never comes.
Instead, you feel yourself being lifted into the air. The touch is surprisingly gentle, claws wrapping themselves around your body as if you might break at the slightest of pressure. Still, you can feel the very tips of a few pricking at your skin, tearing the fabric of your dress even more than it already has.
Amber burns brightly within his gaze as Mingi lifts you to his eye level. Your arms rest over the top of his hand, squirming beneath his heated stare as you struggle to free yourself. You still had more fight left in you, and you’re sad that a mere slip up on your end got you caught so quickly.
“No fair! You tripped me up!”
A semi-amused huff escapes the balrog holding onto you, more smoke billowing out from his nostrils. You can practically sense the glee radiating off of him at your mishap, more thunderous footsteps shaking the chamber as Mingi carries you deeper into his domain.
Reaching the bottom of the steps reveals a vast cavern, the ceiling stretching upwards and outwards for miles. Natural light pours in from small crevices in the side of the mountain, casting shadows over the pillars holding such a chamber steady. More torches light the walls, pictures carved into the stones depicting a very personal story.
The story of you and him.
Turning left, Mingi marches over to a separate room. It’s much smaller than the chamber you were just in, but just as detailed. Gold dances across the carved stone walls, veins of mithril shimmering within. More torches light the area, the only item of note held within such a space the intricate stone alter raised on a small platform in the centre of the room. A soft cushion resides on top of it, thin wisps of fabric lining every corner and acting as a transparent shield of protection for any that reside beneath.
With the gentlest of ease, Mingi settles you carefully atop of the alter. He’s spent a great deal of time preparing for this moment, and he wants to make sure everything is perfect. Which is exactly why he keeps you pinned beneath his hand as he stares down at you with those piercing eyes.
“The time has finally come to make you mine.”
Mingi’s voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The flickering flames only serve to make his large, imposing figure all the more menacing as he leans over you, staring you down as the tips of his claws dig into the soft cushion beneath you. All you can do is stare back at him with wide eyes, heart pounding erratically inside of your chest as you wait for his next move.
Slowly, the creature above you begins to shrink. Familiar features become apparent through the smoke, Mingi partially shifting back into his humanoid form. Black claws still adorn the tips of his fingers, those horns continuing to sit proudly upon his head. Large wings made of nothing but the darkest of shadows flare out above you, those embers still burning brightly within his eyes. Sharp features greet your sight. Features which you have come to both know and love, just as you did many years ago.
Finally, after all this time, you remember.
You remember him. You remember yourself. You remember the both of you. Together.
Lips press against your own, hands sliding up the sides of your thighs. Mingi’s touch is warm, and though you know he burns hotter than any sun, he would never burn you. Instead, your skin is greeted by a comfort you had long forgotten. A comfort which you are glad to finally be able to feel after going so long without it.
“I missed you,” Words get mumbled against your lips, Mingi parting from you only to begin dragging his own across your cheek and down your neck. Soft kisses get pressed against your skin, the tip of his fangs brushing along your pulse. The way you shudder beneath him has him smiling against your neck. “I knew you would return to me one day.”
The two of you made a promise. A promise which you both have every intention to keep.
“I told you I would find my way back home.” Your fingers come up to thread lightly through his hair. Ever since you got your full memories back, he’s begun to grow the dark locks out again. Those familiar streaks of amber shine throughout, only becoming more prominent the longer the strands get. “I kept you waiting long enough.”
“And I told you that a King waits as long as he has to in order for His Queen to return.”
Another shiver rushes down your spine, a soft gasp parting your lips.
“Fuck-“
“Still like it when I call you that, eh, Pretty Girl?” The tip of his nose nudges the underside of your jaw.
“Never stopped…”
“Just as I never stopped loving you,” He hums, trailing more open mouthed kisses up your neck. His lips find your pulse, suckling gently at your skin. Soft pants escape him, low rumbles beginning to emanate from deep within his chest. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this day…”
“You don’t have to wait any longer, My King,” Your fingers gently continue to thread through his hair, holding him lightly to you. “I’m here now to fulfill your every fantasy.”
Another low, rumbling growl fills the chamber around you. Those embers held within his eyes burn brighter, the corner of his lips twitching upwards.
“Then, what are we waiting for, Pretty Girl?” The tips of his fangs peek out from behind his lips. “It’s time to make you mine.”
The sound of tearing fabric reaches your ears, and in the blink of an eye, Mingi has torn your dress right from your body. You can feel the tips of his claws trailing over your chest as he does so, sending another prominent shiver down your spine. The shredded fabric soon gets tossed to the side, Mingi’s hands settling on your waist as he kisses his way down your body, nuzzling his face tenderly between your breasts. Small nips get trailed over your skin, lips soothing over the scrapes left behind by his fangs. Even his tongue comes out to caress over your skin, tracing along the swell of your one breast until he comes to settle himself directly above your heart.
Loving hands trace up your sides, fingers caressing over your skin as he shifts to cup your breasts. His thumbs tease over your nipples, squeezing at such soft flesh as a deep moan reverberates from within his throat. More kisses get traced over the curve of your breast, tongue coming out to flick teasingly over your nipple as you arch into his touch. You can feel the way he smiles against you, suckling that pert bud lightly between his lips while giving such tender flesh another appreciative squeeze.
A gasp parts your lips, eyes fluttering as you feel his thumb and forefinger begin to pinch at your opposite nipple. Ever so carefully, he begins rolling that pert bud between his fingers, continuing to nip at your skin all the while.
“Mingi…” His name escapes you as no more than a blissful sigh, those strong hips of his slotting themselves against your own. The way he slowly begins to grind himself into you elicits another gasp from your throat.
“That’s it, Pretty Girl,” Mingi coos, pressing more heated kisses against the skin of your breast. “Just like that… Cry out for me…”
Those sinful lips of his wrap around your nipple once more, suckling lightly while the tip of his tongue teases against that sensitive nub. The fingers of his opposite hand continue to tease at your other breast, rolling the pert bud between them. You can even feel the tender scrape of his fangs drag along such sensitive skin, only causing a sharp gasp to part your lips.
You have just enough time to feel the way he smirks against your skin before he’s releasing your nipple with a wet pop. Another tender kiss gets placed upon the swell of your breast before Mingi sinks his fangs deeply into your flesh, directly above your heart.
The sharp sting, followed immediately by the soothing warmth of pleasure, causes your back to arch slightly from the alter. Your breath catches in your throat, hips jerking against his own as you feel him pull away from you, only to begin laving his tongue over the mark immediately afterwards.
“Mine.”
The deep, rumbling tone that echoes around you goes directly to your core, pleasure pooling within. Your heart flutters, fingers digging harshly into the skin of his shoulders to ground yourself. Already, your head is spinning, and he’s only just begun.
“Yours, Mingi,” You breathe out, peering down at him through hooded eyes. “I always have been, and I always will be.”
“Damn straight,” Each word is lined with a low growl, those embers within his eyes burning brightly as he peeks up at you. “You’re mine, My Queen. Just as I am yours.”
“Mine.”
This time, it’s his turn for his hips to jerk against yours, a low moan parting his lips. Mingi’s brow furrows, laving his tongue one more time over your new bite mark before kissing the rest of the way down your body.
Mingi takes his time to trail his lips over every inch of your skin, moaning against you with every kiss. His hands slide over your every curve, squeezing at your flesh appreciatively every chance he gets. More marks are bit into your skin, but none are as prominent as the one now shining over your chest. Still, you know him, and you know that each new nip is simply Mingi finally being able to claim his territory, just as he’s always longed to do.
You can’t wait to be able to do the same to him.
“Just relax, My Queen,” Mingi’s low voice rumbles out, shifting himself lower over your body. “Right now, it’s all about you.”
Tender hands settle onto the skin of your thighs, sliding upwards and hooking lightly beneath your knees. He takes his time to spread you apart, moaning at the sight of your dripping cunt now on full display for him. You swear you watch those embers within his eyes pulse as you clench hard around nothing, feeling the way a drop of your arousal leaks out over your ass.
“Fuck- What a pretty little pussy, just weeping for my touch…” Mingi groans, another deep rumble echoing from within his chest. “And she’s all fucking mine to devour…”
“All yours, Min,” You coo, bringing your hand down to gently brush a few strands of his hair off of his forehead. “Feast to your heart’s content.”
“With pleasure…”
The moment those words leave his lips, Mingi wastes no time finally leaning into you. The very tip of his tongue traces up the curve of your ass, following the exact path that small bead of arousal had not even seconds before.
Fingers sink into the backs of your thighs, the tips of his claws pricking against your flesh as Mingi laves his mouth over the entirety of your cunt. Lewd slurping sounds echo throughout the chamber, low groans getting breathed against you with every movement of his lips. His tongue slips out to part your folds, swirling that muscle so eagerly around your entrance before coming back up to flick teasingly over your clit.
“Fuck- Mingi!” Your fingers tangle in his hair, opposite hand coming up to wrap around his one horn. You tug him in closer, not that he really seems to mind. “Just like that-“
A pleased chuckle reverberates against your cunt, Mingi soon flattening his tongue and pressing it firmly against your clit. Slow, purposeful circles get drawn over that sensitive little bud, lips caressing over your cunt before wrapping around your clit and sucking like his very life depends on it..
Mingi’s eyes pulse as you keen into his touch, your thighs already beginning to tremble around his head.
He pulls you in closer.
Hot breaths and heavy pants hit your cunt with his every exhale, low growls escaping him. No drop is to go to waste, Mingi laving his mouth over your entire cunt before suckling your folds between his lips. Again, he soothes over your swollen clit, curling his tongue over such a sensitive bud before suckling at it so tenderly.
All the while, that familiar pressure builds within you. Each flick of his tongue over that swollen little nub pushes you closer and closer towards the edge. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him in impossibly closer as he suckles your clit between his lips, shaking his head from side to side in the next moment.
With one final flick of his tongue, you fall right over the edge.
“Oh fuck- Mingi! My King!” A loud, keening moan escapes you as your back arches from the bed, thighs trembling around his head. A rush of pure euphoria floods your veins, soft moans and low groans falling from your lips. “I love you! I love you!”
Another pleased growl builds in his throat, Mingi pressing himself further into you. Not once does he dare part from your cunt, your cries only serving to make him even more ravenous than he already is. Amber pulses within his gaze, those large wings of his flaring out above you, smoke billowing out over every inch of the room.
Strong arms wrap around your thighs, keeping you spread wide as Mingi pulls you in even closer. Lewd, wet slurping sounds continue to fill the air, lips caressing over every inch of your dripping cunt. Every drop is but the sweetest, most sacred of nectars that pours from the holiest of founts, and he cannot let any of it go to waste.
Mingi worships the very ground you walk on. The very air you breathe does not know the grace of being able to fill your lungs, nor does any moonlight know the true ecstasy of being able to touch your skin. There is but one person in this entire world worthy of his devotion, and with every waking moment he spends living on this planet, he will forevermore prove that it has always been you.
“My Queen,” Mingi groans, suckling your folds between his lips once more. His tongue easily teases at your entrance before coming back up to flick rapidly over your sensitive clit. Another pleased groan escapes him, “Fuck- I love you…”
Plush lips wrap around your clit, the tip of his tongue circling around such a sensitive nub. His hands squeeze at your sides before sliding up to cup your breasts, fingers beginning to pinch and tease at your nipples. More moans are breathed into your cunt, Mingi soon flattening his tongue and drawing firm circles over your clit.
Your first orgasm has barely receded when you can feel the second building right below the surface. That familiar pressure tightens within your abdomen, thighs tensing around his head as he keeps his full attention focussed on your clit. With each flick and curl of his tongue over that little bundle of nerves, pleasure pulses within your veins. Your head begins to spin, fingers tightening their holds around him as your hips begin grinding against his tongue in time with his movements over you.
Another pleased hum escapes him, Mingi’s eyes shining as he watches your every reaction. Not once does he dare part from you, tracing the tip of his tongue over your clit before flicking rapidly at that pert little bud.
His wings flutter above you both, smoke casting thick shadows across the room. With each breath, more smoke billows out from his form, bathing the chamber in a fluid darkness that is all too familiar to him. Those piercing eyes of his burn brightly, holding you captive as you stare down at the creature utterly devouring you between your legs.
With another firm suck given over your clit, you tumble right over the edge.
Nothing but high pitched moans and whines of his name escape your lips as you feel that pressure finally snap within you, squirting all over his face. The pleased snarl he lets out goes right to your core, the corners of your vision going white as he laves his mouth over the entirety of your cunt. Thighs tremble around his head, his muscles straining as he keeps you pinned beneath him, still not relenting for even one second.
“Oh, gods- Mingi!” A scream tears from your throat, tears of overstimulation pricking at the corners of your eyes. All you can offer him are high pitched whines of his name, choked breaths parting your lips as he continues to flick his tongue rapidly over your clit. “My King! Fuck! You’re gonna make me-“
Your voice breaks as you get thrown immediately into another orgasm, your release gushing out of you as you squirt once more over his face. Not that Mingi seems to mind… At all…
That eager mouth of his continues to lave over your dripping cunt, pleased snarls and low rumbles escaping his chest. The tips of his claws prick into the skin of your waist, holding you close as lewd slurping noises continue to fill the air. Deep groans are breathed onto your cunt, Mingi finally slowing his movements as he cleans you with his tongue. No drop is to go to waste. Not when he’s been waiting for this moment for centuries.
Tender kisses get traced over your weeping slit, more pleased hums falling from his lips. Large hands soothe over your sides, sliding down your body to caress over your hips. Carefully, he brings his touch around to settle on the inside of your thighs, spreading you open as you continue to shake beneath his fingertips.
“Shhh, that’s it, Pretty Girl,” He coos so lovingly up at you. Soft kisses soon begin getting trailed over your inner thighs, Mingi nuzzling so tenderly against your skin. “Such a good girl for me… Squirting all over my face and soaking the sheets…Fuck- Could you get anymore perfect, My Queen?”
The corners of your lips twitch upwards, finally releasing your death grip over his hair and his one horn. A soft, airy chuckle escapes you, bringing a hand up to rub at your face. All the while, you attempt to catch your breath, chest rising and falling steadily with every inhale. Still, you cannot help the way your heart positively flutters at his words.
Slow, meticulous kisses get trailed back up your body, Mingi taking his time to lave his tongue over every bite he’s left behind. His lips soon find your own once more, slotting himself comfortable between your thighs. You can feel the weight of his hard cock settle onto your hip, a small bead of precome dribbling onto your skin. It makes you shiver, anticipation clawing at your stomach for what has still yet to come.
“I love you,” Mingi pulls away to stare deeply into your eyes. “I’ve loved you since the very first breath of the universe, and I will continue to love you even after all of the stars fade from the night sky.”
Your expression softens, heart swelling with warmth inside of your chest as you stare up at the beautiful creature holding himself above you. A soft call of his name falls from your lips, hands sliding over his chest before shifting to wrap your arms around his shoulders. Gently, you card your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, refusing to tear your gaze away from his for even a second.
“You are more precious to me than all of the gems in the earth,” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but even you can tell you have his complete and utter attention. “Nothing, no one, will ever replace you in my heart. From now, for all eternity, you will always be my home.”
Mingi’s lips are suddenly on your own, a soft whimper escaping his throat. The sheer desperation in his kiss takes your breath away, feeling the way he brings a hand down to grab his cock in the next moment. He teases the head through your folds a few times, bumping lightly over your clot before he lines himself up with your entrance, pushing forwards slowly.
The bulbous head pushes through your folds, making way for every ridge that fills your cunt with every inch he pushes into you. Each time he pushes forwards slightly, he pulls back, only to sink deeper inside of you with the next roll of his hips. You knew he would be big, his cock much thicker than you expected him to be. With each inch, you can feel him stretching you out, the base flaring wider the deeper he sinks.
With one final thrust, Mingi bottoms out in you.
A soft gasp escapes your lips, a deep groan emanating from within his chest. You can practically feel the way his cock throbs inside of you, clenching hard around him and feeling every bump and ridge nestled snugly against your inner walls.
The moment he shifts his hips, your breath catches in your throat.
“Fuck- You’re even more perfect than anything I could have ever imagined,” He pants out, a few damp strands of hair falling over his face. Those embers burn brightly within his eyes, lips parted as another moan escapes him. “So fucking tight… and warm.”
“Mingi-“ You voice catches again as he shifts above you, feeling as if the very tip of his cock is inside of your stomach. “Dear gods- I’ve never felt so fucking full in my entire life…”
A pleased growl rumbles from deep within his chest, soon pressing his flush against your own. Sharp eyes stare intently at your face as he pulls halfway out of you before suddenly snapping his hips into yours quite sharply.
Another choked gasp escapes you, clenching tightly around his cock.
“I was made for you, My Queen,” The words are but a low, guttural rumble upon his lips. Slow hands slide up the sides of your body, tracing up your arms until he’s pinning your hands beside your head and intertwining your fingers without a second thought. Ever so carefully, Mingi leans into you, pressing his forehead against your own. “I think it’s time I finally proved it to you.”
The way Mingi squeezes your fingers so delicately with his own completely contrasts the brutal way he begins snapping his hips into your own. The wet sound of skin on skin echoes around the chamber, low grunts and feral snarls emanating from the beast above you. Not once does Mingi tear his eyes away from your own, those fiery embers burning brightly as they seem to pulse with every beat of your heart.
“Oh gods! Mingi!”Your eyes roll into the back of your head, the feeling of him filling you with his cock with his every thrust sending pleasure shooting through your veins. Tingles erupt over your skin, the tip of his cock hitting a spot deep within your cunt each time he sinks into you. Every ridge caresses over your walls perfectly, causing your heart to race and your head to spin. “You feel so fucking good inside of me-“
“Yeah? Feel good, My Queen?” Despite your lashes fluttering, you can hear the grin in his voice. Those strong thighs of his keep yours spread wide, hands continuing to pin yours beside your head. The tip of his nose nudges against your own, soft growls escaping him with every exhale. “You feel like paradise around me. I could get lost in you, forevermore, Pretty Girl…”
Another shameless moan parts your lips, his hips grinding into your own so tenderly. The brief reprise is short lived, Mingi creating that same brutal pace over you once more. Each thrust seems more desperate than the last, as if he might die were he to be parted from you for too long.
Every time he sinks into you, you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. The very tip of his cock hits such a sensitive spot inside of you, feeling as if he sinks deeper and deeper into you with each thrust. Each ridge that lines his cock only adds to your pleasure, brushing against your walls and causing your entire body to come alive.
Those glorious wings of his flare above you, smoke casting shadows over the both your figures. His entire body begins to glow, cracks of embers coming alive across his skin and spreading like lightning all over. He even goes so far as to release his grip on your hands, bringing one of his down to slip between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit, and the moment he begins circling over that sensitive little nub, your eyes begin to roll into the back of your head.
“That’s it, My Queen,” The words are but a rasp on his lips as he sits back up onto his knees. He pulls you in closer with one hand on your hip, claws sinking into the skin of your flesh as he continues to snap his hips into your own. “Let yourself go. I’m right here. Give it to me.”
“Mingi-“ All you can offer him is more whines and high pitched cries of his name, your voice catching in your throat. You can barely keep your eyes cracked open for too long, the sheer euphoria flooding your veins threatening to tip you over the edge at any moment.
Though, from the looks of things, Mingi is faring no better.
Ember blazes in his eyes as he watches your body bounce with every thrust. Those black claws of his have long since sunk into your hip, tiny rivulets of blood soaking into the cushion beneath you. The tips of his fangs pierce his bottom lip, red coating his skin and beginning to drip down his chin.
“Fuck- Never have I seen a sight more beautiful, or more perfect, than you,” He snarls out, pressing his thumb firmer against your clit. The way your whole body shudders beneath his hold has his tongue darting out over his lips. Pure hunger rests in those glowing eyes as he leans himself back over you, cock twitching deep inside of you. “Come for me, My Queen. Fucking flood my cock and feed this insatiable beast who has always longed for you.”
With those words, Mingi sinks his fangs into the side of your neck.
A guttural scream tears from your throat, vision going white as an indescribable euphoria floods your very being. Your thighs trembles uncontrollably around his waist, back arching from the alter as his name falls like a mantra from your lips. Tears leak over your face, nails digging harshly into his skin as you claw at his back, tugging him in impossibly closer. You can feel the way you gush around him, even as his knot begins to swell inside of you.
Warm come bursts inside of you, an earth shattering roar rattling the chamber around you. Mingi’s entire body shakes as he presses himself flush against you, blood coating his lips and continuing to drip down his chin. A few more tender grinds of his hips are given into you as his knot swells, more come flooding your cunt as you squeeze so delicately around him.
Shadows begin to fade, those magnificent wings twitching as he keeps them held over the both of you. Less smoke fills the room, Mingi’s breaths mingling with your own as you both attempt to catch your breaths. He finally collapses on top of you, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and holding you close.
A tender kiss gets placed upon the fresh claim now residing on the side of your neck.
“You did so well for me, Pretty Girl,” His voice is a little strained, causing Mingi to clear his throat in the next second. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” You manage to pant out, hands splayed over his back and resting just beneath where his wings protrude. Still, your chest rises and falls in uneven pants, tingles of pleasure still shooting through every inch of your body. “Fuck-“
Mingi hums, a pleased rumble reverberating from deep within his chest. Another kiss gets placed upon your fresh claim, shifting his hips slightly to get more comfortable.
Your breath hitches, lashes fluttering as you feel him settle on top of you. Your arms tighten around him, taking a few slow breaths inwards in an attempt to calm your racing heart.
“Are you alright?”
The inquiry is so cautious… so tender, that you cannot prevent the way the corners of your lips turn upwards.
“Never better,” You hum, a pleasant shudder rushing through your entire body. Slowly, you blink your gaze back open to meet his own. “Are you alright, Min?”
“I don’t think I could be better, even if I wanted to,” A loving nuzzle is given into the side of your neck, his arms squeezing so tenderly around your waist. “My Queen has finally come home.”
“Good,” You coo, bringing a hand up to brush some hair off of his forehead. “I’m glad.”
The smile you wear begins to turn a bit more sultry, and in the blink of an eye, you’ve flipped your positions.
A low groan escapes Mingi, his hands finding purchase on your hips. The soft, inquisitive call of your name only causes the corner of your lips to tug further upwards as you stare down at the beautiful creature splayed out beneath you.
Summary: Jongho spends a peaceful late night cuddling his newborn son, Minjae, while you soak in the soft, sleepy moment with your little family.
Word count: 904
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The apartment was quiet in a way that felt almost sacred.
The city outside still hummed faintly through the windows, distant traffic and the occasional murmur of voices drifting up from the street below, but inside everything was soft. Warm. Peaceful.
Jongho sat on the couch with a blanket draped over his lap, his newborn son tucked carefully in his arms. The baby was impossibly small against his broad chest, wrapped in a pale blue swaddle that made him look even tinier.
His name was Minjae.
Only three weeks old, and already the centre of Jongho’s entire world.
Minjae let out a tiny sigh in his sleep, his little mouth opening slightly as he shifted against Jongho’s arm.
Jongho immediately froze.
“…Shh, shh,” he whispered instinctively, even though the baby wasn’t crying.
Across the room, you watched the whole thing from the doorway of the bedroom, leaning your shoulder against the frame.
The sight made your heart ache in the softest way.
Jongho was still in the same grey hoodie he’d thrown on earlier that evening, his hair messy from running his fingers through it all night. There were faint dark circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep that came with having a newborn.
But he looked happier than you had ever seen him.
He gently rocked Minjae without even realizing he was doing it, his large hand covering almost the entire length of the baby’s back.
“You’re staring,” Jongho murmured quietly without looking up.
You smiled.
“I’m allowed to stare. You’re holding my two favourite boys.”
That made him glance over.
The corners of his mouth lifted immediately, soft and tired and full of love.
“You should be sleeping,” he said gently.
You padded across the room instead, sitting beside him on the couch and tucking your legs under the blanket.
“I tried,” you said. “But it’s too quiet.”
Jongho chuckled quietly.
“That’s because someone finally decided to sleep.”
As if he’d heard the comment, Minjae made a tiny squeaky noise in his sleep, his little face scrunching.
Both of you froze.
Jongho looked down at him with the most intense concentration you’d ever seen.
“…Was that a cry?” he whispered.
“No,” you whispered back. “It was a squeak.”
Jongho nodded very seriously.
“Ah. Good.”
You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing.
Ever since Minjae had been born, Jongho had become the most cautious father imaginable.
Every tiny noise sent him into full alert mode.
“You do realise babies make noises when they sleep,” you teased quietly.
“I know that.”
“You googled it earlier.”
“…Just to double check.”
You bumped your shoulder into his.
Minjae stirred again, one tiny hand slipping free of the blanket and curling instinctively around Jongho’s hoodie string.
Jongho’s entire expression melted.
“Oh,” he breathed softly.
You leaned closer to see.
Minjae’s little fingers were gripping the string with surprising determination, his tiny brow furrowed in his sleep like he was concentrating very hard on holding it.
Jongho didn’t move an inch.
“I think I’m stuck,” he whispered.
You giggled quietly.
“You are absolutely not stuck.”
“If I move he might wake up.”
“You just said babies make noises in their sleep.”
“That’s different,” Jongho argued softly.
You shook your head, smiling.
Watching him with Minjae had become one of your favourite things.
Jongho had always been gentle, but with his son he was something else entirely.
Careful. Protective. Completely in love.
After a moment, Minjae’s grip loosened and his hand flopped back onto Jongho’s chest.
Both of you let out the quietest sigh of relief.
Jongho carefully adjusted the blanket around him.
“…He’s getting bigger already,” he murmured.
Your chest tightened.
“I know.”
It was strange how time felt different now.
The days were long and sleepless, but somehow they still seemed to pass too quickly.
Jongho looked down at Minjae again, his thumb gently brushing over the baby’s tiny cheek.
“He looks like you,” he said softly.
You scoffed.
“He absolutely does not.”
“He does,” Jongho insisted.
“He has your nose.”
“And your cheeks.”
“And your attitude,” you added.
Jongho laughed quietly at that.
Minjae suddenly yawned — a big, dramatic baby yawn that made his entire face scrunch.
Both of you melted instantly.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
“That was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Jongho said.
“You say that about everything he does.”
“Because everything he does is cute.”
Minjae shifted again, settling deeper against Jongho’s chest, his breathing evening out.
Jongho leaned his head back against the couch with a quiet sigh.
You rested your head on his shoulder.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of the small lamp in the corner. The soft rhythm of Minjae’s breathing filled the silence between you.
Your little family.
After a moment, Jongho spoke quietly.
“…I’m really happy.”
You looked up at him.
His eyes were still on Minjae.
“I didn’t think I could love someone this much,” he admitted.
Your heart fluttered.
“You mean him?” you asked.
Jongho glanced at you, smiling softly.
“I mean both of you.”
He leaned over carefully, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead so he wouldn’t disturb the sleeping baby between you.
You closed your eyes, letting yourself relax against him.
Outside, the city continued its quiet hum.
But inside the apartment, everything you loved most was right there on that couch.
synopsis ; being the forgotten princess came with the solitude that you crave, the freedom that you love, and the joy that you'll forever cherish. however, that tranquility is ripped away from you when your father announces your marriage to the water nation's king. you were forced to comply, being whisked away to an unknown land where you were sure to be your grave, yet when a maid helps you escape, you're met with mingi, the lost dragon descendant, who not only saves you, but helps you regain your freedom.
pairing(s) ; mingi x f!reader
☆ ── wc. ; 19.8k
☆ ── genre ; fantasy, romance, minimal angst, smut, fluff, historical, dragon shifter/descent duke!mingi x princess!reader
☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, mentions of forced marriage (not with mingi), crying, blood, mentions and depictions of death/murder, death threats, petnames (princess, my love, love, sweetheart, pretty girl...), mentions of pregnancy, mingi is super protective of reader, violence, mentions of mates, a tinge of deception, arguments, mingi is kinda mean and ruthless (not towards reader), kissing, some skinship, slight wound care/injury recovery, mingi is a water dragon and can spew boiling water, passing out (injury related), mingi is just a simp lowkey, NSFW ; monster fucking, virgin!reader, sloppy makeout, fingering, begging, unprotected sex, dom!mingi x sub!reader, oral (f. receiving), big dick!mingi/monster cock, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, biting/marking, manhandling, some praising, clit play, some teasing, breeding/mating, dumbification, rough sex, cum eating, slight breast play, bulge kink, knotting, creampie, slight cockwarming, dacryphilia, cervix fucking/bruising, lmk if I missed anything!!
☆ ── notes ; he's hereeeeee!!! hehe this was smth that started as a joke between me and @sangis-puppy but as you can see it didn't stay a joke :33 now this was only supposed to be like 5/6k but that didn't happen... I got a little carried away with the plot. also special thanks to @xtrashxbunnyx for being my beta reader and giving me your raw reactions, mwahhh~
⏤͟͟͞͞ JOIN THE TAGLIST ── MASTERLIST NAVI ── MAIN NAVI
"You are to marry that king; this is not up for discussion." Your father's voice echoed all around the large office, his words piercing right through your heart.
"Father…" You breathe out, hands gripping the skirt of your dress so tight that it begins to color your knuckles a ghostly shade of white. Sure, you had never been the most favored out of all of your siblings, nor were you in line for the throne—never had been. Yet you never thought your father would stoop as low as to marry you off to another nation just for money, which he had plenty of.
"This is for the better of the kingdom, y/n." Your mother cut in from her spot just behind your father, her hands folded in front of her body, just like you had been taught before you could even remember.
You couldn't even think of anything to say, nor was there anything to be said. There was no way you were getting out of this. So as tears brimmed in your eyes, you tried to muster up a smile, one that felt like it was tearing into your skin. Quietly lowering yourself into a curtsy, you agreed to your father's proposition.
"They will arrive in two days' time. You are to be prepared in advance." Your father continued, his gaze scrutinizing you. Then he was looking behind you, right at his royal advisor, "Jisung, show the Princess back to her room."
"Yes, Your Majesty," Jisung's quiet voice flows through your ringing ears, and he bows his head before his gaze shifts over to you, "this way, Your Highness."
The walls of the room seemed to be closing in on you as you turned slowly on your heel, and the tears that stung the back of your eyes seemed to grow. Your heart was thumping violently against the sturdy bones of your ribs, threatening to break free. Yet you could only will yourself to follow the raven-haired male out of the office, hands still clutching your dress skirt, the fabric nearly tearing under your fingernails.
Not a word was spoken as you both walked down the hall, your heels clicking on the marble floors. A few maids were walking down the hall, bowing to you in greeting before going on about their day. You tried to smile at them, trying to be the nice princess that they all knew you as, but as you thought about how your life was about to take a turn for the possibly worst, you just couldn't.
"We've arrived, Your Highness," Jisung announced, motioning towards your bedroom as he held the heavy door open for you.
You thanked him quietly, walking into the luxurious bedroom, and as soon as you walked past the threshold, your knees became weak.
"Your maids have already packed everything, you'll be fetched when their caravan arrives." You look over your shoulder at him, nodding your head before watching him walk out of the room, and the door closes.
As soon as the latch clicked behind him, your knees gave out, falling to the ground, and sobs tore through your lips. Your cries bounced off the walls, the pain that had been sitting idly in your chest finally coming free.
—
Two days later, just like Jisung and your father had said, the water kingdom's men arrived at your castle. Not a word was uttered from your lips as you were escorted to the carriage, the tears in your eyes long since dried up, leaving behind an empty numbness.
"Think of the people, my dear sister," Your brother, who had your arms hooked through his, as he walked you through the palace gates.
The sound of your inexpensive heeled boots echoed off the pavement; they were given to you just this morning by your mother's maids. They were to keep the water from seeping through to your feet. They were a parting gift, one that your mother couldn't be bothered to give you herself. Just like she couldn't be bothered to be here to see you off as you were whisked away to an unknown kingdom.
"What people, brother? We've never had any affiliation with the Water Nation, so why now?" Your words came out hoarse from having not spoken for days, throat rubbed raw from endless hours of crying.
"Don't worry yourself about the little things, just do as you're told, and you'll be happy." Those were the last words that your dear brother had spoken to you before you were ushered into the carriage, the unfamiliar maids fixing your gown inside.
Maybe your brother was right. Maybe this was for the best of the people, for a reason you don't even fully understand. Maybe if you just played the role of a dutiful wife, you could live comfortably.
Those were the types of thoughts that ran through your head during the ride, the world outside you blurring past. You hadn't even registered that someone was speaking to you until you felt an impatient tap to your arm. Blinking a few times to try and clear your mind, you looked over, finding one of the maids looking at you expectantly.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" Your voice was merely above a whisper, and the woman let out a sigh, her face relaxing slightly before she spoke.
"The king does not want to wait for a ceremony. He's asked to officiate the marriage as soon as we arrive at the palace." She explained to you, and you felt your heart seize in your chest, your breath hitched, words stalling on your tongue.
You had believed that you would have a little time to fully understand the predicament you had been placed in. A few days at least to become comfortable in your home before you are dragged to the man's chambers. At least to have some time to grieve the life you once believed you'd live.
But in just a short amount of time, that small flame of hope had been snuffed out.
"We'll take you to your chambers to change into a new gown fit for the Water Nation, then you're to meet with the king in the grand halls." She continued to explain, but her words all but fell on deaf ears as you began to realize the severity of what you were to do.
Out. Get out. You needed to get out.
Your brain kept repeating that mantra, the sounds drowning out anything around you. Tears brimmed along your waterline, but never fell. Not until the carriage came to a stop and the door swung open.
"We've arrived, Your Highness," The maid motioned towards the open door, waiting for you to move, and with your breath caught in your throat, you moved, stepping out of the carriage with shaky knees.
Stepping onto the pavement below the carriage, you looked up at the palace before you. The glittering blue stones reflected the setting sun beautifully. It gave the illusion that you were standing below the ocean's surface. It was beautiful, but it was also your prison.
"Right this way, Your Highness," A butler motioned towards the palace gates with a bow, and you swallowed past the lump in your throat. Your eyes flickered to your surroundings, taking note of how lively everything here looked compared to the Fire Nation that you called your home.
Birds chirped above you in an almost sing-song way, and your head snapped in their direction, having only heard tales of the creatures. A part of you felt like a child exploring a new land and learning new things, but as you heard the heavy palace doors open, that small child inside you cowered into the furthest depths of your soul.
Your jaw clenched tightly as you stepped inside, heart raging against your chest, and as soon as your heeled boot met the smooth marble flooring, you felt a wave of chilled air wash over you. Goosebumps littering your naturally warm skin. Then the doors behind you slammed shut, the loud sound causing you to jump as it reverberated off the walls. Looking behind you, you only found one of the maids behind you, while the butler stayed a few steps ahead.
Get out, now. You're not safe here.
There it was again. That same little voice in the back of your mind, pleading with you to go. Warning you of the dangers that lurked in the walls of this palace. You were no fool; you knew how cruel the king of the Water Nation was. How he has gone through at least a dozen wives, all having died due to either childbirth or mysterious reasons.
Was that the same fate that awaited you? Were you going to become merely another wife who met a bitter, bitter end? Would it be the labor of childbirth or the abuse you may face? A part of you hopes for the earlier option, at least you'd leave this world with an offering for a peaceful passage.
No.
No, you mustn't let yourself think like that. You would be the one who survives. The one that makes it out alive. The one who escapes that fate that awaits her.
The one that got away.
You weren't sure how long you had been walking, nor how far you had traveled into the palace. Just that when you finally pulled yourself from your thoughts, you were standing before a luxurious bedroom. The inside, much like the rest of the palace, was decorated in ocean blues and turquoise.
"The maids inside will help you dress, then you'll be escorted to the main hall." The butler explained before motioning you into the room, and you gave him a curt nod, eyes downcast as you walked inside.
The heavy door latched shut behind you, and your stomach twists violently as your one escape route has been closed off. Walking further into the room, you unfolded your hands that had been neatly placed in front of you, taking in the sight of the nearly translucent blue gown that was displayed. Bile crept up the lining of your throat, knowing that this gown would do just about anything but protect your modesty.
A small gasp fell from your lips when someone grabbed a hold of your arm. Head snapping over you found a young girl, her hands gentle on your thinly covered skin as she urged you towards a side room. That's when you realized that it was only her and one other maid who was fidgeting next to a vanity.
Not a word was spoken as she guided you towards a steaming bath, the area closed off from the rest of the room by a thin curtain. You wanted to speak as she helped you shrug off the complicated layers of your current gown, but the words glued themselves to your tongue.
"Why have you come here?" Her sudden voice startles you, and you look over at her with wide eyes. No maid has ever spoken so freely to you, let alone hold your gaze as she does. "I don't mean to come off brazen, but this place is not for you; you will only find misery here, Princess."
"I—" The words once again stuck themselves to the lining of your throat as you stood before her in nothing but your undergarments.
But you didn't have to speak for her to see it in your eyes. The hard edges of her face softened, and she carefully reached for your hand, her skin unnaturally cold to the touch. "You must leave at once."
"I… I can't." You started, the tears you had tried so hard to keep at bay began to drip from your lashes, "I wouldn't even know where to go."
"You won't have much time, but the drop from the balcony isn't very high. From there, you go north, you'll find the sea, and I'm sure there will be boats." She explained to you in a hushed, hurried tone as her grip tightened around your shaking hands, "If there are no boats, then you shall find a cavern, find refuge in there, you'll be safe, I can assure you."
You looked at her with wide, teary eyes, completely unsure if you could trust her word, but the sincerity that gleamed in her eyes gave you back that shred of hope you thought snuffed out. It took you a few long moments before you were nodding, and she offered you a small, pitiful smile.
"We must bathe you first, only after we redress you can you go." She explained, furthering her words by telling you that the other maid will leave once she is dressed.
So that's what you did, you let yourself sink into the steaming waters of your bath. As you washed away the grime from the trip, you couldn't help but let your gaze drift to the girl who had turned to gather a towel for you. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun that you were sure was hurting her scalp, but what intrigued you was the color. What you had believed to be black was actually a deep midnight blue, only noticeable when the setting sun beamed through the small windows.
Then you swore you saw what looked like scales on her collarbone when she bent down, the hem of her dress dropping just a hair. Though you chalked it up to a trick of the eye when she stood, holding a towel in her hand as she helped you stand.
You wrapped the soft cotton around your body before allowing her to lead you back into the main chambers. Her demeanor shifted back into the meek girl you had met the first time you walked into the room, and the other maid walked over, none the wiser to the conversation that had just transpired, and grabbed your other arm.
Once again, the room fell into a still silence, not a word spoken, and the only sounds were the rustling of fabric as both maids worked together to fit you into the gown. Your eyes flickered over to the balcony door that sat ajar on the far left side of the room. The cool breeze from outside washes over you every so often.
"Maid Yang, please finish prepping the princess while I go make sure everything in the grand hall is settled." The older maid spoke softly as she finished fastening your corset, and you felt your heart leap into your throat.
"Yes, ma'am." The younger girl bows before turning to lead you to the vanity, her gaze shifting over her shoulder as she watches the other woman walk out of the room.
The two of you stopped moving as she slipped out, the heavy doors shutting behind her, and a long beat of silence passed between you and the younger girl. Then, once she was sure that no one would venture into the room once more, she grabbed your arm in a hurried manner, ushering you towards the open balcony door.
"Go. Now." Her voice was stern as she peeked over her shoulder when you neared the edge of the balcony, nothing but plush green grass a few feet below. The drop wasn't deadly, but you would definitely gain a few scratches and bruises if you were lucky to avoid any broken bones.
"Thank you." You breathed out with a smile as you turned to look at the younger girl, a pang of guilt hitting your chest. You knew that if you left, you would only be leaving her to take the punishment of letting you escape, but right now, all you could do was make sure that her efforts to help you wouldn't be in vain.
"Go live a better life, Princess," She offered you a sweet smile as she helped you over the ledge of the balcony, your bare feet nearly slipping on the smooth marble.
Then, with one last nod of appreciation, you jump from the balcony, tucking your body to try and minimize as much damage as you could. A sharp gasp fell from your lips as your body collided and rolled on the grass; the ache alone was enough to tell you that you'd definitely have bruises within the next few hours. Without sparing another second, you leaped to your feet, glancing back just in time to see the girl disappear back into the palace, and that's when you realized.
You never got her name.
But you didn't have time to dwell on the trivial things; you needed to get as far away as you could before they sent guards after you. So you ran without looking back, hands gripping the skirt of your dress as your bare feet trudged through the grass. You could feel the thin edges of the grass blades slicing through your bare skin, but the pain was in the back of your mind, pushed even further as you heard shouting in the distance behind you.
Your heart rang in your ears, legs burning as you continued to push yourself closer and closer to the beach. And you couldn't help but cry out when it came into view, tears blurring your vision. As soon as your feet touched the warm sand, you looked around for any signs of a boat.
With heavy breaths, you rushed towards a small fishing boat you saw tied to the pier closest to shore. Your hands trembled as you fought with the rope knot, and sobs tore through your throat. Then the voices grew closer, and your head whipped around.
"There she is!" The head guard shouted as he pointed at you, and your eyes grew wide.
"No, no, no." You weren't going to be able to get that knot undone in time. No, you needed to run before they caught up fully. So, remembering the cavern that the maid had mentioned to you, you ran, kicking sand up in your wake.
"After her!" The kingsmen shouted again, and you barely heard him over the sound of the waves crashing over the rigid rocks near the shore. They only seemed to get angrier the further you ran, as if they were warning you about something unknown or angry about the horde of men that were on your heels.
As you neared the rocky formation on the far side of the beach, your gaze swept all over, trying to find an entrance. Pain shot through the soles of your feet as the jagged rocks sliced your skin wide open, leaving behind trails of crimson blood in your wake. But the pain didn't deter you, no, if anything, it only spurred you on.
Then you finally spotted the entrance as you rounded the corner, and the gaping hole loomed over you as you stopped dead in your tracks. However, the sound of the nearing kingsmen had you pushing your fear to the side and rushing inside just as one managed to grab your arm.
"Let me go!" You screamed, clawing at his hand, and whether it be the pain of your nails in his skin or the silk of your sleeve, you slipped from his grasp and stumbled into the dark cavern. You tried to regain your balance, but your body seemed to be working against you, and you fell to the ground.
"There's nowhere else to run, Princess." The guard's gruff voice sent a shiver down your spine, and tears blurred your vision as you crawled back.
Sobs tore through your lips as they started to surround you in the dark space, and you knew that there was no escaping. You never should have thought about running, knowing that the fate that awaited you was far worse than before. Tears spilled from your eyes as you squeezed them shut, waiting for them to grab you and drag you back to the palace.
A deep growl echoed around the cavern. The sound came from behind you, and your body went rigid. A newfound fear encased your entire being. Not only had the kingsmen caught up to you, but you ran right into a beast's home. At least this outcome would be far sweeter than what the king would do to you once he had his hands on you.
The ground beneath you began to rumble as whatever was behind you shifted; that same growl was heard once more, louder this time. You didn't dare look back, knowing by the sound and the shift in the ground that whatever it was behind you was huge.
"Beast!" One of the guards shouted, drawing their swords, and the man, before he reached towards you. However, before his hand could make contact with you, a large claw swung, throwing the man across the cavern. Even in the dim lighting, you could make out the glittering blue scales on the claw that now sat beside your body.
Despite the fear that held your body captive, you allowed your head to tilt back, tears silently flowing from the corner of your eyes. Your mouth parted, breath catching on the inhale as you saw the head of the beast looming over you.
The head of a beast that you had only seen skulls of in your father's study. One that the people believed to have gone extinct after the war over two decades ago. The scales and horns are a distinct mark of a reptile that you've heard countless tales about, even the tales of people who could shift into these beasts. They were believed to be of dragon descent.
Though you never thought you'd live to see a dragon.
"Kill it and grab the princess." Another guard growled as he charged with his men, and your head snapped back down at the rushed footsteps.
Your heart hammered in your chest as you tried to move away, but your limbs felt like jelly and refused to work with you. A choked gasp fell from your lips when you felt something coil around your waist. Before you could look, your body was lifted from the ground, pulled back until your back met the smooth stone of the cavern wall.
Everything happened way too fast, the shouting. The growls. The cries of pain. Then the low rumble of something building, and your eyes grew wide as you watched the scales on the creature's neck begin to glow a bright blue hue. It slowly rose up its neck, and you didn't even catch the guards screaming to run before a loud roar echoed around you. The sound was loud enough for your ears to ring even after you covered them with your skinned palms.
The once-dim cavern lit up blue as the dragon spewed something that closely resembled water, but it glowed. An almost unbearable heat filled the cavern as the boiling water landed on the guards around the dragon.
Then it was silent.
No more screaming or yelling. No more growling. No more roaring. Just… silence.
A pained cry ripped from your lips when the water spread across the cavern floors, pooling around your feet and burning the bare skin. Tears escaped your lips as you tried to scramble away, but accidentally placed your hand in the burning liquid.
The sound of a low, guttural growl has you stopping dead in your tracks despite the pain that coursed through your veins. Looking up, you found a pair of glowing blue eyes staring down at you, the sight shocking you straight to your core. You watched with hitched breath as it stepped towards you, tail flicking behind it and all but throwing the unmoving bodies from your sight.
"Y-You…" You tried to speak, but the words stuck themselves to the roof of your mouth when its tail moved towards you once more. You didn't move an inch as it wrapped around you, but unlike the fear that you had felt moments ago, there was something comforting about the way it tightened around you. Never enough to stop you from breathing, but just enough to make sure you wouldn't slip from its grasp.
You held your breath as it lifted you from the ground, moving your body further into the cavern, but you couldn't see anything. Then your body was being sat down, and you expected more stone, but were met with the cool sensation of water. The chill instantly soothes the searing pain in the soles of your feet, and you nearly cry out in relief.
When its tail released its grip, your body dropped into the shallow water, soaking your gown and sending a chill through you. Yet you couldn't bring yourself to get up; instead, you stayed on your knees, letting the water cool the burns and blisters that had begun to form on your soles and palms.
The sound of movement caught your attention, and you turned your head to find those glowing blue eyes staring down at you. Swallowing thickly, you rose up on your knees, pulse throbbing at the base of your throat.
"T-Thank you." You stumble over the simple thanks, voice hoarse due to all the crying, and you could feel your body begin to grow weak as the adrenaline wore off. You weren't sure why the dragon had helped you; maybe it thought you'd make a good meal, and the others were just in the way. Or it was just saving you for last. Whichever it was would be a better outcome than before, so you were willing to accept it as your vision swam, your mind shutting off, and your body swaying before crashing into the water.
The creature let out a grunt before moving closer to the water, its form shimmering and shifting until a man stood where the dragon once did. His blue eyes never left your limp form, a curiosity bubbling in his chest the longer he watched you, and a familiar warmth spread through his body. Stepping into the water, he grabbed your lax body, pulling you into his arms, and as soon as your shallow breath met the skin of his chest, he knew.
You were the mate he had been waiting for.
His key to going back home.
—
You stirred with a groan, joints aching and protesting with every move as you tried to sit up. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, burning slightly. The area around you was bathed in a warm glow, nothing like the darkness you seemed to recall. Then you remembered where you were and your head whipped around.
What you had expected to find was the same dragon that you had seen before. The one who had protected you from the kingsmen and helped with your burns. However, what you were met with instead was a man, his sharp features illuminated by the orange hues of the fire that he sat next to. But what caused your breath to hitch was the horns that sat upon his head and the familiar blue hues that stared right at you.
"You're awake." His deep voice echoes in your ears, and you blink at him, "The burns were pretty severe, so I put a salve on them; they shouldn't hurt for much longer."
Looking down, you saw that your left hand and both feet had been wrapped with bandages. Curiosity seemed to defeat the fear at that moment. You wondered where the large beast had gone, but as you met the man's eyes once more, you seemed to already know your answer.
"Who are you?" You asked, voice meek as you carefully moved to face him fully, and his eyes shifted down for a few seconds before meeting your eyes once more.
"I should be asking you that," He cocked an eyebrow, setting the stick he had been using to poke the fire off to the side. "The people of this Nation know better than to travel into these caverns, but you? You rushed right in as if you didn't know what lies inside."
"I'm…" Your words caught around the lump that had formed in your throat, and you quickly swallowed it back down, "I'm not from this Nation."
Your answer seemed to intrigue the male before you, and his blue eyes searched your face with a curious gaze. "Where are you from?"
"The Fire Nation." You tell him, placing your hands into your lap, eyes following when his intense gaze becomes too much. It was then that you realized that you were still wearing the gown the king had picked out, and heat rushed up your neck.
"Well, Princess," His words and tone cause your head to snap up. You hadn't told him that you were the princess, but it didn't take a genius to figure it out when the guards had been screaming it. "Why did you come here?"
"My father wanted to marry me off to the Water Nation's King." You weren't sure why you were telling this strange man something so easily, but the words just flowed out naturally. Inhaling deeply, you fully introduce yourself, and Mingi just watches with an unreadable expression, annoyance flickering in his blue orbs when you mention the source of the dress you are wearing.
Once your voice trailed off, the cavern fell into an eerie silence, one that left the hairs on the back of your neck standing tall. Then the man was standing, moving towards you, and you felt your pulse quicken with every step until he was kneeling before you. His dark blue hair framed his face, sharp eyes boring into your own, but you didn't see any sign of hostility.
"My name is Song Mingi," He introduced himself, and your eyes grew wide. You had heard that name in tales since you were a mere teen; he was a dragon descendant duke who was loved by his people and feared by other nations. It was believed that he had died in the war, but as you studied his face, you knew that hadn't been true. It also confirmed your earlier suspicion that he was, in fact, the dragon that had been lurking in this cavern.
"Why have you hidden here? You're a duke." You stated in shock, eyes growing wide as he reached forward and took your injured hand into his. His skin was cool against yours, but it didn't stop the warmth spreading through your body. It felt as if there were a magnetic pull towards him, one you couldn't fight.
"My uncle, he's taken over the estate while I was gone, and I haven't had the strength to return." He began explaining, his thumb rubbing soothingly over your knuckles. Mingi's eyes never once left yours, and you couldn't find it in you to look away even when his next words shocked you: "I need your help, princess."
You couldn't disconcert if he was calling you by your title or a petname, either way it had your heart jumping. His gentle touch had your muscles relaxing, and you blinked slowly as his request settled in your mind.
"My help? What could I possibly do to help you?" You asked, fingers flexing in his grasp when his thumb brushed over the bandage, but the lingering pain was nothing compared to your confusion and curiosity.
"The only reason my uncle's heirs have kept the estate is simply that they believe me to be dead," He tells you, his eyes flittering down to your hand when he felt your pulse jump.
"So why don't you return? They could giv—"
"Yet they will not. They have had it in their grasp for far too long. I need to secure my spot, and to do so, I need to prove I can further my lineage." He explains further, gaze moving up to meet yours with expectant eyes, and it didn't take but a moment for you to realize what he was asking.
"You want me to be your bride?" You asked, voice but a whisper, scared that if you spoke any louder, you'd bring your earlier panic back.
Mingi hummed, fingers tightening around yours firmly when you tried to pull away, "Just for a while, then once I have the estate back, you'll be free to leave and go as you please."
You wanted to tell him that he was crazy, that he had no right to ask this of you when you had just run from a marriage. Yet as you met his blue eyes, you could hear that little voice in the back of your mind again, but this time it wasn't telling you to run. Rather, it was telling you that you were safe.
That you were home.
It only confused you, and you wished you could ask what in the great heavens it meant, but alas, you couldn't. However, as you looked into the man's eyes, you couldn't help but feel that the voice was right. So despite your earlier reservations, you found yourself nodding, eyes scanning his face and lingering on the smooth patches of scales that sat underneath his eyes.
"What about the king?" You asked, eyes returning to his, and your heart leapt at the sight of the smile that tugged on his plump lips.
"Even the king wouldn't dare defy a dragon descendant, let alone a shifter," Mingi reassured you, and his warm smile mixed with his gentle presence was enough to have you relax.
"When would we leave?" Your question was answer enough for the dragon, and he hummed softly, eyes gazing back down at your hand.
"Let's get these healed first, then we can deal with other things after." He told you, bringing your hand to his face, and your eyes grew wide as heat flushed your face when he pressed his lips over the bandage. "Need you healed for a proper return."
The first few days were awkward, unsure what you were to do in such a confined space or what to say to the man who never left your eyesight. You tried to make small talk, but it always fizzled out after a few sentences, and you were left with your eyes downcast, the tips of your ears burning red.
However, the following days seemed to go by more easily; Mingi always made sure that you were fed and that your bandages were taken care of, even going as far as to bring you a change of clothes. He was nothing like the stories had described him to be. The cold and ruthless man you had read about was nowhere to be found; only the gentle giant who treated you as if you were a doll.
By the end of the second week, you had grown comfortable around the man; the earlier awkwardness was nowhere in sight. You found yourself talking to him about your life in the fire palace while he told you stories from the war, even about his own family.
You found yourself growing close to the blue-haired male, his kind ocean eyes all but pulling you further in. The more time you spent with him, the more you found yourself drawn to him, fingers itching to reach out and touch him, brain begging you to do so, but you kept your restraint. You chalked it up to it being that he had been your only companion for the past few weeks.
Then by the middle of the third week, Mingi was walking back into the cavern with a beautiful gown in his arms, and you knew that it was time. You stood from the log you had been sitting on, dusting your hands off on the skirt of your current dress, eyes flickering from his smiling face to the blue gown in his arms.
"For you, Princess." He walked up to you, his larger frame towering over you, and your breath caught in your throat as you smelled the sea salt on his skin. You swallowed thickly before reaching out to take the gown, ignoring the emotions that bubbled in your gut.
"It's beautiful, Mingi, thank you." You murmured as you blinked up at him, and he gave you a lopsided smile.
"Go ahead and put it on, we'll leave in the evening." He nodded down at you, and your eyes went wide.
"But the estate is at least a three-day trek from here."
The blue-haired dragon chuckled as he placed his large hand upon your head, "Who says we're walking?"
You wanted to ask him what in the world he could possibly mean, but he was already moving around you, fingers reaching for the buttons of his tunic. Your eyes went wide as he began removing his tunic. Heat enveloped your body the longer you watched him undress. A soft gasp fell from your lips when he reached for the button of his trousers, hands bringing your new gown to your face, and the sound of Mingi's chuckles filled the air.
You didn't dare to move the cloth, unsure as to what the man was doing or if he was still indecent. Then you felt a large huff of air wash over you, and your breath hitched. Slowly bringing the gown away from your face, your eyes went wide at the sight of the large dragon that was now standing before you, his glowing blue eyes looking down at you.
This time, you couldn't help but stare at his blue scales, glittering under the orange firelight. Nothing but wander filled your eyes as he brought his head down, your hand instinctively reaching up and allowing him to nuzzle into your now-healed palm. His scales were cool to the touch, much like his skin was. Your hand didn't hold a candle to the sheer size of his snout, and when his mouth opened with a hum, you couldn't help but smile at the soft noise.
He then moved his tail towards you, poking the dress in your arms with the tip. Understanding what was meant, you dropped your hand and took a step back. He moved towards the entrance before sitting down, giving you one last glance before averting his attention elsewhere and giving you some privacy.
You didn't waste any time in undressing yourself, holding back a shiver as the cool air of the cavern washed over you. The dress was a beautiful ocean blue, one that closely resembled the scale on Mingi's body. It was a floor-length gown with a sweetheart neckline, and the sheer sleeves flowed past your hands, nearly touching the ground by your feet. You struggled with the bodice for a few moments but managed to set it before flattening out the layered skirt with your hands, fingers catching on the dangling jewels.
"It's beautiful." You spoke in awe as you looked down, twirling slightly, and you heard a high-pitched chirp, causing you to look over. Mingi had turned his head and his gaze focused solely on you, and you looked at him with a bashful gaze.
Swallowing thickly, you thanked the large reptile before grabbing his discarded messenger bag and stuffing his clothes inside, knowing he'd need them once you arrived at your destination. Once you were sure you had everything, you grabbed the heels that Mingi had brought with the gown and moved towards his larger form.
"Let's get this show on the road, Duke Song." You smiled up at him, and he bowed his head slightly before rising back to his full height. He moved out of the large mouth of the cavern, and you followed closely behind, careful of his swaying tail.
Once you were both outside, you could see the remnants of the setting sun, the sky painted in beautiful hues of oranges and purples. You took a moment to look, eyes tracing every curve until you felt a small nudge against your back, and you looked over your shoulder at the large blue-scaled dragon who had lowered his body to the ground. Your heart races at the thought of what he was insinuating, but you knew that this was all part of the plan, nothing more, nothing less.
So you slipped your heels onto your feet before carefully pulling yourself onto the dragon's back, careful of the spines that jutted out. You fix his bag around your body before wrapping one hand around the spine in front of you and tapping his side with the other, letting him know that you are ready.
You held your breath when he began to move, his wings spreading wide as he neared the cliff edge. The colors of his scales were even more beautiful under the setting sun; the mixture of dark ocean blues and vibrant turquoise was mesmerizing.
A sharp gasp then fell from your lips when he took off, the speed enough to knock the air from your lungs as you clung tightly to his back. Tears started to sting in the corner of your eyes due to the harsh winds, and your chest felt tight because of the lack of proper oxygen. You weren't sure how long this went on for, but before long, his body evened out, and the rush of air lessened, allowing you to finally breathe properly.
"My goodness…" You breathed out as you let your teary eyes flutter open, gaze falling on the city below you before flickering to the glittering sea on the other side. It was beautiful.
Though the high altitude made it difficult to breathe, Mingi made sure to stay low enough that it wouldn't harm you. The last thing he wanted or needed was for you to pass out mid-flight, where he would risk hurting you as he caught you.
You couldn't help the child-like laughter that bubbled out of your chest as you looked around. The sight was something that you would etch into every crevice of your mind, knowing that you wouldn't get the chance to see it again.
Then the sky darkened, and stars began to appear one by one, and your eyes widened. You never got the chance to see the stars aside from trips to the Earth region when you were younger. The smoke from the ever-burning forests in the Fire Nation clouded the sky, blocking your view of the stars. So you soaked in the sight, connecting the consolations you had read about so many times in books from the old shelves of the library.
Mingi's head turned just enough so he could see your wander-filled gaze, and he felt his heart thump against his strong ribs. His blue hues studied your face, making note to bring you out more in the future and hoping that you stayed long enough for you to let him.
It was the dead of the night by the time the Duke's estate came into view as Mingi descended towards the ground. Your grip tightened on the spine in front of you as the harsh winds returned and your breath caught in your throat when he landed, the vibration of the rumble shot through your body nearly making you lightheaded.
The sound was enough to bring the attention of the people residing in the estate. You could hear gasps and shouts as Mingi lowered his body, allowing you to slide from his scaly back. Moving around his large body, you came face-to-face with two men who were dressed peckishly as well as a woman with a child on her hip, then a crowd of what you could only guess were their maids and servants behind them.
"H-How is this possible?" The older man in the front spoke, his voice showing his age as he stumbled forward. Disbelief etched into his features, and you felt movement behind you.
"Greetings, uncle, it has been a long time, hasn't it?" Mingi's voice flowed into your ears, and you turned your head just enough to catch sight of his half-turned form, his horns still sitting perfectly in his azure locks. A blush formed on your cheeks as you realized that he was standing before his family without any proper clothing, and you quickly handed him the messenger bag. "Thank you, my love."
Your heart leapt at the petname, mouth going dry, and all you could do was muster up a smile. The feeling of eyes boring into your side made you acutely aware of the nobility that stood before you, but you had to remind yourself that you were a princess—royalty.
"Cousin, you should know you aren't welcome here." The other man spoke, and your eyes flickered over to him, a sudden rush of annoyance ripping through your body, and you couldn't stop the scoff that escaped your lips.
"If anyone isn't welcome here, it's the likes of you. You all are nothing but illegitimate blood hoarding something that was never yours to begin with." You seethed, eyes narrowing as you glared at the man, and Mingi stopped mid-button to look at you in shock before a ghost of a smirk spread on his lips.
"You wrench! Who gave you the right to speak to me like that?" The man seethed, stepping closer to you, but stopped dead in his tracks when a low growl reverberated from deep within Mingi's chest, his eyes glowing in warning.
"That is my wife, so you are to watch your tone when speaking to her," Mingi growled, his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you behind him. You looked up at Mingi's taller figure with semi-wide eyes, your heart beating furiously under your ribs as heat crept up your neck.
"W-Wife?" Mingi's uncle was the next to speak as he moved closer to his song, grabbing his arm, knowing very well what Mingi was capable of.
"Yes. Meet Princess Y/n of the Fire Nation, my wife." Mingi introduced you as he allowed you to move back to his side once he deemed it safe to do so. At his introduction, hushed whispers fell over the crowd, and you could see the fear swimming in the old man's eyes, knowing that his title was slipping from his fingers. "Now, shall we move this conversation inside where my wife can be comfortable, or do I need to make a path?"
Your lips parted, breath catching on the inhale at his tone. The power that seeped from his words alone was enough to leave anyone trembling in their shoes. Yet you could only look at him in nothing but astonishment. Not only was he going to get what he wanted while he was here, but he was also making sure you were comfortable along the way. At least you thought that until you remembered that this was only a deal, you weren't actually his wife, and he was just here to gain his title back.
"Quickly, make space for Her Highness and the Duke." The woman with the child told the maids behind her, the child resting her head against the woman's shoulder with a sleepy gaze.
"Thank you, Clara." Mingi gave the woman a smile, and had you not known any better, you would've thought that it was kind. But you saw the hatred and anger simmering deep in his blue eyes.
Mingi wraps his arm loosely around your waist, guiding you towards the estate but also keeping you close to his body in a protective manner. You kept your head held tall like you had been taught since you were a child, not letting their judging gazes get to you.
The inside of the estate was bathed in a warm hue, and the scent of vanilla and bourbon filled your senses. Glancing over, you noticed Mingi's nose scrunched, and the sight has you smiling softly. You move your body just enough for his arm to slip from your waist, allowing you to hook your arm around his.
"Right this way, Your Grace." One of the maids pointed both of you towards the stairs, but Mingi didn't move an inch, his eyes trained on his uncle and cousin, who had just walked into the foyer.
"I think it's best we talk first, we have a lot to catch up on, don't you think?" Mingi asked, eyebrow cocking as he turned to fully face the two men. His stature would have any normal person cowering away, and you could tell it was taking a lot for the two men to keep their composure.
"You want the estate." His uncle stated, and Mingi's lips curve into a wolfish smirk.
"Yes,"
"I'm afraid that's not possible; this belongs to my father." Mingi's cousin spoke up once more with a glare; however, his father grabbed his arm.
"See my dearest cousin, that's where you're wrong." Mingi stepped towards the man, letting his arm slip from your grasp, and said, "This entire land belonged to me before you measly rats came and made yourselves at home."
"How dare yo—"
"I thought I warned you about your tone," Mingi growled, his claws extending and pressing right against the younger male's throat, breaking skin. "It seems your father failed to teach you proper manners. Now, I suggest we talk like men because it would be a shame for your wife and child to watch as you bleed out at their feet."
Your chest tightened at the threat, and you knew you should be scared that he would so easily take another man's life. But you weren't. No, if anything, the tone he used had a wave of heat washing over you, and you folded your hands in front of your body to keep the trembling at bay.
"Mingi, think of your father." His uncle's words seemed to flip a switch in the blue-haired male, and the room fell into a chilling temperature. Mingi's blue eyes glowed brightly as he glared at the older male, hand encasing his cousin's throat and pulling a choked gasp out of him.
"You have no right to speak of my father," Mingi growled, fingers tightening around the man's throat, and you were sure that if he added just a bit more pressure, he would snap his neck.
Then the sound of the child's cries caught your attention. Your head snaps over to the mother and child who were watching the scene before them in horror. Your heart ached for them, and as much as you wished you could spare the man for their sake, you knew Mingi wouldn't allow it, so you did the next best thing. Walking over to the woman you grabbed her arm gently and caught her attention, she looked at you with teary eyes, a mixture of emotions swimming in her eyes.
"Spare yourself and your daughter from this nightmare. Go, now." You urged her and the crying child towards the stairs, and with a quick glance at the maid who stood nearby, she understood. With a nod, she grabbed the woman's arm and ushered her up the stairs and away from the gruesome scene that was awaiting down below.
"Last chance, uncle," Mingi's voice echoes around the room, causing a shiver to run down your spine, and the older man looks at his nephew in shock. His eyes flickered from Mingi to his dying son, whose lips began to turn blue due to lack of oxygen.
"W-We'll return the estate. Just release him." His uncle begged, panic written all over his face, the moment he noticed his son's movements dying down.
"Not just the estate. Everything. And you lot are to leave without a coin." Mingi growled, his grip growing even tighter, and you feared that he would actually snap the man's neck, so you moved closer to him carefully.
"Yes! We'll return everything!" The old man trembled in his spot as his son's life hung by a thread, and a sinister smirk spread on Mingi's lips. He then released the man, letting him drop to the floor before bringing that same hand to his uncle's face, patting his cheek roughly.
"Good choice," Mingi chuckled as he took a step back, right into your awaiting arms, where his gaze flickered for a moment before the smirk dropped into a snarl, "now get out."
"Clara!" The older man began to shout, but Mingi shook his head, stopping the maid who went to fetch the woman with a pointed glare.
"The woman and child can stay. You two are to leave this instant." Mingi brought his heated gaze back to the two men. His uncle didn't spare another second before hauling his coughing son from the floor and lugging him towards the main doors, ignoring his choked protests.
The foyer then fell into a lingering silence; no one dared to move for fear of being under the dragon's wrath next. However, as your hands wrapped around Mingi's bicep, he could feel his anger and annoyance begin to simmer away.
"You must be tired, my love." Mingi's tone came out sweet, the sound leaving you weak in the knees, even more so when his soft gaze fell upon you, "Show my wife to our chambers, I'm sure you know which one that is."
He told the maids that still stood behind you, and they quickly nodded, showing you towards the stairs, but you cast one last glance at the blue-haired dragon. Mingi offered you a smile with a slight nod of his head, and you felt your shoulders relax before allowing the maids to show you to the master chambers, where they helped you get dressed for bed, and you fell onto the soft mattress, sleep quickly overtaking your body as the events of the day finally caught up to you.
—
You weren't sure what time it was when you woke the next day, but what you did know was that all hell had broken loose downstairs. Without even bothering to change, just grabbing a robe, you shrugged it over your shoulders and rushed down the stairs, where the yelling seemed to rise even louder.
"This isn't your home anymore. How dare you try to take it away!" The woman's voice rang loudly in your ears as you rounded the corner into the main living space.
"This has always been my home, Clara. I'm simply taking back what belongs to me." Mingi stated coolly, eyes darkening as the woman before him huffed in frustration, tears flooding down her cheeks.
"Min—"
"You!" Mingi's name barely fell from your lips as Clara turned towards you with adulterated rage, and you felt your heart seize as she stomped towards you.
"Clara." The tone in which her name fell from Mingi's lips had your body going rigid, as well as Clara's, as she looked at you with a tear-filled gaze. However, under her anger, you could see something deeper—heavier.
Guilt and worry.
"Why? Why must you take this away from my child?" She choked through a sob, and you felt your heart squeeze in your chest. You took a tentative step towards her despite Mingi's warning gaze, hands carefully taking her and pulling her attention to you.
"Clara, you and your child can still live happily. Go explore the world or live peacefully. You have that freedom now." You spoke in a gentle tone, a stark contrast to the tone that Mingi had been using for the better half of the morning, and you could see her resolve crumble.
"W-Where are we to go? My family would rather be caught dead than bring their widowed daughter home." She cried and your eyebrows furrowed, what did she mean 'widowed'? Her husband was still alive…
At least you thought so until you glanced over at Mingi, who had sat back on the sofa, his azure eyes trained on you, and you knew that you had missed something. Inhaling deeply, you turn your attention back to the weeping woman who began to slump in your hold.
"I have an estate in my name on the borders of the Fire Nation. You and your child are free to live there until you please. No one would dare to bother you, and if they do, just send them my way." You tell her and her eyes grow wide, completely baffled that you would offer such a thing, but you didn't give her a breath to protest, instead you waved a maid over. "Please help Miss Clara pack her and her daughters' belongings while I draw up the directions,"
"Why are you helping me?" She asked, her voice cracking as she let her hands fall to the crook of your elbows, gripping the skin as if she thought this would be some cruel nightmare the moment she let go.
"Because I know what it's like to be trapped within an unwanted marriage. However, I was lucky to be taken away before it was set in stone. Now I want to help someone else escape that same fate." You told her, and the truth in your words made more tears drip from her long lashes: "Go live the life you have always wished for, raise your daughter with love, and show her the true wonders of the world."
"Thank you, Princess." She bowed deeply, and you fumbled to pull her back up, telling her that it wasn't necessary.
"This way, miss." The maid you had motioned over to the teary-eyed woman, who thanked you one last time before allowing herself to be escorted out of the room.
You stood there for a moment, watching as she disappeared around the corner and up the stairs before turning your attention to another maid, telling them to bring you a quill and paper. Then you finally let yourself meet the dragon's gaze, and your breath hitched at the intensity. Swallowing thickly, you moved towards him, his eyes tracking your every move even after you sat down.
There was an unspoken tension in the air as you waited, hands folded in your lap, and you wished Mingi would say something. Yet he never did, not even when the maid stepped up to the table, holding out the material you had asked for.
"Go fetch Her Grace a blanket." Mingi's voice was low when he spoke, the sound sending a shiver coursing through your body. The cushion next to you shifted as he sat up, his large hand finding the small of your back, and the weight made you swallow thickly. "You sure have a kind heart, Princess."
"Kindness is a virtue that very few have in this cruel world; it's only right to lend it to those who need it." You told him without meeting his gaze, heat creeping up your neck and burning the tips of your ears when you felt his breath against your neck.
"Should I be honored that you've lent me your kindness?" He asked, his voice right next to your ear, and your body froze in the middle of a sentence. Mingi could hear your heartbeat speed up, the sound causing the dragon to smirk; however, before he could push further, the maid walked back into the room.
"Your Grace." She bowed her head before handing the blue-haired male the fur blanket, which he took and unfolded instantly.
"Thank you, you're free to go." He spoke blandly before turning his focus back onto you, only to find you staring at him with scrunched eyebrows.
"It wouldn't hurt for you to lend out that same kindness sometimes, Your Grace." You told him pointedly before turning back to finish up the directions.
"Kindness for me will only lead me to my grave," He told you honestly, wrapping the soft fur around your body and tugging you towards him until his lips were merely inches away from yours as you turned your head in surprise, "you hand out the kindness for the both of us."
"M-Mingi…" You breathed out, eyes flickering to his plush lips that were just out of reach, and he knew, but he couldn't let himself fall into the temptation. Not now, not yet.
"But be careful who you hand it to, not everyone will treat you the same." The blue-eyed man warned you before releasing his grasp and moving back. You watched him with wide eyes as he stood, fixing his navy vest that hugged his torso just right before looking back at you, "I've got stuff to attend to. If you need anything, call for one of the maids."
Then, with that, he was walking out of the room, and you were left staring at his retreating form in confusion. Where had that kind and gentle man from the cavern gone to?
However, you decided not to let yourself get carried away with the thought; you knew that he was only using you to gain control of his estate. He would only send you away once he's accomplished his goal. So you decided that you would use the time you have here to do some good, and you would start with finishing these directions.
As the day went on, you found yourself going back to the blue-haired dragon, wondering what he was doing and if he had eaten. Though every time you asked the maids, they reassured you that they had delivered him food.
You tried to hold on to the reassurance as you helped Clara and her daughter climb into the carriage, wishing them a safe journey and to write if they ever needed anything. A soft gasp fell from your lips when the mother wrapped her arms around you, hugging you tightly and murmuring one last thank you before the carriage door was shut. You waved at the little girl as she beamed at you from the carriage window, the sight making your heart swell in happiness.
But as you watched the carriage disappear over the slopes, you couldn't help the lingering anxiety that came barreling into you. The feeling wound your chest tightly, and you rushed back into the estate and towards the kitchen.
"Your Grace," The maids bowed as they acknowledged your presence, and you waved them off before asking about Mingi's dinner. "We were just getting ready to deliver it to His Grace in the study."
"Let me," You grabbed the skirt of your dress and stepped further into the room despite their protests. However, you didn't leave much room for discussion, and they reluctantly handed you the tray after prepping it.
You thanked them before making your way back out of the kitchen and towards the study that you knew the blue-haired male would be hiding away in. The maid at the end of the hall quickly walked over, knocking on the door for you. When you heard the man's gruff voice saying to come in, she opened the door before letting you walk in and shutting it right behind you to offer some privacy.
"You can leave it over there." Mingi waved to the side, not bothering to look up from his papers, and you looked over to see the untouched trays that sat on a table to the side. Huffing softly, you stepped towards him, and as soon as your scent invaded the dragon's senses, his head snapped up, azure eyes locked on you with an unreadable expression. "What are you doing?"
"Coming to make you, you've been eating, and good thing I did," You rolled your eyes before stepping closer to the desk despite the low growl that rumbled from the man's chest. Moving around the oak desk you didn't bother to even look at what he had been reading, instead you sat the tray down on an empty spot before looking at him expectantly, "stop being such a brute and eat something."
"I'll eat after I'm finished," He exhaled sharply before letting his gaze fall back to the papers before him, and that had a surge of annoyance rushing through you.
Biting your lip, you propped your hands on your hips and watched him, your burning gaze causing his scales to tingle, and before long, he couldn't take it any longer. Dropping the pages once more, he turned to look at you with a cocked eyebrow.
"Eat." You told him pointedly and motioned to the food that was sitting, ignored on his desk. He began to open his mouth, and you already knew it was some kind of excuse, "Mingi, eat or I will tie you to that chair and shove it down your throat."
Your words took the man by surprise, his eyes growing wide by just a fraction, and his pulse thumped at the base of his throat. He hadn't expected to hear those words fall from your lips, but as he stared into your narrowed eyes, he could see the worry swimming beneath the annoyance. Reluctantly, he pushed his chair back and turned towards you, a cocky smirk tugging on the corner of his lips.
"Why doesn't my beautiful wife feed it to me?" He teased, and his choice of words has your heart leaping into your throat, your cheeks warmed fast, color rising before you could stop it. Mingi could see it on your face, and it only spurred him on, "You said you'd tie me to the chair and shove it down my throat, so keep good on your promise, princess."
"You're insufferable," You grumbled, but reached for the spoon nonetheless, gathering some of the food before moving towards the large dragon. Mingi looked up at you with nothing but mischief, and your jaw clenched tightly, "Mingi." Your tone was nothing short of warning, your patience wearing thinner by the second, but Mingi was enjoying it, maybe a little too much. When he didn't open his mouth, you felt that thread snap, and you exhaled slowly. "Fine, you want me to force feed you, then I'll force feed you."
In the next second, you had your knee pressing into his thigh while your free hand grabbed one of his horns, tugging his head back and eliciting a deep groan, and finally, his mouth fell open. Taking the chance, you shove the spoonful of food into his mouth, eyes boring into his, and Mingi felt heat envelope his body.
"Chew." You demanded, letting your hand fall to your side while your other one gripped his horn tighter. Mingi's hand instinctively flew to the back of your thigh, fingers gripping the soft flesh through the fabric of your gown.
You watched as he chewed before swallowing, and his azure eyes darkened into a deep blue, his gaze making your stomach flip. Heat pooled in your gut, and you could feel that pull once more, brain begging for you to give in to the temptation. Mingi wasn't too far behind you, fingers itching to grab and grope at any part of your body he could possibly reach. But before he could, you were slipping away from him, stumbling back and averting your gaze elsewhere as your cheeks and ears burned a bright red.
"Make sure you eat." You breathed out almost breathlessly before setting the spoon down and scurrying out of the room, leaving Mingi there to watch in amusement.
However, as his gaze flickered back to the papers before him, he knew he didn't have time for the trivial things right now. He could worry about it all once he made sure he had a secure place for you to stay—happy and healthy.
—
The game of push and pull seemed to go on for weeks; one of you would push the other's buttons to the point of their patience snapping, only for them to pull away when things got heated. It was starting to drive you insane, your mind swimming with the possibility that Mingi actually wanted you. But you quickly pushed that thought out of your head when you watched him sort through all the years of finances and deeds.
"Your Grace, your bath is ready." One of the maids spoke, startling you from where you sat at your vanity, mindlessly combing through your locks. Setting down the gemmed comb, you turned your attention to the girl, thanking her before making your way into the washroom.
The dim lighting of the moon reflected off the rippling water, and you couldn't help but be reminded of the azure dragon that sat just downstairs. Hidden away in his study once more.
Letting out a soft sigh, you sat on the ledge of the tub, running your fingers through the warm water. Then you heard a thump—quiet, but there. The sound had you leaping to your feet, eyes trained on the door as you looked around for any possible escape if it were to be an intruder. Then you heard heavy boots on the floors, and you knew it wasn't any of the maids, and it sure as hell wasn't Mingi.
Swallowing thickly, you moved further back into the room, searching for something—anything to protect yourself. Except you couldn't find a thing before the door was slamming open, a man standing in the doorway and blocking the main chamber's light.
"There you are, Princess," His voice sent a chill down your spine, more so when a smirk spread across his lips, "the king has been waiting very patiently for your return."
"I-I'm not going back." You told him, voice shaking as tears brimmed in your eyes, and you were brought back to that fear you had believed to be gone. Your eyes darted all over the room, for a weapon, for an escape, for anything.
"I'm afraid that's not up for discussion." He growled, moving towards you in quick strides, and you did the one thing you thought could possibly get you out of this.
"Mingi!" You screamed at the top of your lungs, the lining of your throat rubbing raw at the sheer force.
"Stupid wrench!" The man hissed, grabbing a fistful of your hair before slamming your head into the wall next to you.
The impact draws a sharp cry from your lips, your vision swimming, and black spots clouding the edges. No, you couldn't pass out. You had to fight. You had to get out. You couldn't go back to that king. Tears of fear and pain mixed as they flowed down your cheeks, nails clawing at the man's wrist as he dragged you towards the door.
Safe. You're safe. He's here.
That little voice in the back of your mind spoke over the deafening ringing in your ears, and you could feel the fear start to dissipate. A comfort fell over you, and as soon as you lifted your blurry gaze, you met the glowing blue eyes of your fated dragon.
"Release her." Mingi's voice was low, but the growl in his tone bounced off the walls of the luxurious washroom, and the man stopped dead in his tracks. His narrow eyes found the male, but his face quickly morphed into one of fear as he realized who it was that stood before him. The man all but threw your body towards the blue-haired male witless scrambling back and Mingi was quick to catch you in his arms.
"Y-Y-You—" The man choked on his words as he stepped further into the bathroom, and Mingi felt nothing but unfiltered rage when he smelled the blood that had begun to seep from the gash on your forehead.
"Who sent you?" The dragon demanded as he tugged your weakening body closer to his, fingers grasping your side.
"T-The Water Nation king!" He exclaimed, pleading for Mingi to spare his life, and the taller male's eyes only grew brighter as he stared down at the cowering man.
Mingi's jaw tightened at the mention of the king you had fled from mere months ago. Glancing back at one of the maids, he motioned for her to take your dazed form, telling her to call the doctor after getting the bleeding under control.
He watched for a moment as the pair of women worked together to help your stumbling form out of the bedroom, incoherent murmurs fell from your lips. Once the door closed, he turned his attention back to the man before him.
"Now, I could kill you…" Mingi spoke coolly as he stepped towards the man, who shook his head violently, "But that would only be a waste, so here's what we shall do." The large dragon stopped in front of the man and crouched down, his arms resting on his knees as he watched the man cower into the corner, "First, you put your hands on my wife, my mate." Mingi growled, and in the blink of an eye, his large hand grasped the back of the man's head, slamming it into the wall much like he had done to you.
"I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Weak pathetic pleas fell from the man's lips as he tried to focus his swimming vision.
"Second," Mingi's hand moved his hand from the man's head to his collar, tugging his body closer until his face was mere inches away from Mingi's. "You tell your king that if he dares to lay another finger on her, he'll have the wrath of the dragon descendant duke brought down upon this kingdom."
"Ye— Yes, Your Grace!" The perp nodded his head, trembling hands rubbing together in another pathetic attempt at a plea.
Mingi clicked his tongue before rising to his feet, pulling the man's body up as well and ignoring his pleas and jumbled words as he escorted him towards the front door, roughly. Once the front doors were open, Mingi all but threw the man outside, watching as his body slid against the jagged gravel.
"You fail your task, and I will hunt you down and skin you alive," Mingi growls, eyes widening just a hair as the blue burned brighter and the man scrambled to his feet, bowing deeply, "get out of my sights."
Then the man was tucking tail and running. Before long, his form was merely a speck in the night, and Mingi stepped back inside. The anger that radiated off the dragon had all of the staff cowering away; his gaze was enough to pierce through anyone's soul.
"Where is she?" He asked no one in particular, and one maid swallowed her nerves and motioned towards the stairs.
"This way, Your Grace." Her voice was meek, heart jumping when the Duke's fiery gaze fell upon her. But he didn't say a word as he allowed her to lead him back up the stairs and towards another chamber door.
Once the door was open, he was waving her away and stepping inside, where he found your motionless body lying beneath the covers. His heart skipped in his chest, and for the first time in many, many years, the dragon felt fear course through his veins. The lingering scent of your blood surrounded the man, and he swallowed thickly as he moved towards the bed where the doctor had just finished up.
"How is she?" Mingi's voice came out softer, his eyes never leaving your sleeping form, and the doctor bowed before rising.
"The blow was pretty hard, and the gash needed stitches," As the doctor explained. Mingi could feel his rage begin to surface once more, his upper lip pulling back into a snarl, the sharp point of his fangs gleaming in the dim lighting.
"I should've just killed that bastard." He growled lowly, fingers tightening around the wood of the bed frame, the wood creaking under his palms.
"She will probably be out for a while, but she should wake up within the next few days." The doctor continued his explanation, paying no mind to the large dragon, and moved towards the bedroom door after Mingi dismissed him.
Once the door closed, Mingi finally released his grip from the creaking wood and moved towards your pale body. He grabbed the armchair that stood nearby and sat down, taking your smaller hand into his. The room fell into a still silence, neither comfortable nor unbearable; just… still.
"I'm sorry, my love," The dragon whispers, bringing your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. His lips lingered there for a few long moments as he studied your face, and had it not been for the bloodied bandage that was wrapped around your head, he would've thought you were just sleeping. "I won't let anyone hurt you ever again."
And he spent the rest of that night as well as the many following nights at your bedside. He barely let the maids near you, a threatening growl emitting from his throat when one got a little too close for his liking.
Then, it was early morning on the sixth day, and the sound of birds chirping outside the window was the first sound you heard. Your head pounded as you slowly opened your eyes, only to close them again due to the harsh sun rays. You tried to bring your hand up to shield your eyes from the light, but were stopped by a weight in your palm. Sitting up carefully, you blinked slowly, allowing your eyes to get used to the new brightness before you glanced over.
Your breath caught in your throat when you found none other than Mingi slumped over at your bedside. The evident eye bags under his eyes and the dull shimmer of his once bright scales told you that he hadn't slept in days. A soft smile curves on your lips as you bring your free hand over, brushing his hair from his face, careful not to touch his horns, knowing it'd wake him up.
The sound of the door opening had your shoulders going stiff, head snapping in the direction, only to find one of the maids walking into the room. A gasp fell from her lips when she saw that you were awake, but you quickly hushed her, pressing your index finger to your lips. She quickly covered her lips, eyes flickering from you to the sleeping beast beside you.
"How long have I been asleep?" You asked quietly, and she stepped closer to the bed, a weary gaze shifting from Mingi back to you.
"Today would've been the sixth day, Your Grace." She told you, bowing her head softly, and you nodded before letting your gaze fall back to the blue-haired male. "He hasn't left your side a single day; he refused to eat despite our worries and reminders that you would want him to eat."
You looked at her for a moment before softly pinching the male's cheek, "brat."
"Would you like me to bring you some food, Your Grace?" She asked, and you nodded, giving her a gentle smile before watching as she quietly slipped out of the room.
Then the room was shrouded in silence once more, the only sounds coming from the birds outside and the soft snores that slipped past Mingi's lips. You watched him sleep, eyes studying his face, and for the first time, you were able to really take in his beauty. Your fingers carefully trace every curve, blemish, mole, and scar that you could reach before he was stirring under your touch.
You pulled your hand away from his face when his eyes fluttered open, azure hues focusing on you the moment he woke. Your smile only spread wider as he sat up, eyes wide as if he weren't sure if this were a dream or not.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty." You teased, and Mingi felt as if a ton of bricks had been lifted from his shoulders.
"You're awake." His voice was heavy with sleep, and it sent a flurry of butterflies through your stomach, a soft heat settled across your face, giving you away. Then he was moving towards you, large hands cupping your jaw carefully, and before you could register it, his lips were on yours.
It only took seconds before you were melting into his touch, eyes fluttering closed and fingers gripping the untucked hem of his tunic. Your head tilted just enough to deepen the kiss, easily finding yourself getting lost in his taste.
The way his lips melded with your left your craving for more, fingers pawing at his shirt. Your brain quickly started to fuzz, a warmth seeping throughout your body and begging for more. Mingi sense it—smell it and a deep groan reverberated through his chest and right into your mouth causing you to whine softly.
"We can't. Not now, you need to heal." He murmurs against your lips, and you wanted to cry out in desperation, but he silenced you with another soft kiss against the corner of your lips. "Once we are legally able to marry, you can have me. All of me."
His words made your stomach twist, the feelings between you finally becoming clear, but there still stood one last obstacle. "What about the king?"
"You are not to worry about him no more," He told you firmly, his gaze hardening, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood tall. Then they were softening once more, "just a little bit longer, princess, then you'll be free. I promise."
Despite the anxiety that ate at every nerve in your body, you nodded, hands finding Mingi's larger one. You knew that he would keep his word, that you would soon be free of your binds. Free to be his. Fully and wholeheartedly.
And just like he promised, a week's time had passed, and there came a sharp knock at the chamber doors where you were resting. Mingi lay by your side with a book in his hand and glasses perched upon the perfect bridge of his nose.
"Come in,"
The maid on the other side opened the door before standing in the doorway to bow, "Your Grace, there is a messenger at the door looking for you and Her Grace."
You felt your heart leap, a smile spreading on your lips as you thought of what it could possibly be, and the hope that it was one thing in particular bloomed. Mingi glanced over at you as he shut his book, pulling the glasses off his face before setting both to the side. Leaning over, he placed a gentle kiss upon your forehead, lips lingering for just a moment before he pulled away.
"Stay here, love, I'll go chat with our guest." He told you before he was clambering off the bed and following the maid out of the room.
You waited with bated breath, heart thumping heavily against your ribs, and you felt as if you could feel the second tick by. Then, finally, you could hear the heavy steps of Mingi's feet, and you sat up on the mattress, the blanket falling to your lap just as the door opened. Your bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you watched the blue-haired male walk into the room.
Mingi allowed the door to shut before he stepped closer to you, his hand hidden behind his back. The anticipation was starting to gnaw at you, and you started to climb off the bed, but Mingi stepped in front of you, stopping your movements.
"It's arrived." He told you, pulling his hand from his back with a flourish and revealing the scroll in his hand. Your eyes widened as he placed it in your hands, the weight heavy in your palms as your thumb brushed over the expensive paper, knowing that it was from a royal.
Swallowing thickly, you slowly unraveled the scroll, eyes scanning every inch of the page, and tears brimmed in your eyes. You looked up at the dragon that stood before you with misty eyes. Mingi reached forward, cupping your face in his larger hands and crouching down to press his forehead against yours.
"You are now officially my wife." His tone was filled with nothing but love, and your heart leaped into your throat.
Tears began to drip from your damp lashes as you brought a shaky hand to wrap around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer, "and you, my husband."
Weeks upon weeks of preparations had begun, Mingi wanting everything to be perfect for you because in his eyes, you deserved nothing less. You found a gown as well as a bouquet of flowers that suited the overall theme, while Mingi made sure everything was in order for the ceremony.
People came and went in the estate, many new faces greeted you, much to Mingi's distaste, but he knew it was only for the preparation. All of the old dainty decorations and furniture had been whisked away, replaced by newer, classier furniture. The decorations a mixture of blues, turquoise and gold, all of which screamed of your soon-to-be husbands knack for picking the sparkly things—his dragon side peaking out just a bit. But you never teased—at least not too much—instead you found it endearing, something that cracked his cold shell.
"Duchess? The tailor has arrived with the veils; you are to pick one today." Your personal maid, Jaeyoung, spoke as she followed behind you through the estate.
You stopped for just a moment as you inspected the new mirror that had been hung in the hall at the top of the staircase. A soft hum vibrated from your chest as your fingers brushed the petals of the flowers that sat in the azure vase, the color reminding you of Mingi's scales.
"Hm, we shall not keep her waiting any longer." You finally turned to give the young girl a sweet smile, and the glimmer in your eyes caused a smile of her own to spread on Jaeyoung's face.
Following Jaeyoung down the stairs, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand tall, the feeling of eyes on your body. However, instead of feeling uneasy, you felt happiness swell in your chest, eyes flickering over to meet the deep azure eyes of the man you were to call your husband in just a few short hours.
Though you could only spare him a passing glance before both of you were whisked away for your own tasks. You were to choose the perfect veil to match your wedding gown while Mingi finished setting up the guest list for the grand banquet that was to be held tomorrow after your wedding night. At first, you hadn't been sure what Mingi had meant when he explained it, but then his vulgar words echoed in your ears, and you became flustered all over again.
'It's a celebration for the bride after we've consummated our marriage and you've been properly bred.'
"We're here, Your Grace." Jaeyoung's voice snapped you out of your thoughts, and you looked at her with wide doe eyes, as if you were a child who had just been caught sticking their hand in the cookie jar. However, if she noticed, she didn't say a word; instead, she held the door to the indoor garden open, where you found your taller waiting inside.
Yes, just a few more preparations before the ceremony tonight, and the thought left your heart racing with excitement and glee.
—
The ceremony was held in the back of the estate, in the center of the hedge canopy. It was absolutely magnificent and utterly stunning. Something that you had only seen in the pages of your fairy tale books. Your beautiful gown flowed behind you, the soft gusts of wind helping to keep the skirt splayed out as the petals from the flower girls' baskets fluttered down onto it. A mixture of different emotions passed through you, happiness, nervousness, disbelief, you name it, and you were probably feeling it for a small increment of time before it moved on to the next.
Bird chirps in song above you, and you couldn't help but look up to watch them hop along the tree branches. Your veil was obscuring your vision just enough that you had to look down to clearly see the ground beneath you.
Then you came to the entrance of the canopy, music fading, and you felt your pulse thumping against the base of your throat, all sounds dying on your tongue the moment you saw him.
There Mingi was, standing upon the stage before all the townsfolk and other guests, his blue hair styled in a way that showed his forehead while it still framed his face marvelously. His white suit was a near match to your gown, the silver embroidery done with such precision that it looked as if it had been handcrafted by the gods above. And when the wind blew, the tail of his coat flowed behind him, taking your breath along with it. He had become the embodiment of the prince charming you've read about in fairytales.
But by the gods, he looked at you as if you had just hung the stars in the very sky above you, azure eyes glowing softly the closer you approached. Nothing but love and adoration brimmed in his gaze, and had you asked him in this moment, he would say that he thought you were an angel that had been left to walk this earth.
As you neared the stage, you felt your breath catch in your throat, the intensity of his gaze knocking the air from you. One of the noblewomen who had been perched on your side of the stage helped you up the steps, careful of the white lace on your skirt, fixing it so it stayed beautifully spread behind you. Then you were meeting Mingi's gaze once more as he took your shaky hands into his, and for the first time in the nearly eight months you've spent with the dragon, you saw his eyes glassy with tears.
Even during the officiant's speech, neither of you could seem to tear your attention away from the other, smiles matching. Your fingers tightened around Mingi's larger hand as you tried your best to keep your own tears at bay, and thankfully, no one paid any mind to the two of you being lost in your own worlds.
Then, when the time came to exchange vows, Mingi was pulling the veil from your face, having had enough of the obstruction. The action pulled a soft giggle from you before you were tilting your head to meet his gaze once more, this time without the veil, and your heart skipped a beat. Seeing him with the barrier didn't hold a candle to seeing him without it, and by the looks of it, the blue-haired male was thinking the same thing.
"You are absolutely breathtaking, princess." His voice was barely above a whisper, scared that he would break entirely if he spoke any louder. You bit your tongue as you realized then and there that the name was never merely just your title to him; you were and would always remain his princess, regardless of whether that was your official title or not. He then began to recite his vows, his tears finally breaking free with the emotions he was laying before you. Releasing one of his hands, you lifted your gloved hand, cupping his jaw and brushing some of the azure tears that pooled under his eye.
By the time he had finished, you both were crying, tears of pure, unfiltered happiness flowing down your reddening cheeks. Next was your turn, and you spoke freely, never being able to write your words out, but rather speaking from your heart. Each word falling from your lips like an unspoken promise, and love laced every word.
Everyone could feel the love and adoration that was seeping from the two of you, tears of their own pooling in their eyes as they watched Mingi slip the ring onto your left hand. The dazzling diamond had an almost blue hue to it as the setting sun reflected off the gem. It was the most beautiful thing you've seen, save for the man who was standing before you. Once you had slipped his ring onto his own finger, his hand was cradling the back of your head as he brought his lips down to yours.
The kiss was oh-so-similar to the one you've shared countless times, except this time, the emotions you both couldn't put into words were conveyed as your lips melded together. Your gloved fingers grasped at the lapels of his coat, pulling him as close as you could, completely forgetting the audience that sat before you.
Only when your lungs were begging for oxygen did you part, chests heaving with heavy breaths and a smile adorning your faces despite the lingering embarrassment. The crowd around you broke out into cheers as the ceremony concluded, and they wished you the best, while others prayed for your future heirs. Their words made your body warm as you remembered what awaited you once you and Mingi were back behind the closed doors of the estate, while everyone else partied the night away.
Even the maids and other staff were dismissed for the night, ordered to take care of everyone who remained outside.
"Now…" Mingi murmurs into your ear before he sweeps you off your feet, causing you to gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his broad shoulders. "Shall we consummate our marriage, my sweet little wife?"
Your ears turned red first, trailing up until your whole expression shifted, flustered by the blue-haired male's words. You buried your face in his neck, the soft rumble of his laughter vibrating through your body and making your stomach flutter.
The trek back to the estate passed in a blur, and before you knew it, Mingi was setting you on your feet before the door to the washroom. You glanced over at him with furrowed brows, and he just offered you a smile before opening the door with a flourish. A soft sound fell from your lips when you saw the candles that were placed methodically around the room, petals as blue as sapphires and as white as snow laid on the ground. Then the sweet scent of roses mixed with vanilla wafted around you, nearly taking your breath away.
Mingi slips past you, stepping further into the room until he stands just beside the tub that is filled, the same flower petals floating on top. You began to wonder whether this was what he had been planning so meticulously, and he wouldn't utter a word to you.
"Come here." His voice was low, quiet, almost. Not a command, but not a request, something in between. Something that has heat pooling in your core.
You take a step into the room, then another, the petals on the ground catching on the ends of your dress. Mingi holds his hand out to you, pulling your body closer to his once your smaller hand is placed in his.
His lips leave a searing kiss against your skin as he tugs your gloves off your hands, each kiss warming your body further. Once the gloves were off, he let his hands fall to your waist, leaning down until his lips were ghosting over yours. You bit back a small whine when he kissed your cheek, his fingers undoing your corset with ease.
"Mingi…" You breathed out as he undressed you, his lips trailing over all the newly exposed skin until you were standing bare before him.
"So beautiful," He breathed out, tracing his fingertips over every curve he could reach before sealing his lips over yours. The kiss was nothing like the sweet one you shared merely half an hour ago; no, this one felt as if you were trying to consume each other, and maybe you were, but neither of you cared.
Your fingers gripped his coat lapels, pushing them off his shoulders, and he pulled the sleeves off until the fabric joined yours on the ground. Then, without so much as breaking the kiss, you undo the buttons of his tunic. Before long, his clothes had joined yours, and you felt a lump form in your throat as you broke apart, eyes falling to his cock that stood proudly against his lower abdomen. You knew he wasn't going to be normal; he wasn't even human, but the sheer size made your stomach churn in both need and fear.
Mingi's fingers hooked under your chin, pulling your attention back to him, pressing his lips gently against the corner of your lips. "Don't stare, my love, it's already hard enough to restrain myself as it is."
Then he was stepping into the tub, hands on your waist, tightening before he was pulling you in with him. Goosebumps littered your skin as the warm water enveloped your body, relaxing the muscles that had been straining all day with the stress of the ceremony.
Mingi's arms wrapped around your smaller frame, pulling you back into his chest, your head falling back onto his shoulder. The washroom was quiet, save for the rippling sounds of the water and the distant sounds of the townsfolk celebrating. All while the two of you sat in the tub, soaking in each other's warmth, and Mingi's hands roamed your body, his fingers pressing into the plush skin every so often, working out the knots that had formed. He bit back a soft growl as he listened to the sounds of your sighs and quiet moans that would slip past your lips unintentionally.
"You did so good today, princess," His smooth voice sent a wave of heat throughout your body, your thighs subconsciously rubbing together. Noticing the shift of your movements, he moved his hands from your biceps down your waist before squeezing your hips, eliciting another soft moan.
"Mingi." You sighed, head lolling to the side when his lips latched onto the soft skin of your neck, placing a flurry of open-mouthed kisses along the expanse of your skin. The soft scrape of his fangs had a shiver running down your spine, head already spinning. His hands moved from your hips to your thighs, squeezing the plush fat before pulling them apart.
"Just relax, sweetheart," He cooed into your neck, and you moved your hand to cup the back of his neck as his fingers moved to your bare core.
A soft moan slipped past your lips when he found your aching clit with ease, moving in slow circles. His movements weren't rushed or harsh; they were gentle, making sure you felt everything. Your fingers tightened around his neck when he moved away from your bundle of nerves to slip a finger into your tight walls.
"God, Mingi." You whined, back arching as he stretched you open, the foreign sensation had your toes curling, more so when the rough pads of his fingers found the spongy spot deep in your walls.
Chuckling softly, Mingi used his other hand to push your hips back down and kept you in place as you let out another whine. When he slipped in another finger, your eyes rolled back at the stretch, your other hand gripping his thigh to ground yourself, but when his thumb found your clit it was all pointless.
"Cum for me, pretty girl, let me feel you around my fingers." His fingers coaxed you closer to your high, heat flushing your body, making you lightheaded, and with just a few more strokes of his skilled fingers, you were toppling over the edge.
"M-Mingi." You moaned out, nails digging into Mingi's skin as stars danced across your vision.
Mingi continued to work you through your high, relishing in the sweet sounds that left your parted lips. He placed a gentle kiss on your cheek as he pulled his fingers from your still twitching cunt.
"Mingi…" You whined, opening your eyes to look up at him, need still pooling in your blown-out pupils.
"Don't worry, love, I'm not done with you yet." Mingi's lips twitched into a smirk as he cupped your jaw, bringing his face closer to yours. Another whine fell from your lips but was quickly muffled by his as he kissed you deeply, the sharp points of his fangs nipping at your bottom lip, threatening to draw blood.
Then his hands were on your hips once more, flipping your body around so you were facing him. The speed makes your head spin, and your hand flies to his shoulders to stabilize yourself. Every nerve ending in your body felt as if it were set aflame, a choked moan falling from your parted lips when you felt his heavy cock against your bare cunt.
"Bloody hell, princess," Mingi groans, fingers tightening like a vice on your body when you started rolling your hips against him. You let out another moan when the rough ridges on his cock caught your aching clit.
In the blink of an eye, Mingi was pulling your body from the now lukewarm water, a gasp tearing from your lungs at the sudden movement. Your legs wrapped around his slender waist, arms tightening around his neck.
Walking back into the main room, he dropped you onto the bed, a small huff leaving your lips as your damp body fell onto the sheets. Mingi was back on you in a matter of seconds, body slotted over yours as he brought his lips back down to yours in a heated kiss. Your brain started to go fuzzy as his lips trailed from yours down your jaw before finding purchase on the sensitive skin of your neck.
"M-Mingi." You choked out as he started to leave hot, wet, open-mouth kisses along your jugular, nipping every now and then, causing your body to shiver. His eager hands moved to the soft skin of your breasts, squeezing the mounds and pulling a pitched whine from your kiss-swollen lips.
"You smell so sweet," He growls against your marked skin before his lips pressed a firm kiss over your perk nipple, then wrapping his lips around it, sucking gently, eliciting a soft moan of his name from your lips.
Once the skin on your breast was slick with his saliva and covered in his marks, he moved down the valley of your breasts. His lips traveled down your tummy, pressing a gentle kiss to each scar, blemish, and mark that he passed, and you watched him with teary eyes. Your heart swelled as he whispered praises against your skin, telling you how much he loved you.
You gasped when he parted your legs, resting them over his shoulders so he could see your glistening cunt. He starts to press gentle kisses along the inside of your thighs, and you could feel yourself growing wetter by the second. Your eyes stayed locked on him as he neared your warm center, then he pressed a kiss against your clit, causing your whole body to tremble.
"You’re dripping, princess,” He teased as he spread your folds, taking in the way your hole clenched around nothing. A gasp fell from your lips when he buried his face in your cunt, nose bumping your clit as he inhaled your scent, a low growl vibrating from the back of his throat. His hands wrap around your thighs to keep them in place as you start to squirm. A sharp whine falls from your lips, head falling back when he licked up your slit.
Then his lips were wrapping around your aching clit, sucking harshly, causing you to moan loudly, hand flying down, fingers grasping one of his dark blue horns. A deep groan reverberates from the back of his throat when you tug, and another moan escapes your lips, back arching off the bed and pushing your hips further into his face. Mingi was quick to move one hand from your thigh to press it flat down on your stomach, keeping you in place.
"Min— ooh god!" You cried out when he easily slips two fingers into your wet walls, curling them right against your sweet spot. The sounds of your whimpers and whines only cause the man to grin against you.
"You tasted so much sweeter than I thought, princess," He groans, lapping at your cunt and slowly thrusting his fingers into you. Your fingers tugged on his dark horn, the rough ridges digging into your skin as he buried his face in your cunt, groaning against you, eliciting a series of pants and moans.
Your heartbeat was ringing in your ears as your mouth gaped open, head falling back. Stars danced across your vision, your whole body shaking underneath Mingi’s hold. The pace of his fingers was relentless as he easily found the spongy spot inside your pussy, making you cry out his name. Your whole body tingled as all of your senses became overwhelmed, thighs trembling, threatening to close. Noticing this, Mingi took his hand from your stomach to grip one of your thighs tightly.
You weren’t able to give him a warning as you came around his fingers. He continued to suck on your clit in time with his fingers. Feeling you squeeze around his fingers as you cried out his name left Mingi groaning against you.
"M-Min—" You choked out a gasp, head falling back as he worked you through your orgasm and kissed his way back up your body. He swallowed all of your cute little whines as he kissed you deeply, tongue brushing against the back of your teeth. Your brain nearly short-circuited at the taste of yourself on his tongue, your hands falling to his shoulders.
"Still so tight, love," He chuckled darkly as your eyes rolled slightly when he curled his fingers against your sweet spot. There was no way he was going to be able to hold much longer before he lost it; each moan and whimper you let out wore at his restraint. So he sped up his fingers, his thumb pressing harsh circles against your twitching clit.
"Please!" You cried out, back arching off the bed and against his firm chest. Your mind was starting to short-circuit when he added a third finger, stretching you further. A broken whine fell from your lips, but was quickly swallowed by Mingi's eager lips, stealing all the air from your lungs.
Your hand wrapped around his neck, nails biting the skin when he added a fourth finger, the stretch borderline painful, but as he brushed over your sweet spot, stars danced across your vision. You held him close as you felt your orgasm creeping up on you, and he bit at your bottom lip, enough to draw blood this time. Then he was pulling it into his mouth, sucking on it; the mixture of pain and pleasure pushing you right over the edge with a strangled cry of his name.
"Mingi!" You cried out as he continued to work his fingers into your fluttering walls, prolonging your orgasm for a few moments. He lapped at the tears that had spilled from your eyes, whispering dirty praises against your skin before he was finally pulling his soaking digits from your twitching cunt.
You watched with hooded eyes as he stuck his fingers in his mouth, licking your essence off of his digits. The sight was enough to make your need grow all over again, especially with the way his eyes bore into you. Once he was sure he had licked every last drop of your sweet nectar off of his fingers, he leaned back down over you, pressing his lips against yours again. You mewled at the taste of yourself on his tongue mixed with the tangy, metallic taste of your blood from your lip.
"Mingi…" You whined, body growing even warmer as you felt his heavy cock sitting on your lower tummy, the warmth sending goosebumps littering your skin. Your fingers tugged at the hairs on the nape of his neck, lips parting with a gasp when he nipped at your jaw, "Need you… need you so bad, Mingi, please."
The sound of your pleas has the dragon growling against your skin, the last bit of his restraint wearing thin, "I need you too, sweetheart, but I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't." You shook your head violently, tears splashing onto the sheets beside your head. "I trust you, Min, please."
And just like that, his restraint snapped, his hands moving to spread your thighs further and lining his ribbed cock with your leaking entrance. The feeling made your body jolt, a moan falling from your lips, and Mingi's grip on your hip tightened. Your whole body seemed like it had been set aflame.
"If it's too much, just tell me, princess." He whispered against your skin, then he was pushing into your tight heat. The stretch was like nothing you’ve ever felt before, and your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head as he continued to fill you. “Ah, focus on me, love,” Mingi whispered softly, coaxing your eyes open, and you looked at him as tears started to spill from the corner of your eyes. “Good girl.”
"H-Hurts." You whine, back arching against him as more tears spill from your eyes, only to be caught by Mingi's lips, teeth nipping at your cheek, causing you to shiver.
"I know, sweetheart, just a little more, I promise." He cooed against your skin, gritting his teeth as your walls squeezed around him. Then, when he bottomed out, you gasped, eyes rolling back at the full feeling, and you swore his tip was pressing past your cervix.
"Feels good." You breathed out, tilting your head to look at him, and you felt like you were starting to go delirious. The lack of movement was starting to make your thighs shake, your need started to grow tenfold, and Mingi could tell by the way your hips started to roll against his.
A choked moan tore from your lips when he rolled his hips into yours, pleasure washing over you in waves as he hit all the right spots in one single stroke. He grabs your hips when you give him the green light to move, and stars dance across your vision as he pulls out before snapping his hips right back into yours. Your fingers dug into the sheets from the overwhelming pleasure.
"Look at you, princess.” He groaned as he continued his rough pace; it was almost animalistic, if you will. His eyes then fell down to where his cock disappeared into your sopping cunt, and he felt himself grow harder at the sight of the small bulge that formed in your lower tummy every time he pushed into you.
You cried out as he pushed down on your stomach, making you feel him even more as he fucked into you. Your body felt like it was on fire, your mind clouded with so much pleasure that you no longer had any proper words or thoughts forming. Drool spilled past the corner of your lips, trickling down your cheek, and incoherent babbles fell from your lips. The pleasure was so overbearing that your legs began to tremble around Mingi's waist, hips fighting against his hold to rut up into his thrusts. You could feel that coil in the pit of your stomach growing tighter and tighter at an alarming rate with every drag of his cock in your walls.
Leaning down, Mingi's tongue lolled out of his mouth as he lapped at the spit that spilled from your kiss-swollen lips, your hand finding the back of his neck, nails biting at the skin. A loud pornographic moan tore from your lips when one of his hands slid between your bodies, pressing against your clit.
“Cum for me, love, please.” He pleaded like he was the one more desperate for your orgasm, but with a few more strokes, you felt that coil in the pit of your stomach snap, and your release gushed out all over his length.
A mixture of his name and broken moans fell from your lips as he continued his fast pace, never slowing down and throwing your body into overstimulation. Your eyes squeezed shut at the overwhelming feeling, pushing more tears out, but Mingi was quick to kiss them away.
“God.” He groaned as he felt his high nearing, and his hips snapped wildly into yours, making your vision turn white, nails digging into his neck. A mixture of a groan and a whimper fell from his lips as he completely buried himself to the hilt once more as he came, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
The room was filled with heavy breathing as you came down from your high, but the soft sound of Mingi's low, feral growls against your neck made your body tingle. You brought your hand from his neck to the top of his head, fingers brushing over his horns.
All of the air was knocked out of your lungs when he lifted his head from your neck, his blown out pupils and the intensity of his gaze making you shiver. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was pulling his still hard cock from your weeping walls and flipping your body with ease. His hands were quick to find your hips, pulling them up until your back was arched the way he wanted.
"We're not done yet, princess. I've still gotta make sure you've been bred properly," He chuckled darkly as he pressed his tip against your twitching hole, watching as you eagerly sucked him in. You buried your face into the sheets as he pushed into you with one sharp thrust, his tip pushing right against your cervix.
Tears stained the sheets underneath you as he relentlessly bullied his cock into your abused pussy, his hands tight on your hips. Muffled cries and moans were the only sounds that emitted from your body. Your cognitive function to form words flew right out the window.
“Such a good little princess, hmm,” He cooed, leaning down until his back was pressed against your chest, his lips finding the back of your shoulder. “Taking everything, I give you like a good girl.” The mixture of his deep voice and his soft lips on your skin made your body melt, and if it wasn’t for his hold, you would have surely fallen flat on the mattress.
"Min— Mingi!" You cried out, fat tears falling from your eyes as he continued his relentless pace until your whole body was shaking. “Cumming! ‘M cumming!” Your voice cracked as he fucked you through another orgasm, but once again, his ministrations never stopped, much less slowed down.
White spots started to cloud your mind when he stood up straight once again, using your hips as leverage to fuck into you. Choked sobs left your lips when your body fell into a state of overstimulation. Every nerve felt as if it were on fire.
Then his hand was moving from your hip, pressing against your sternum, and pulling your upper body off the bed. A choked sob tore through your parted lips as he pistoned his hips into yours mercilessly. Your brain felt like it was turning into mush from the overwhelming amount of pleasure.
“You’re gonna look so pretty all swollen with my babies.” Mingi licked a stripe up the back of your neck, “Such a perfect mommy.” He cooed as he nipped at your skin, feeling another orgasm of his own creeping up.
“M-Mingi…” You whimpered in his hold, your head empty except for the thought of his cock buried deep in you until he was sure his seed would take.
“Gonna make sure everyone knows that you’re mine.” He growled before unexpectedly biting down on the nape of your neck as he came. The sudden infliction of pain pulled yet another orgasm from your spent body, your walls fluttering around his twitching cock, milking him for all he was worth.
Pulling away from your neck, he watched with proud eyes as his mark started to bleed, your sweet crimson blood coating his lips. You cried out when you felt something stretching you even more, and it sent your body over the edge once more, this time a weaker orgasm rushing through your bones. Mingi pressed his face into the side of your head, whispering sweet nothings in your ear while you both came down from your high.
"Mingi?" Your voice was hoarse as you spoke, head falling back onto his shoulder, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek as he hummed, "What is that?"
“It’s a knot, sweetheart. It’ll go down in a bit, but for now, try not to move too much.” He explained to you, and you let out a sigh, moving a shaky hand to the bottom of your tummy where you could still feel him pressing against your cervix.
"It's so warm," You babble mindlessly, causing Mingi to chuckle, anchoring your body to his as he kisses your shoulder.
"That just means it's taking," He murmurs against your skin, and you lift your head, brows furrowed, and he explains how different mating with a dragon descendant would be. Then once the knot wore down, he was slipping from your aching walls, laying your body on the bed before crawling over you, lips sealing yours in a sweet kiss that quickly turned heated. "And if we're lucky, you'll be with child by the end of the week."
You smiled up at him, the mere thought of carrying his child making a warmth bloom in your chest, and you pulled him down for another kiss. The two of you get lost in the heat of each other once more, marking the start of a very long night.
—
Neither you nor Mingi left your chambers until the next night, dressed lavishly as you walked into the main dining hall of the estate. Everyone greeted you warmly as you walked further into the room, arm hooked around Mingi's. To others, here it would seem like you were simply clinging to your husband as a newlywed wife might, but while that might also be the case, you were using his strong body as support. Your body is still not fully recovered from the strenuous activities that kept you and Mingi up most of the night.
"Welcome, Duke and Duchess Song." Someone announced as you and Mingi took your seats at the head of the table, Mingi's larger hand resting comfortably on your thigh.
"We wish you and the Duke nothing but luck and prosperity." A noblewoman and her young daughter walked up to you, bowing deeply before offering you a gift that your maid took to join the multitude of others.
This went on for the better half of the night, and before long, you felt a churning in your gut. Swallowing thickly, you move your hand to your stomach, and Mingi was quick to notice. Without breaking the conversation he was holding with another nobleman, he moved his hand from your thigh to cover your smaller hand that lay on your stomach.
You knew that pregnancy with a dragon descendant would be different, and Mingi warned you that if done correctly, you would be with child before the end of the week. Though as you felt something bubble in your gut, you were sure that you wouldn't need the rest of the week, and that alone brought a soft smile to your lips.
Lying your other hand over Mingi's, the cool metal of his ring chilling your skin in a comforting way, and you began to wonder how this came to be your life. Yet as you sat here, overlooking all of your people with your husband by your side, you knew that if given the chance, you'd relive this lifetime and time again.
summary: in which you discover you have a thing for when your boyfriend gets pissed off
warning: possessive/jealous/hard dom yunho, bratty sub reader, light bondage, spanking, choking, unprotected sex, squirting, creampie
genre: smut
pairing: idol yunho x afab reader
word count: 10.5k
masterlist
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The bass from the stage bled through the walls like a second heartbeat. Backstage was chaos in motion, staff moving in practiced patterns, headsets crackling, racks of outfits half zipped and half forgotten as the performance hit its opening marks. You stood just off to the side, tablet tucked against your chest, eyes flicking between the live monitor and the stage entrance.
Four years. Four years of doing this, styling, fixing, adjusting, watching from the sidelines as Ateez turned into something untouchable under stage lights. And four years of him. Yunho. You knew his rhythms better than anyone. The way his shoulders loosened when he was confident. The way his smile shifted depending on whether it was for fans or just for you. The tiny tells no one else caught.
Which is why the second the intro video skipped him….. You noticed. On the monitor, the sequence rolled out perfectly for the others, each shot crisp, dramatic, timed to the beat. Then Yunho’s part came. And it skipped him. He froze. Not visibly. Not in a way the crowd would clock. But you did. His posture shifted, just barely. His shoulders going a fraction tighter, his jaw setting in a way that didn’t belong to his usual stage persona. His expression didn’t drop, didn’t break…. but something underneath it did.
A flicker of irritation. Sharp. Controlled. Real. Your breath caught. And there it was. That feeling. Low. Sudden. Familiar in a way you hated admitting. Because you’d seen it before. Not often. Almost never, actually. Yunho wasn’t the type to get mad. Not openly. Not carelessly. He was patient to a fault, steady even when everything around him went to hell. But the few times he had…. A rehearsal that went too long. A staff mistake that kept repeating. That one night, months ago, when Wooyoung pushed him just a little too far and his voice dropped into something quiet and dangerous……
Yeah.
You remembered. You remembered exactly how it felt. The way your stomach tightened. The way your thoughts stopped cooperating. The way something warm and reckless curled low in your chest like it had been waiting for that version of him. And now watching him recover mid performance like nothing happened, like the skip didn’t matter, like he wasn’t even remotely affected….. You knew better.
Because you could still see it. In the tension of his neck. In the way his movements were just a little sharper now. In the way his eyes didn’t soften when the camera finally found him again. You swallowed. Hard. “Did that just skip him?” one of the staff muttered beside you, frowning at the monitor. You didn’t answer. Because you were too busy staring. Too busy thinking….
He’s annoyed.
And worse….
I like it.
Your grip tightened slightly around your tablet. God. That was new. Or maybe not new. Just… finally acknowledged. Yunho hit his next mark perfectly, like always. Clean. Controlled. Untouchable. But you could see it now. And once you saw it…. You couldn’t unsee it. And somewhere between the next beat drop and the next formation change… A thought slipped in. Quiet. Dangerous.
I wonder…
Your tongue pressed lightly against the inside of your cheek.
…what it would take to push him there again.
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The apartment was quiet in that comfortable, lived in way. A low hum from the TV filled the living room, some random show Yeosang had thrown on more for background noise than actual interest. He was sprawled across one end of the couch, half focused, half scrolling on his phone, completely at ease.
You sat at the other end, legs tucked under you, phone in hand as you debated between two different places to order food from. Your thumb hovered over the screen, scrolling, pausing, scrolling again.
The bathroom door clicked open. Yunho’s bedroom door followed. Then silence….. then footsteps. Your eyes flicked up automatically. And there he was. Yunho stepped out, hair damp, a towel slung low on his hips, another one loosely in his hand as he dragged it through his hair. Water still clung to his skin, tracing slow paths down his neck, his chest….
You swallowed.
“Baby…” His voice carried that soft rasp that always came after a hot shower, warm, relaxed, almost. “Did you turn my PC off while I was in the shower?” There it was. You felt it before you even processed the words. That tiny shift. That edge. You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing your expression to stay neutral as you glanced back down at your phone like you hadn’t just been caught.
“You were in the shower…” you said lightly, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “It was running hot.” Silence stretched just enough to feel it.
“I paused my game.” His voice didn’t raise…. Just lowered. You looked up again. And yeah. There it was. His jaw. Clenched. Not aggressively. Not dramatically. Just tight enough that you could see the muscle flick. “All my progress is gone now.” Your stomach flipped. God. There it was again. That feeling. Stronger this time. Closer. Easier to grab onto now that you knew what it was. You should apologize. You knew you should. That would be the normal thing. The good girlfriend thing.
Instead….. Your lips pressed together, like you were trying to hold something back. “Mm… that sucks.”
Yeosang snorted from the other end of the couch, not even looking up. “You didn’t save?”
“I paused it,” Yunho repeated, a little sharper this time, running the towel through his hair again like he needed something to do with his hands. Your eyes tracked the movement without meaning to. Then back to his face. Still calm. Still controlled. But not soft anymore. And the worst part? You could feel it building. That curiosity. That reckless little thought from a few nights ago creeping back in, louder now.
What happens if you push a little more?
You tilted your head slightly, finally setting your phone down on your lap. “Why didn’t you just save it?” you asked, tone innocent. Too innocent. Yunho’s eyes snapped to yours. Not angry. Not yet. But focused. Sharp. And aware. “You don’t always get the option to save mid match.”
There it was.
That tone.
You felt it like a spark against your skin.
Your fingers curled slightly against your leg. “Oh…… sounds like a you problem.”
Yeosang choked. Coughed into his fist, finally looking over at you like, are you serious right now? But you weren’t looking at him. You were watching Yunho. Waiting. His hand stilled in his hair. Slowly, he lowered the towel. His head tilted just slightly. And his eyes stayed on you. Too long. Too quiet. “You think that’s funny?”
Your pulse kicked. The silence after your comment sat thick in the room. Yeosang had gone very still. The TV kept playing, laugh track and all, but it sounded distant now, like background noise in a dream. Yunho didn’t move. He just kept looking at you. Not confused. Not loud. Just assessing. You felt it crawl up your spine.
You shrugged. Like none of this mattered. Like his jaw wasn’t tight. Like you weren’t acutely aware of the way his chest was still damp, the towel hanging low on his hips, the faint steam still clinging to him. “I’m ordering food,” you said, picking your phone back up, crossing one leg over the other like this was the most normal conversation in the world. “What do you want?”
Yeosang made a small noise. Something between a cough and a stifled laugh as Yunho’s tongue pressed briefly against the inside of his cheek. There it was again. That micro expression. That controlled irritation he almost never let out. “You’re not gonna say sorry?” he asked. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even sharp. But it wasn’t soft either. Your heart did an annoying little skip again.
You kept your eyes on your phone. Pretended to scroll. Pretended you weren’t hyperaware of every shift in the air around him. “For what?” you replied lightly. “You should’ve saved.”
Yeosang very slowly stood up. “I’m… gonna go check something in my room.” Smart man. He didn’t look at either of you as he walked down the hallway, but you heard his door click shut.
Now it was just you.
And him.
And the air felt different.
Quieter.
Thicker.
You could feel his presence before he even moved. Slow footsteps across the floor. Not rushed. Not angry. Deliberate. You swallowed. Still pretending to scroll. Still pretending you weren’t waiting for it as he stopped in front of you. Close enough that your knees almost brushed his legs.
“You’ve been doing that a lot lately,” he said quietly and your breath hitched before you could stop it. “Doing what?” His head tilted slightly. “Acting cute when you know you’re being annoying.” Oh. Your stomach tightened so fast it almost hurt. You forced your expression to stay neutral, even as warmth crept up your neck. “I’m not acting cute,” you murmured.
His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second. Then back up. “That little tone?” he continued softly. “The shrug? The, sounds like a you problem?” Your pulse was loud in your ears now. You shouldn’t push. You really shouldn’t…..
You gave him another small shrug. “What do you want on your pizza, Yunho?”
The room went very still as he exhaled once through his nose. Not loud. Just steady as he leaned down slightly. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough that you caught the faint scent of soap and steam and him. His hand came down on the back of the couch, right beside your shoulder. Not touching you. Just there. Cornering without actually doing it.
“Keep acting like a brat,” he said softly, voice lower now. “See what happens.”
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The bass in the practice room rattled the mirrors. Ateez were halfway through a run through with bbt when the door cracked open and you slipped inside, arms full of takeout bags. The smell hit first, immediate and distracting. Mingi was the first to notice. “Food!” he yelled, dropping dramatically to the floor mid choreo.
Hongjoong cut the music with a sigh. “Five minute break.”
Sweaty, breathing hard, slightly annoyed from repetition. The room buzzed with leftover adrenaline. Yunho was near the center mirror, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling. His shirt clung to him, damp at the collar. Hair pushed back, eyes focused, still in performance mode.
He hadn’t noticed you yet. You liked that. You walked further in, smiling as the others crowded around. “I come bearing peace offerings,” you said, setting the bags down. “Marry me,” Wooyoung said immediately. “You say that every time,” you shot back.
“Hey.”
Derek. You felt him before you turned. He leaned casually against the wall, water bottle in hand, grin easy, familiar. One of the newer bbt dancers. Talented. Loud. Oblivious. Oblivious to the fact that you weren’t available. “You brought enough for me too?” he asked, stepping closer.
You normally brushed him off. Gave him polite distance. Kept it clear. But today? You could feel Yunho’s presence now. Behind you somewhere. You didn’t turn to check. You didn’t need to. You smiled at Derek. A little warmer than usual. “Of course,” you said lightly. “I always make sure everyone’s taken care of.”
Derek’s grin widened. “See? That’s why you’re my favorite stylist.”
You heard a water bottle hit the floor somewhere behind you. Harder than necessary and your pulse jumped as Derek stepped closer, close enough that his arm brushed yours as he reached for one of the food containers. “You know,” he continued, lowering his voice slightly, “we’re grabbing drinks Friday. You should come.”
You normally would’ve laughed it off. But instead, you tilted your head. “Oh? Who’s we?” He smiled, leaning in just a little. “Me. Obviously.” The air shifted. Subtle. But heavy. You felt it across your shoulders like a weight. You let your eyes flick past Derek’s shoulder. And found him. Yunho was standing a few feet away now. Still. Watching. Not smiling. Not speaking. Just watching.
Your stomach tightened instantly as you turned back to Derek. Let your fingers lightly brush his wrist as you handed him a drink. “I don’t know,” you said softly. “I might be busy.” Derek’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand and he laughed. “Busy can be rearranged.”
Across the room…. Yunho’s expression changed. Not explosive. Not dramatic. Just…. Focused. Sharp. Controlled in a way that wasn’t relaxed anymore. Hongjoong glanced between the three of you. He noticed. Of course he did. “Break’s over in two,” he called, tone neutral but eyes on Yunho.
Derek leaned closer, lowering his voice again. “I could make it worth your while.”
Oh.
That one did it.
You felt it before you saw it. The energy behind you changed. A hand landed on the mirror beside your head. Not touching you. Just there. Close. Heat. Presence. Silence. Derek straightened slightly. “Yunho,” he said casually. “You need her for something?”
Yunho didn’t look at Derek. Not at first. His eyes were on you. “You done?” He asked quietly. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just calm. Too calm. Your heart was beating so hard you were sure Derek could hear it as you turned your head just enough to look up at your boyfriend. All wide eyed false innocence. “Done with what?” Your voice came out soft. Innocent. Perfectly confused. And for half a second, Yunho’s eyes stayed on you. That simmering tension sitting just beneath the surface.
Then he turned. And whatever he’d been holding in? He stopped holding it. His gaze locked onto Derek. Not calm. Not neutral. Not even close. His jaw was tight enough now that the muscle visibly flexed. His shoulders squared. His entire posture shifted in a way that didn’t belong to the gentle, patient version of him everyone was used to. The room felt it instantly. Mingi went quiet. Seonghwa stopped eating mid bite. Even Wooyoung didn’t say anything.
“You’re new,” Yunho said, voice low but no longer soft. “So I’m gonna tell you once.” Derek straightened instinctively, grin slipping off his face. “Don’t flirt with my girlfriend again.” Silence. Thick. Heavy. Final. Your heart slammed so hard it almost hurt. Yunho had never claimed you like that in front of staff. Never like this. Not with that tone. Not with that look.
Derek blinked. “Man, I didn’t…”
“I don’t care what you meant,” Yunho cut in. Not yelling. Worse. Controlled anger. The kind that didn’t need volume. “You don’t touch her. You don’t lean in. You don’t ask her out.” Each sentence landed deliberate. Measured. “You got it?”
Derek swallowed. “Yeah.”
“Good.” And just like that, Yunho stepped back. But the energy didn’t dissipate. It clung to him. His chest still rising a little faster than it should’ve. His eyes still sharp. His hands flexing once at his sides like he was containing something bigger. No one joked. No one teased. They all felt it.
Hongjoong cleared his throat lightly. “Back to work.”
Music started again. Derek retreated to bbt’s side of the room. And you were still standing there. Frozen. Because you’d wanted to see him mad. You’d pushed for it. And now that you had it? It was stronger than you expected. More intense. More possessive.
Slowly, your eyes lifted to him again. He didn’t look at you. Not immediately. He walked back to his spot on the floor. But when he finally did glance over…. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t affectionate. It wasn’t teasing. It was a warning. And something else. Something darker. Something that made heat flood straight through you so fast your knees almost gave.
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The studio smelled like hairspray and coffee. Bright white backdrops. Rolling racks of wardrobe. Stylists weaving in and out with brushes, clips, lint rollers. The kind of organized chaos you’d been living in for years. Ateez were mid rotation through looks, one by one cycling through hair, makeup, wardrobe adjustments before stepping in front of the camera.
Yunho was across the room. Already styled. Already perfect. White button down half open at the collar, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearm, dark slacks tailored to sit just right on his hips. Hair slightly tousled in that effortless way that took twenty minutes to achieve. He wasn’t looking at you. But you could feel it. Every time you moved. Every time you laughed at something someone said.
He wasn’t angry like yesterday. He was watching. And that was worse. Even as the two of you went to bed the night before, he had pulled you into his side, wrapped an arm around you like nothing was wrong.
You were currently standing between Mingi’s knees as he sat in the styling chair, fingers working product through his hair, comb smoothing it back. He’d been suspiciously quiet for a minute. Too quiet. “I know what you’re doing.” You stilled for half a second. “What am I doing?” you asked casually, eyes still on his hair.
Mingi’s mouth twitched. “Don’t play dumb. You’re not that good at it.”
You snorted softly. “You’re dramatic.”
He leaned back in the chair slightly, lowering his voice just enough so only you could hear. “You’ve been poking him for days.” Your fingers paused mid adjustment. “You sure you want to really piss him off?” There wasn’t teasing in his voice. Not entirely. It was observant. Careful. Because Mingi knew. He’d seen Yunho mad before.
You swallowed, pretending to focus on smoothing down a stray section of hair. “I’m not trying to piss him off.” Mingi gave you a look through the mirror. “Yeah, you are.” Your eyes met his in the reflection. And you didn’t deny it. That was answer enough. He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “You’re brave.” Or reckless. He didn’t say it, but it lingered.
Across the room, someone called Yunho’s name. He stepped toward the set, adjusting his cuffs. But before he did, his eyes flicked up. Met yours in the mirror. Just for a second. And even from across the room, you felt it. Like he’d already decided something. Your pulse kicked as Mingi followed your line of sight. “See?” he muttered. “That look.”
You tried to keep your voice steady. “What look?”
“That, I’m gonna let you keep running your mouth and acting like a brat, look.”
Heat crawled up your neck as Mingi leaned forward slightly as you finished adjusting his hair. “He’s patient,” he added quietly. “But when he’s done being patient?” He let that sentence hang. You hated how your stomach tightened at that. You stepped back, brushing your hands together lightly. “All done,” you said.
Mingi stood, but before walking toward the set, he leaned close to your ear. “Just make sure you actually want what you’re asking for.” Then he walked off. Leaving you standing there. Breathing just a little too fast.
Across the room Yunho stepped into the lights. And when the photographer started directing him… he didn’t look soft. He didn’t look playful. He looked focused. Controlled. Like he was holding something back. And for the first time since you started this little experiment…. You wondered if maybe… You’d pushed far enough.
You stayed near the edge of the set, arms crossed loosely, eyes tracking him without meaning to. The camera shutter clicked in steady bursts. “Chin down… yeah, right there…. hold it.” Yunho didn’t miss a single mark. Every movement precise. Every angle sharp. He shifted between poses like second nature, hand brushing through his hair, head tilting just enough, eyes locking into the lens with that same controlled intensity you’d been noticing all day.
And every once in a while… his gaze would flick past the camera. Find you. Just for a second. Long enough to make your stomach twist. Then he’d look away again like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t watching you back. The photographer finally stepped back with a satisfied nod. “That’s a wrap.”
The room exhaled. Energy shifted instantly, staff relaxing, someone turning off one of the lights, the music lowering. Jongho stretched, groaning. “Finally.” Wooyoung dropped dramatically onto a nearby couch. “I need alcohol. Immediately.” San snorted. “You always need alcohol.”
“Yeah, but now it’s justified.” Seonghwa djusted his sleeve, glancing around. “There’s that bar a block from KQ.” Jongho raised a brow. “The private one?”
“Mm,” Seonghwa nodded. “No fans. No cameras. Just us.”
Wooyoung was already standing. “Say less.”
Jongho grabbed his phone. “I’m in.”
Mingi looked over at Yunho. “You coming?”
There was a brief pause. Yunho was by the mirror, fingers adjusting the cuff of his shirt again, something he’d done three times already. “Yeah,” he said finally. Short. Simple. But when he turned, his eyes flicked to you. And stayed there. The noise of the room faded for a second. Just enough for you to feel it. That same look from earlier.
Wooyoung clapped his hands. “Alright, whoever is coming, grab your stuff, five minutes.”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The bar was low lit and tucked away, exactly like Seonghwa promised. Warm amber lighting, leather booths, no phones pointed their way, no whispers. Just music low enough to talk over and drinks arriving steadily.
Hongjoong and Seonghwa didn’t come, but the rest of the group had taken over a long curved booth in the back corner. Mingi and Wooyoung were already arguing about something ridiculous. San was laughing too loud. Jongho was pretending he wasn’t keeping track of everyone’s alcohol intake even though he was drinking more than everyone. Yeosang was wiping his face where San landed a sloppy kiss.
You sat between Mingi and Yunho. Close enough to feel both of them. Mingi’s shoulder occasionally bumping yours when he laughed. Yunho’s high brushing against yours every time he shifted. And that was the problem. He was… relaxed. Completely. Three drinks in, shoulders loose, posture open. Laughing at something Wooyoung said. Head tipped back slightly when he smiled. Soft again. Easy. No tension in his jaw. No edge in his eyes. Like you losing his game progress hadn’t happened. Like the practice room hadn’t happened. Like the photoshoot hadn’t happened. Like you hadn’t spent almost the entire week carefully prodding him to see that look again.
Your fingers tightened around your glass. Why was that annoying? You didn’t even know. You should’ve been relieved. You should’ve liked this version more. This was your boyfriend. The one you loved more than anything. The patient one. The affectionate one. The one who rested his arm casually along the back of the booth behind you without even thinking about it.
But instead…. You felt restless. Your eyes slid sideways toward him. He was mid conversation with Mingi now, smiling, completely unbothered. And it irritated you. Which was ridiculous. You shifted in your seat slightly, crossing your legs the other way. Your knee brushed his thigh more deliberately this time. He didn’t react. Just kept talking.
Your jaw tightened faintly and Mingi noticed. Of course he did. He leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “You look disappointed.” You shot him a glare. “Shut up.” He smirked into his drink. Across from you, Wooyoung nudged Yeosang . “Look at her. She’s plotting something.”
Yunho’s head turned to you. Finally. His gaze dropped to you. Soft. Curious. “You good?” he asked. And that…. that might’ve been worse. The casual concern. The gentle tone. Your pulse jumped anyway. “I’m fine,” you replied too quickly. He studied you for a second longer. Then his thumb brushed lightly against your side where his arm rested behind you. A subconscious touch. Affectionate. Warm.
You almost flinched. Because that wasn’t what you’d been chasing. You hated that you missed the tension. Hated that you were almost… craving it. You leaned back slightly, pulling just out of his touch without making it obvious. His hand stilled for a second. There. A tiny shift. But it disappeared just as fast. He picked up his drink. Relaxed. Unbothered as Mingi leaned close again, voice a quiet murmur. “You mad he’s not mad?” Your teeth pressed together. “I’m not mad.”
Mingi hummed skeptically. Across the table, Wooyoung suggested shots. Yunho laughed, nodding along. And you just sat there. Agitated. Because for the first time since you started this… You weren’t the one controlling the reaction. He was. And he was choosing not to give you what you wanted.
Thirty minutes later, the table was louder. Looser. Messier. Empty shot glasses scattered between half finished drinks, laughter spilling too easily now, conversations overlapping in that chaotic way that only happened when everyone was just drunk enough. And you were definitely feeling it. Your head lighter, your thoughts less careful. Mingi clinked another shot glass against yours. “You’re keeping up surprisingly well.” You smirked, already lifting it. “You sound surprised.”
“I am. Yunho usually cuts you off by now.”
Your eyes flicked across the table where Yunho had moved to, leaned back in the booth, arm slung over the back, talking to Jongho. Still calm. Relaxed. Still not reacting. Your jaw tightened slightly as you tipped another shot back. The burn barely registered this time. Mingi watched you, eyes narrowing just a bit as he caught on. “Oh, you’re in a mood,” he muttered.
You ignored him. Because your focus had already shifted back to Yunho. Still laughing. Still easy. Still not giving you anything. Fine. You pushed off the table slightly, leaning closer into Mingi’s space instead, shoulder brushing his arm more deliberately now. “Another?” you asked, voice lighter, looser.
Mingi raised a brow. “You sure?” You tilted your head, giving him a small, challenging smile. “What? Can’t keep up?” He huffed out a laugh. “That’s not what I…”
“Then pour it.”
Across the table Yunho’s voice paused. Just for a second. You felt it. That shift. Subtle. But there. Mingi noticed too. His eyes flicked toward his best friend, then back to you. “You’re really doing this, huh?” You didn’t answer. Just held his gaze. Daring. Mingi sighed under his breath but poured the shot anyway.
You took it from him, your fingers brushing his a little longer than necessary. And this time you didn’t even try to hide it. You threw it back. Set the glass down with a soft clink. And laughed. Laughed a little louder than usual at whatever Wooyoung said next, leaning into Mingi again, your knee pressing against his under the table.
Across from you, Yunho had gone quiet. Not visibly. No one else would notice. But you did. Because now he wasn’t looking at Jongho anymore. He was looking at you. Not soft. Not curious. Not relaxed. Your pulse spiked instantly as you leaned even closer to Mingi, lowering your voice like you were telling him something secret. You weren’t. But it didn’t matter.
Because from where Yunho was sitting, It looked like you were. Mingi froze for half a second. “You’re actually using me to try to get a reaction,” he muttered. You smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Maybe.”
Yunho set his glass down. Not hard. Just… deliberate. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. There it was. Finally. That tension creeping back in. That control tightening instead of loosening. Mingi glanced at his best friend and groaned. “Yeah,” he muttered, leaning back. “You got it.”
You barely heard him. Because all your attention was on Yunho now. The tension was thick. Not loud. Not explosive. Just there. Yunho hadn’t said a word since setting his glass down. He didn’t need to. The look was enough.
Wooyoung suddenly slapped the table. “Someone come play pool with me. I’m bored.”
Jongho waved him off. “You cheat.”
“I don’t cheat. I improvise.”
San smirked into his drink. “Same thing.”
Wooyoung stood, already halfway toward the pool table near the back of the bar. “Fine. I’ll go alone.” You slid out of the booth before you even fully thought about it. “I’ll play.”
Mingi’s head snapped toward you. “Oh my god.”
You were smiling. Loose. Buzzed. Reckless and Wooyoung lit up immediately. “Yes! Finally someone with taste.” He grabbed your hand dramatically, tugging you toward the table. You giggled, stumbling slightly as you followed him, Yunho watching you. Watching Wooyoung’s hand wrapped around yours. Watching you let him pull you away.
The pool table was under softer lighting, a little removed from the main booth but still in clear view. Wooyoung handed you a cue stick, grinning. “You’re definitely gonna lose.”
“You underestimate me,” you shot back, leaning over the table to line up your shot. You were aware. Very aware. Of how you looked right now. The slight sway in your balance. The way your shirt rode up just slightly when you bent. The way your laughter carried.
Wooyoung circled the table dramatically. “Wow. That’s terrible form.”
You smirked at him. “Then fix it.”
He stepped behind you without hesitation, hands coming to guide your arms playfully. It was innocent. But from across the room…. It didn’t look that way. Your eyes flicked up. And there he was. Yunho hadn’t moved from the booth. But he wasn’t relaxed anymore. He wasn’t leaning back. Forearms resting on his thighs. Watching.
Your stomach flipped as Wooyoung leaned close to your ear. “You’re insane.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re poking the bear in public.”
You swallowed down a grin. “He’s not a bear.”
Wooyoung glanced toward the booth again. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Okay.”
You straightened up after missing the shot completely and Wooyoung laughed loudly. “Terrible. Absolutely terrible.” You shoved him lightly. “Shut up.” Your hand lingered on his arm half a second longer than necessary.
Yunho stood and your pulse spiked. Wooyoung saw it too. “Shit.” he breathed. Across the room, Mingi muttered something into his drink that sounded suspiciously like “I told her.” As Yunho walked toward you. Slow. Measured. Not rushing. Which somehow made it worse. You could feel the shift in the air before he even reached the table.
Wooyoung raised both hands immediately. “I’m innocent.” Yunho didn’t look at him. His eyes were on you. Wooyoung blinked. “Okay. That’s my cue.” Coward. Now it was just you. And Yunho. And the low hum of the bar around you. You leaned casually against the table’s edge, pretending this didn’t feel like standing in front of a loaded weapon. “Didn’t know you wanted to play,” you said lightly.
Yunho chalked the tip of the cue he picked up slowly. Too slowly. His eyes lifted to you. “Didn’t know you needed help.” Your pulse skipped as he stepped around the table, movements deliberate. Lined up a shot without breaking eye contact. Crack. Two balls sank clean. He walked around you to reposition. Close enough that the heat of him brushed your side as he passed. Your breath caught as he leaned in slightly. Not touching. Just enough that you felt his presence right behind you.
“You’re being a brat.”
Your stomach tightened so fast it almost hurt. You swallowed, forcing a small scoff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He moved around you again, circling, assessing the table like you were just another piece in the game. “You do.” Another shot. Clean. Controlled. He set the cue down lightly, stepping closer this time. Not enough for anyone else to notice anything unusual. But enough for you to feel cornered without actually being cornered.
“You’ve been poking at me all week,” he continued quietly. “At home. At practice. Here.” Your heart was racing now as you forced a shrug. “Maybe you’re just sensitive.” His jaw tightened as he leaned down slightly, hand braced on the table beside your hip. “Sensitive?” he repeated softly. The music felt distant. The room felt smaller. You hated how warm you felt under his gaze. Thighs clenched together now. Hated how obvious it probably was.
“You want me annoyed?” he asked, voice still calm. “Is that it?” Your breath stuttered. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because he saw it. The way your pulse jumped. The way your mouth parted just slightly. The way you didn’t deny it. He straightened slowly and smiled. Not soft. Not sweet. Something sharper. “You think that’s cute?”
Your fingers tightened against the edge of the table. “You’re drunk,” you muttered.
“I’m not drunk,” he replied evenly. “I’m patient.” The way he said it… made it sound temporary. His hand brushed the cue stick again, then he leaned in one last time, voice barely audible. “Careful what you ask for.” Then he stepped back. Completely composed. Like he hadn’t just called you out. Like he hadn’t just seen straight through you. Like he hadn’t just turned the game around.
The table reset. You grabbed the cue before he could fully take position again. “Ladies first,” you said sweetly. He stepped back just enough to let you. But his eyes didn’t leave you. Not once. You leaned over the table dramatically this time. Too dramatically. Taking your time lining up a shot that didn’t need that much concentration. You missed. On purpose. “Oops,” you murmured.
Yunho didn’t react. Just walked around you, stepping into position. You moved the cue ball slightly with your fingers while his back was turned. Just a nudge. Just enough. You knew he hated when someone cheated.
Mingi, watching from the booth, choked on his drink. “Oh god,” he muttered as Yunho straightened slowly. He’d seen it. Of course he had. “You just moved that,” he said calmly. You widened your eyes. “Moved what?”
“The cue ball.”
“I did not.” You bent down again, lining up another shot, this time letting your hip bump lightly against his thigh. “You’re delusional,” you said softly. Crack. Another ball sank, because of where you’d moved the cue. You grinned. “That counts.”
Yunho inhaled slowly through his nose as he stepped around the table again, jaw tightening slightly. “You’re cheating.”
“I’m not cheating,” you said innocently. “I’m improvising.”
He stopped walking. Oh. That one hit. Because that was Wooyoung’s line earlier. You were layering it on now. He moved closer this time. Not touching. Just close enough that you felt the warmth of him at your side. “Play properly,” he said quietly.
“Make me.” You shouldn’t have said it like that. You knew you shouldn’t have. But the alcohol was warm in your veins and the look in his eyes was exactly what you’d been chasing. His jaw flexed as he reached down and repositioned the cue ball back to where it had been. “You keep that up,” he murmured just for you, “and I’m gonna stop playing nice.”
Your stomach dropped in the best possible way. You leaned in again, pretending to adjust your stance. And very obviously tapped another ball slightly with your fingers when he wasn’t looking. He froze. His head turned slowly toward you. “You’re really testing me tonight.”
Your lips curved. “Maybe I just like winning.”
He stepped closer. Close enough that your back brushed lightly against his chest. One hand came down flat on the table beside you. The other took the cue from your hands. Firm. Not rough. But not gentle either. “Winning?” he repeated quietly. Your pulse was hammering now. You tilted your head back slightly, looking up at him. And you could see it. The annoyance was real now.
“You’re not even subtle,” he said.
Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “Maybe I don’t want to be.” His eyes darkened slightly, hand gripping at your hip now….. His jaw tight. Then he tapped the cue lightly against the table. “Break,” he said flatly. “I need the restroom.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Running away?” He didn’t answer. Just gave you one long look. The kind that said, don’t. Then he turned and walked toward the back hallway. You exhaled slowly once he disappeared around the corner. Your pulse was still elevated. Your skin still buzzing. You hadn’t expected him to walk away.
For a split second, you felt weirdly deflated. Then…. A shadow fell across the pool table. “Didn’t know they let angels play pool alone.” You blinked, cringing at the pickup line. Great. A stranger. Mid twenties. Slightly drunk. Smiling too confidently. “I’m not alone,” you replied flatly, stepping back slightly.
He leaned an elbow on the table anyway. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“I’m good,” you said, turning your attention back to the cue like he didn’t exist. He didn’t leave. Instead, he stepped closer. “Come on. Just one drink.”
“I said I’m good.”
Across the room, Mingi noticed first. His posture shifted subtly. Then Wooyoung. The guy stepped even closer. Too close now. “You don’t gotta act shy.”
“I’m not shy,” you said sharply.
He reached toward your arm. That was enough. Mingi was already standing, moving. “Why don’t we back off,” Mingi said calmly, stepping between you and the stranger. The guy scoffed. “You her boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not talking to you.”
And before Mingi could react, the guy leaned past him. Hand landing on your waist. You froze and Mingi’s jaw tightened instantly, shoulders squaring. He was about to push him. You could see it. But he didn’t get the chance. Because the guy’s body suddenly jerked backward. Hard. A fist collided with his jaw. The crack of it cut through the bar noise like glass shattering. The guy stumbled back, nearly falling.
Yunho. He grabbed the guy by the collar before he could recover and drove another punch into his face. Chaos erupted instantly. Chairs scraping. Someone shouting. Wooyoung jumping up from the booth. “Shit! Time to go!”
Jongho was already moving. Yeosang grabbing jackets. San pulling Mingi back before he joined in as Yunho shoved the guy off him and stepped back, fists still clenched, breathing hard. The guy was dazed, bleeding from his lip, stunned. “Touch her again,” Yunho said low, deadly calm now in a way that was far worse than yelling, “and I won’t stop.”
“Let’s go!” Wooyoung barked.
Mingi grabbed your wrist gently. “Let’s go.” You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because you were staring at your boyfriend. You’d wanted him mad. You’d chased it. Provoked it. Played with it. But this wasn’t playful irritation. This was protective. Possessive. Real.
“Move,” Jongho said sharply.
Yunho grabbed your hand this time. Firm. And pulled you toward the exit as the rest of the guys spilled out behind you. The cold night air hit your face like a slap. The bar door slammed shut behind you. And only then did he let go. He was still breathing hard. Still keyed up. Still visibly pissed.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The apartment door slammed so hard the walls seemed to feel it. Silence followed. Heavy. Sharp. Yunho didn’t move far from the door after closing it, one hand still braced against it, head slightly bowed like he was trying to get a grip on himself.
You stood a few steps inside. Heart still racing. The adrenaline hadn’t left yet. Neither had the tension. Yeosang glanced between the two of you, already reading the room perfectly. “I’m gonna shower,” he said quietly. No one stopped him. The bathroom door shut a second later.
Yunho exhaled once, slow and controlled, before pushing off the door. “You think that was funny?” His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. You crossed your arms instinctively, leaning back slightly like you needed the space. “I didn’t do anything,” you said, but it came out weaker than you meant.
His head tilted. Not amused. “You didn’t do anything?” he repeated. You felt your chest tighten. “I told him to leave me alone.”
“And before that?” he shot back. There it was. Not yelling. But no patience left. “You were flirting with Mingi, my best friend. With Wooyoung. Acting like….” he cut himself off, jaw tightening again. You bristled. “I wasn’t acting like anything.”
His eyes snapped to yours. “Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what you were doing.” Your pulse jumped. Because he was right. And you hated how easily he saw through you. You swallowed, lifting your chin slightly. “Maybe I just wanted your attention.” The words slipped out before you could soften them.
Yunho stared at you. Like he was piecing everything together all at once. “That’s what this is?” he asked, quieter now, like he didn’t believe you. You didn’t answer. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. A small, almost disbelieving exhale left him. “You wanted my attention,” he repeated.
You shifted slightly under his gaze, but you didn’t back down. “You were ignoring me,” you muttered.
“I was letting it go,” he corrected immediately. “Because I thought you’d stop acting like a brat.”
Your stomach twisted. “I didn’t want you to let it go,” you admitted, softer now.
“So you kept pushing,” he said. Not a question. “And tonight?” he continued. “That guy?”
“I didn’t… I can handle myself,” you said.
“I know you can,” he replied immediately. And that wasn’t what you expected. That threw you off. His voice was still firm, still edged, but not dismissive. “I’m not saying you can’t,” he continued. “I’m saying I shouldn’t have had to step in like that.” The room fell quiet again. Your chest felt tight. Not from tension this time. From something heavier.
“You scared me,” he added after a beat. That hit differently. Your eyes flicked up to his. The anger was still there. But underneath it…. something real. You swallowed. “I didn’t think it would go that far,” you admitted.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once across the small space like he needed to burn off the leftover adrenaline. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It did.” Silence stretched again. Thicker. More grounded now. Less game.
You shifted your weight, arms uncrossing slowly. “I like it,” you said finally.
He stopped moving. Turned back to you. “Like what?”
“When you get like that,” you admitted quietly. “When you’re annoyed. Or… mad.”
His expression stilled.
“I don’t know why,” you added quickly. “I just….”
“You like it,” he finished for you. You nodded. Small. Honest. And for a second he just looked at you. Really looked. Like he was recalibrating everything he thought he understood about the last few days. Then he exhaled. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” he muttered.
Your lips twitched faintly despite yourself. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I know.” The tension didn’t disappear. But it shifted. Less sharp. More… charged. Yunho didn’t move right away after you said it. Didn’t rush you. “You’re such a fucking brat.”
Your pulse jumped. “Maybe.”
He stepped toward you. Not fast. Every step felt… deliberate. Measured. Like he was choosing exactly how close to get. You didn’t move back. You didn’t move at all. And that told him everything. He stopped just in front of you. Close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep eye contact. Close enough that your breathing wasn’t steady anymore.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. “Brat.” He repeated and your fingers curled slightly at your sides as his hand came up, tilting your chin up properly. “My brat.” Your stomach dropped. Heat flooding through you instantly. You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. “Your brat,” you breathed.
His jaw tightened slightly. “My brat.” He repeated then his hand dropped from your chin. But he didn’t step away. He stepped closer. Close enough that you felt his chest brush yours. “Go.”
You blinked, brows furrowed. “What?”
A faint, almost dangerous smile touched his mouth. “Room,” he said simply.
Your heart slammed. There was no teasing in it. No softness. Just instruction. And you loved it. You hesitated for half a second, just enough to test him. Because of course you did. A tiny, defiant pause. His eyes darkened immediately. “There you go again,” he murmured. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Your stomach flipped so hard it almost hurt. Yeah. This was new. This wasn’t the patient, easygoing version of him. This was controlled. Firm. Commanding in a way that made your thoughts go fuzzy. You turned. Finally. Walking toward the bedroom. Aware of him behind you. Not rushing. Not chasing. Just… following. Like he knew exactly where this was going. Like he was letting you take those few steps…. Before he took control of the rest.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind you. Louder than it should’ve. Or maybe everything just felt louder now. You barely made it two steps into the room before you felt him behind you, close, steady, not touching yet but there. Watching. Always watching. You turned slowly.
Yunho was leaning back against the door, arms relaxed at his sides, but nothing about him felt relaxed. Not his posture. Not his gaze. Not the way his eyes tracked every little movement you made. The room felt smaller. Like it belonged to him now. Like you did. He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “We’ve been together four years…” Your breath hitched. His voice wasn’t raised. Wasn’t sharp. But it wasn’t soft either. It carried weight. “why be a brat now?”
It landed right in your chest. You swallowed. Because there wasn’t an easy answer. Not one that didn’t make you sound a little unhinged. You shifted your weight slightly, fingers brushing against your own arm like you needed something to ground yourself. “I just…. It’s not like you always show you’re annoyed or mad…. you usually hide it….”
“And you really like that?” he pressed. Your breath wasn’t steady anymore. “When you get… like earlier,” you said softly. “When you’re not being patient with me.”
His eyes darkened just a fraction. “And instead of saying that,” he said slowly, “you decided to push every button I have.”
You gave a small, almost sheepish shrug. “Maybe.”
“You think that’s smart?” he asked. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek again. He stepped closer. Close enough that your back instinctively hit the edge of the dresser behind you. His hand came up, fingers brushing your chin, not rough, but firm enough to keep your attention where he wanted it. “If that’s what you wanted,” he said quietly, “you could’ve just asked.”
Your breath caught. “That’s not as fun,” you murmured before you could stop yourself. His eyes flashed. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I figured.” His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw once before his hand dropped. “Since you like pushing,” he continued, voice steady, controlled, “we’re gonna fix that.”
Your pulse spiked instantly. You shouldn’t like the way that sounded. But you did. A lot. You could already feel yourself getting wet in anticipation.
His hand came back up, fingers wrapping around your chin again, tilting your head back so you had no choice but to look up at him again.”Look at me,” he said quietly. Like you had any other option. Your pulse was racing now. His eyes searched yours for a second. Making sure. Checking. “Take off your clothes.”
Your stomach dropped and heat flooding through you just as fast. You didn’t move right away. Of course you didn’t. Just a slight pause. A breath. That same instinct to test him one more time. His grip tightened just a fraction. “There it is again,” he murmured. Your lips parted slightly. “You don’t get to hesitate now.”
Your fingers slowly moved to the hem of your shirt. Eyes still locked on his. And the entire time he didn’t look away. Didn’t soften. Didn’t step in to help. He just watched. Just stood there, gaze steady, taking in every second. By the time you were done, your breathing wasn’t steady anymore. It was breathless, chest rising and falling, naked.
He stepped forward again. Your back brushed the dresser behind you, nowhere else to go, but you didn’t try to move anyway. You didn’t want to. His hand came to your waist briefly, sliding down, one finger slipping to see just how wet you already were. He had to bite back a groan. His other hand moved to his belt. The soft sound of it sliding free filled the room. “I want to see…” he said, voice low, controlled, right at your ear now, “how long you can keep that little attitude up.”
Your lips parted like you were about to say something…. Something smart. Something defiant. But it didn’t make it out. Because he kissed you. Not soft. Not rushed. Deliberate. Enough to shut you up. Enough to remind you who was setting the pace now. And in that moment, you didn’t notice what he was doing. Not fully. Not until your hands were guided behind you. Your breath caught. He was looping the belt around your wrists. Securing them behind your back.
“You’re real quiet all of a sudden,” he murmured as your chest rose and fell a little faster, then he dipped his head, tugged one of your nipples into his mouth, teeth nipping at it before pulling back. You stood there, no teasing left in your voice. No easy defiance.
Yunho’s gaze didn’t leave your face as his hand lifted again, slow, like every movement was chosen, not rushed. His thumb brushed lightly across your nipple, just enough to make your breath hitch again, just enough to remind you how aware you were of everything now. Heightened. Sensitive. Your hands bound behind you only made it worse. No control.
His other hand slid lower, fingers trailing along your side, down your hip again, until they rested against your thigh, firm, grounding, claiming without saying the word. You shivered and felt it. “I need to know…” he said quietly, voice low enough to wrap around you, “how out of control you want me.”
And there it was. Not just dominance. Choice. Because beneath all of this, he was still just your boyfriend. Still making sure. Still giving you the space to stop it. But you didn’t want to. Not even a little. Your chest rose, breath catching as you held his gaze. “All the way,” you whispered. It came out softer than you expected. But steady. Certain.
His hand tightened slightly against your thigh. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to anchor you. “Good,” he murmured as his hand moved again, firmer now, less testing, more certain, guiding your attention back to him, to where he wanted it.
“Get on your knees.” The words landed heavy. Your fingers tightened against the belt behind your back, a small, instinctive pull as that familiar defiance sparked again. You tilted your chin up slightly. “Make me.”
Yunho’s expression didn’t explode. Didn’t snap. It went still. Completely. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek once. One hand came up, gripping your chin again, tilting your head just enough to keep your eyes exactly where he wanted them. “You really don’t know when to stop,” he murmured.
Your pulse hammered. But you didn’t look away. Didn’t back down. “You want me to make you?” he asked quietly. Your breath hitched. You nodded. Just once. And that was all he needed. His hand slid from your chin down to your shoulder, firm, guiding, until you were on your knees, looking up at him. “You don’t get to challenge me,” he said, voice low, steady, right above you now. “And then act surprised when I follow through.”
He stepped back just enough to give himself space and your eyes followed him instantly. He reached for his shirt first. Undoing each button one at a time like he had nowhere else to be. Your lips parted slightly. You couldn’t help it. Because normally your hands would already be on him. Helping. Pulling. Touching.
The shirt slipped from his shoulders, falling somewhere behind him, completely forgotten. Then his hands moved lower. To his waistband. Not rushing. Not even looking down as he adjusted it, just enough to make your stomach twist.
You shifted slightly on your knees. Instinct. Frustration. Need. He noticed. Of course he did. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “That look,” he said quietly. “you’re about to get impatient.”
Your jaw tightened slightly. “I’m not impatient.”
“Yeah?” he replied as his hand came down, brushing lightly along your shoulder, not enough to comfort, just enough to remind you he could touch you whenever he wanted. “You always get like this,” he continued, voice low, almost thoughtful now. “Hands all over me. Can’t keep still….. And now you can’t,” he added softly as he stepped back again, gripping his waistband and shoving his pants and boxers down, kicking them across the floor.
Your fingers flexed again behind your back, a small, frustrated movement as you saw how hard he was. You leaned forward. Already there. Already giving in. Your breath uneven, your lips parted, your body reacting before your mind could even catch up. And he saw it. And, God, he loved it. The way you didn’t even try to hide it anymore. The way all that attitude from earlier was slipping, piece by piece.
Yunho’s hand moved, steady at the back of your head, guiding himself closer, just brushing at your lips, not forcing, just enough to keep your attention exactly where he wanted it. “You want it,” he murmured, tracing his tip against your parted mouth like he was helping you put on lip balm. Your breath hitched. Because you did. And he knew it. His fingers tightened just slightly in your hair as he tilted your head up a fraction, making you look at him again instead of down. That alone made your chest tighten. Because he wasn’t giving it to you yet. He wanted you to feel it. To need it. Your fingers flexed uselessly behind your back again. That small movement didn’t go unnoticed.
“You know what…” he stared down at you. “I don’t you deserve to have me in your mouth.” Your stomach dropped. “
“But…”
He cut you off with a small tilt of his head. “After the way you’ve been acting this week?” he murmured. “I don’t think you’ve earned to swallow me.”
Your breath stuttered as you shifted slightly, frustration creeping in, your voice coming out softer than you intended. “Yunho….” A warning. A plea.
“Careful,” he said quietly. “You don’t get to start begging now like you weren’t just pushing me all night.”
You barely had time to react. One second you were still on your knees…. The next… He was pulling you up. Your balance tipped instantly without your hands, a soft gasp leaving you as he dragged you with him, steps quick and purposeful toward the bed. You stumbled, then fell back onto it, the mattress dipping under you as you landed. Your breath hitched. Heart racing.
Yunho didn’t rush after you. He followed slower. He was taking his time getting there. “Turn over.”
Your breath caught. There was no hesitation in him now. No question. Just instruction. When you didn’t move right away, he arched a brow at you. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”
You listened. Shifting on the bed, rolling over slowly, your hands still bound behind you making the movement clumsy, exposing in a way you weren’t used to. Vulnerable.
The mattress dipped behind you as he moved closer, presence immediately felt even before he touched you. A hand came to your back. Firm. Guiding. Keeping you exactly where he wanted you. Your breath stuttered as his hand traced slowly along your spine, not gentle, not rough, just there, intentional, grounding. “Where’d all that attitude go?”
Your fingers flexed behind your back again, a quiet, frustrated movement. “…still here,” you muttered.
“Yeah?” His hand pressed slightly more firmly against your lower back. “Doesn’t feel like it.” His hand kept guiding, trailing. You could feel his dick pressed against you….
His hand came down hard, sharp, against your ass. Your breath broke instantly, a soft moan slipping out before you could stop it and the room went still. Neither of you moved as your chest rose and fell quickly, your body reacting before your mind could catch up, heat rushing through you in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
“You liked that,” Yunho said quietly. Not teasing. Not joking. Realizing. Your fingers flexed behind your back, breath uneven as you tried to steady it. You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because your body already had. His hand came back to your lower back. Not striking again yet. Just resting there. “…good to know,” he murmured.
You felt the belt tighten slightly around your wrists. Not harsh. Just firm. His grip closing around it, reminding you exactly how little control you had right now. Then his other hand came down again. Sharp. This time, you weren’t caught off guard. Your body reacted instantly, a broken breath slipping out, softer but more aware than before. And that did something to him. You felt it in the way his grip on the belt tightened just slightly.
His hand slid up your back again, slower this time, tracing the path he’d already learned made you react. “You like being punished,” he added quietly and your fingers curled again behind your back, instinctive, useless.
His grip on the belt shifted again, steadying you as he leaned slightly closer, his dick pressing against you, his tip brushing where you needed him and just as you were about to snap, he thrusted, sinking into you, knocking your breath out. He groaned, feeling the way your walls instantly clenched him. “Fuck….”
“Fucking move!” You snapped, voice broken, hands gripping the sheets. Yunho let out a breathless laugh. Then he moved. He pulled all the way back out then slammed back into you. His hands gripped your hips, thrusts hard, deep, pounding.
He moved one hand to his belt still bound around your wrists, holding you exactly where he wanted you, every movement controlled, measured, like he was testing how far he could push before you finally broke. And you were close. Your breathing was uneven now, every reaction coming quicker than the last, your body giving you away no matter how much you tried to hold onto that last bit of attitude.
“Still got something to say?” he growled, clenching his jaw, watching his dick slip in and out of you as you huffed out a breath, trying to push back, even now. “…you’re annoying.” A quiet, low laugh left him again. “Yeah?” he said.
His hand dragged slowly up your back again, fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch. “Doesn’t sound like it.” And he was right, because you were whimpering now, moaning, barely able to hold yourself up. The obscenity of the squelching noises leaving from where he buried himself repeatedly echoed. “Fuck…. you hear that…. pussy talking to me…”
“Stop….” your voice broke, frustration finally spilling over, “fuck me like you mean it already!” The words came out sharper than anything you’d said all night.
Yunho exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw still tight, control still there, but thinner now. Your breath broke instantly. Tension snapping. Frustration melting into something heavier. Something deeper. His fingers pressed more firmly into your hips, anchoring you as he set the pace slower, watching as you started to cream on him and his eyes almost rolled to the back of his head at the sight.
“Yunho…” You moaned, broken, you could feel, pressure building, feel the sudden gush as you squirted, your voice gone, mouth open but no sounds coming out. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Can’t even talk now.” Your fingers curled tighter behind your back, your body reacting faster than you could control, every bit of that bratty attitude from earlier completely gone now. Replaced. Overtaken.
His grip shifted again, steadying you as your balance faltered, his pace staying firm, controlled, like he wasn’t going to let you get ahead of it this time. His hand tightened around the belt at your wrists, pulling you back against him, your back pressing flush to his chest as he brought you with him.
Your head tipped back slightly, breath breaking as everything hit harder in this position, your balance completely gone now, held up entirely by him now with his hand wrapped around your throat as he slammed up into you. “Yeah…” he exhaled. “That’s it…”
It hit you all at once. Your body tensed, then trembled, every reaction catching up at the same time, your breath breaking completely as you lost whatever control you had left. Yunho felt it instantly. The way you shook against him. Your fingers curled uselessly behind your back, your entire body reacting, the tension snapping and pulling you under completely.
And he didn’t slow down. Didn’t stop. He fucked you harder. Held you there as you came, your body wrecked, held up by him as he continued to chase his own release. “You’re mine…” he murmured, voice rough, barely held together now. “Say it.”
Your breath came out in pieces, your mind spinning, your body still shaking as another orgasm hit you harder than the first. “I…” you tried, voice catching as his hand tightened slightly around your throat, grounding you, pulling the words out of you. “Say it. My brat…”
“…yours,” you managed, barely more than a breath. “your brat…” That was it. The last thing holding him together snapped. A sharp exhale left him as he followed right after you, his hold tightening, pulling you closer against him like he needed to keep you there, needed to feel all of it at once as he came, pouring himself into you.
For a moment…. Everything stilled. Just your uneven breathing. His, just as rough. Your body still trembling slightly where he held you. And his hand still at your throat. Not controlling anymore. Just… there. Like he hadn’t quite come back down yet either.
Yunho finally eased back, his grip loosening as he pulled away, dick slipping out, some of his own release leaking out of you as the shift made you inhale sharply, the intensity slowly starting to ebb. But he didn’t let you go far. Didn’t give you space to escape. His arm wrapped around you instead, dragging you back against him, your back settling against his chest again, this time without that same edge of control.
Just… close. Warm. His chin dipped near your shoulder, voice lower now, calmer, softer, but still carrying that hint of amusement. “So…” he murmured, breath brushing your skin, “you like me mad, huh?”
Heat rushed to your face instantly and you huffed, twisting slightly in his hold before shoving at his chest, not hard, just enough to make a point. “Shut up.”
A quiet laugh left him. Soft this time. Completely different from earlier. “There she is,” he said, voice lighter now, teasing. “My brat.”
Your eyes narrowed, but there was no real bite left in it. Not anymore. Not after all that. His arm tightened briefly around you, pulling you back in for a second longer before finally letting the tension dissolve completely.
And just like that… the edge was gone. Replaced with something familiar.
choi san. your sweet, obsessed boyfriend. always calling, always craving. you thought it was just a late-night check-in—until you realized what he was doing on the other end of the line. and when he shows up at your door? he’s not holding back. it gets breathless. possessive. messy. and the next morning? he still can’t keep his hands off you.
wc : 5.4k
tags : explicit content, phone masturbation, softdom!san, fingering,oral , praise kink, light degradation, dirty talk, teasing, overstimulation, established relationship intimacy, aftercare, reader is clingy, san is obsessed with you in the softest filthiest way, fluff.
a/n: this man calls you while he’s jerking off, shows up 20 mins later, wrecks you again, and then has the nerve to wipe your makeup off like you’re his entire world??
Your phone buzzes just as you’re settling into bed.
Incoming Call : San 🏔
You smile immediately, warmth blooming in your chest. You put him on speaker and head to the bathroom, voice soft and sleepy.
“Hi” you murmur.
There’s a pause on the other end. A breath.
Then:
“…Hey.” His voice is low. Rough. Just a little hoarse.
You frown softly. “You okay?”
“Mhm.” A sharp inhale, followed by a quiet exhale. “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”
That makes you smile again, soft and unsuspecting.
You rinse your mouth, crawl back into bed, and tuck the phone against your cheek.
You laugh softly, cheek pressing to the pillow. “You miss me that bad already?”
“So bad,” he murmurs, almost too quiet.
“I missed you too.” You roll onto your side, voice warm. “How was your night?”
Another pause.
“…Fine.”
There’s something in the way he says it.
It’s not unhappy, just… distracted.
Like he’s somewhere else entirely.
You squint, sensing it now — the air between you feels thick.
Like something is happening, and you haven’t caught up yet.
Your brows knit at how breathless he sounds. “Are you… working out or something?”
“…Sort of.”
“Sort of?” You giggle. “You sound weird,” you tease, voice gentle.
There’s a pause. Long enough to notice.
Then you hear it — the tiniest sound.
A slick sound.
Wet. Rhythmic. Subtle.
Your mouth parts slightly. “San?”
“Keep talking,” he says quickly. Breathlessly. “Don’t stop talking.”
Your heart skips.
Your voice falters. “Wait… are you —”
“I miss you,” he cuts in, voice heavy, strained, and definitely aroused. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“You’re—oh my god, are you touching yourself?”
He groans — low and unfiltered. Like your voice alone is enough to drag him under.
“Yes,” he whispers. “Fuck, I couldn’t wait anymore.”
You blink at the ceiling, suddenly burning everywhere. “You called me… to jerk off?”
“I called you because of you,” he murmurs.
“Because I kept thinking about your mouth. Your voice. The way you sound when I—” His breath stutters. “When I’m buried deep inside you.”
Your breath catches.
“Tell me something,” he whispers.
“What?” you breathe.
“Remind me how you taste.”
Your thighs press together instinctively.
“San—”
“I’d be on my knees for you right now,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know. Tongue deep in you, hands keeping you open. I miss the way you shake.”
You press a hand to your chest. Your heart’s racing.
“Your voice, baby. I swear.” His breath catches. “You’re so soft when you’re sleepy. It drives me insane.”
You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“.. Are you close?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.
“Mhm,” he moans. “Keep talking, please. I’m—shit—I’m right there.”
You bite your lip. Then slowly, softly:
“You’d ruin me if you were here, wouldn’t you?”
He lets out a desperate noise.
“I’d take you so slow,” you whisper. “Just to hear you beg.”
He groans again, sharp and broken. His breathing gets faster.
You hear the subtle, unmistakable sound of his release — his moan is raw, whispered, like he’s trying not to be loud. Like he’s completely wrecked.
You lie there, blinking, flushed all over, heat rolling through you.
There’s a silence on the other end. Just the sound of his breathing, finally slowing.
“…I’m coming over,” he mutters eventually, voice low and raspy.
You laugh softly, heart still racing. “San…”
He groans. “I need you.”
And something tells you this night isn’t over yet.
–
You’re still in bed when your doorbell rings.
Your whole body stills.
You climb out of the covers, heart thudding in your chest, and tiptoe barefoot to the door.
When you open it, the hallway light spills over San — his dark hoodie pulled over his head, eyes shadowed, lips parted.
His chest rises and falls like he ran here, not drove.
He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you.
Then?
He steps in, shuts the door behind him, and grabs you.
You gasp as your back hits the wall.
His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, like he needs to taste you just to breathe.
“You,” he growls between kisses. “You make me lose my mind.”
His hands roam everywhere — under your shirt, across your hips, gripping your ass like it’s his. You’re lifted onto the wall in one smooth motion, legs wrapping around him on instinct.
“San—” you try to catch your breath, but he kisses you again, rough and deep, before pulling back just enough to speak.
“You sounded so fucking sweet on the phone,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your jaw.
“That little sleepy voice. All shy. You knew what you were doing.”
“I didn’t,” you whisper, flushed and breathless.
He bites down gently on your neck. “Liar.”
You squirm in his grip, heat pooling between your legs.
His hands slide up your thighs and you realize — you’re still not wearing underwear.
He realizes it too.
“Of course you’re not,” he mutters, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“I didn’t know you were actually coming over—”
“You think I care?” His voice is gravel now, thick with need. “You think I can sit at home after hearing you like that on the phone?”
One of his hands slides between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds.
You cry out, head falling back against the wall.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Already soaked.”
You nod, breathless. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
That’s it. That breaks him.
He carries you towards your bedroom, mouth on your throat the entire way, and you cling to him like your life depends on it.
When he lays you down, it’s with more reverence than you expect — like even in his desperation, he still wants to worship.
He brushes his nose over your clothed nipple and groans low in his throat, like he’s trying to memorize you.
“Look at you,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect.”
You reach for him, and he comes willingly, laying his body over yours, slotting between your legs.
You can feel how hard he is — straining through his sweatpants — and your hips twitch up, chasing friction.
He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. Like he wants to feel how badly he missed you.
Then he pulls back just slightly. His forehead rests on yours. His breathing's still ragged.
“You want me?” he murmurs.
You nod.
“No. Say it.”
“I want you,” you whisper. “I want you so bad it hurts.”
He groans, like the words physically affect him, and his hand trails between your thighs again.
“I’m not gonna be gentle this time,” he mutters. “I can’t be.”
You whimper. “Then don’t be.”
And then he sinks two fingers into you — slow but firm, curling just right — and your whole body arches off the bed.
He watches your face, eyes dark. “This is what you wanted, right? To drive me crazy? To have me aching for you?”
You nod again, mouth open, gasping.
He leans in close, lips brushing your ear.
“Well, baby,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke, “you got me.”
“Take this off,” San growls, tugging at your sleep shirt, not even waiting for you to comply.
He peels it up and over your head like he owns it — like you’re his — and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.
You’re bare now. Completely.
And he just stares.
Chest heaving, jaw clenched, like he’s trying to hold himself back — but he can’t. Not anymore.
“You drive me so fucking insane,” he mutters, running both hands down your ribs, to your hips, spreading your legs wide with his knee. “You know that?”
You whimper when his fingers return to your center, teasing just barely. Your back arches. His eyes drop to watch every reaction.
“Already soaked for me again,” he whispers. “And I’ve barely even touched you.”
You reach down, grabbing at the waistband of his sweats.
“Please,” you gasp.
“Please what?”
“San—”
“Tell me,” he snaps, voice low and commanding. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you in me,” you cry, breath shaking. “Please, San. I need you.”
He exhales hard through his nose — then strips.
His hoodie and shirt go first, then his sweats and boxers in one tug, revealing his hard, leaking cock, already red at the tip.
Your mouth waters.
He strokes himself once, twice, eyes still locked on you.
“Turn around.”
You blink. “..Huh?”
“I said turn the fuck around.”
The edge in his voice sends shivers down your spine.
You scramble onto your hands and knees, and he grabs your hips immediately, pulling you back toward him until your ass is pressed to his cock.
He drags the head through your folds, just once — and groans like it physically hurts to hold back.
Then he thrusts in.
Hard.
You cry out, head dropping to the mattress as he bottoms out in one deep, punishing stroke.
His hand grips your hip, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so he can lean down and growl into your ear.
“This is what you wanted, huh?” His hips slam forward again. “Wanted me so desperate I couldn’t wait another second?”
You moan, hands fisting the sheets. “Yes—”
“Wanted me to ruin you?”
He sets a pace that’s relentless — deep and unrelenting, every thrust dragging across the most sensitive part of you.
Your body jerks forward with each one, and you swear he’s somehow deeper than ever before.
“San—fuck, yes—”
His grip crushes you tighter. “Say my fucking name.”
You sob it again and again, lost in the rhythm, and he keeps pushing.
Keeps driving into you like he’s chasing something buried inside your core.
Your legs start to shake. You're so close.
“Not yet,” he growls, he growls, yanking you upright so your back presses hard against his chest “I said—not yet.”
He keeps fucking into you while his hand slides between your legs, rubbing your clit in fast, devastating circles.
“Hold it,” he growls. “Hold it until I say.”
You’re gasping now, practically sobbing from how full you feel — how stretched and raw and desperate you are.
“I—I can’t—”
“Yes you can.” He licks the shell of your ear. “You’ll come when I tell you to. Be good for me.”
And somehow… you obey.
He fucks you through it — deeper, harder, his hand still working you mercilessly — and just when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, he growls:
“Now. Let go. Fucking come for me.”
Your orgasm hits like a wave breaking, loud and wet and devastating. Your entire body arches, thighs trembling violently as you convulse around him.
You don’t even hear yourself scream his name — too lost in the pleasure — but he does.
And it snaps something in him.
He pulls out and flips you over, not even giving you time to recover before he thrusts back in — face-to-face now, eyes burning.
“I’m not done,” he whispers
You can barely breathe, so overstimulated, so full. But you take it — you want it — because the way he’s looking at you? Like he needs to own every piece of you?
It’s worth everything.
He chases his own release now, hips slamming into yours at a punishing pace, his mouth all over your throat, jaw, chest.
“I love this fucking pussy,” he grunts. “You’re made for me. You know that?”
You nod, crying out again as he fucks into your oversensitive cunt. “Yes—yes, I’m yours, I’m—”
“That’s right.”
He buries himself deep one last time — so deep you swear he’s in your soul — and groans your name as he spills inside you, his body trembling against yours.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move.
Just breathes. Heavy, ragged, still inside you. One hand on your jaw. The other clutching your waist.
Then?
He kisses you. Deep, slow, reverent.
And when he finally pulls back, eyes soft, he strokes your cheek gently.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod, dazed. “I think you rearranged my spine.”
He laughs softly, presses a kiss to your forehead, and pulls out slowly, careful with your sore body.
Then he disappears into the bathroom — and comes back with a warm towel.
He wipes between your legs so gently it makes you tear up a little.
Then he crawls back into your bed with a whispered, “C’mere, baby.”
And you fall asleep wrapped in him — ruined, wrecked, and held like something precious.
—
That morning you wake to the smell of butter and maple.
The early morning light is filtering in soft and slow, and the sheets are tangled at your waist, your body sore in all the best ways.
Your thighs ache. Your neck has faint bite marks. You feel like you were worshipped… and maybe a little destroyed.
You blink sleepily.
And then you hear it — a gentle clatter from the kitchen. Something sizzling. Then a muttered curse.
You smile. San.
When he appears in the doorway — shirtless, sweats low on his hips, hair pushed back from his face — he’s holding a tray.
Plates stacked, two mugs, something golden and syrupy filling the air behind him.
He’s grinning like he knows he’s being hot about it.
“I made you breakfast,” he says, voice raspy with sleep, setting the tray on your lap. “Don’t freak out.”
You blink at it. Pancakes. Eggs. Fruit. Even whipped cream??
Your brows knit. “…San.”
He’s climbing into bed beside you, already grabbing a strawberry off your plate and popping it into his mouth like he didn’t just cook a five-star brunch.
You narrow your eyes. “How do you even know where my whipped cream is? You’ve literally been here like .. twice.”
He smirks around the bite. “What, you think I don’t pay attention?”
You stare him down.
He leans closer, hands slipping under the blanket over your lap. “I paid attention to a lot last night.”
You swat at him. “San! I’m eating!”
“You’re trying to eat,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “But I made the mistake of seeing you like this — hair all messy, no bra, all cute and sore — and now I’m distracted.”
You flush, tugging the blanket up to hide the fact that you are, in fact, still completely naked beneath it.
He feeds you a piece of pancake — literally feeds you — and you groan at the taste.
“This is so good.”
He hums. “Yeah?”
You nod through your bite. “You’re annoyingly good at this. I was prepared to lie to protect your pride.”
San chuckles and presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll take that as a win.”
You’re halfway through eating when his hand starts creeping again — under the blanket this time, fingertips grazing the top of your thigh like it’s casual.
You shoot him a look. “Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are literally touching my thigh right now.”
“I’m admiring it.”
“San.”
“Mhm?”
You squint at him. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“I literally am,” he says, no hesitation, dipping down to kiss your bare shoulder again. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes,” you say. “And it’s so distracting.”
He bites back a smile and leans in close, lips brushing your ear.
“You wanna know what’s distracting?” he whispers, hand slowly sliding higher. “The fact that I spent all night in you — and I’m still hard just thinking about it.”
Your stomach flips.
You grab your fork again with shaky fingers and murmur, “Eat your pancakes.”
But you already know this breakfast-in-bed is about to become a part two of last night — once again… you won’t be finishing your meal.
—
After the breakfast-that-you-did-not-finish (because San decided you were the real meal), he finally lets you rest — for like, ten minutes.
You’re still under the covers, half-limp with sleep and soreness when you feel him climbing out of bed again. You hear the water start in the bathroom.
Then he comes back to the doorway, shirtless, damp towel in one hand.
“Come shower,” he says gently.
You crack one eye open. “You go. I’m dead.”
He smirks. “If you’re dead, then you won’t mind if I carry you.”
You narrow your eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
And then he does. Pulls the blanket off of you and lifts you like it’s nothing, making you yelp as you cling to him.
“SAN!!”
“You left me no choice,” he teases, voice smug in your ear as he carries you into the steam-filled bathroom.
The water’s already perfect — warm, a little hot — and when he steps in with you, he moves so carefully, hands steady at your waist.
You let the water hit your back, sighing at the heat, and close your eyes for just a second — until you feel his fingers in your hair.
Your eyes blink open. “…What are you doing?”
“Washing your hair.”
You eye him skeptically. “Are you washing my hair or do you just want to touch me again?”
San blinks, expression a little too innocent. “Can’t it be both?”
You groan, laughing despite yourself. “I knew it.”
He smiles as he lathers shampoo in his hands and starts working it into your scalp with surprisingly gentle, practiced fingers.
The way he massages your head, runs his fingers through every strand, careful not to tug — it feels so soothing you actually sway into his chest.
“Mhm… I take it back,” you murmur. “You can do this forever.”
“I plan to,” he says softly, voice near your temple. His hands slow a little, sliding down, rinsing out the shampoo as you lean back.
He keeps going — conditioner, a few more forehead kisses, and now his thumbs are brushing under your eyes, wiping away the faint smudges of leftover makeup.
He does it like it matters. Like he’s memorizing you.
“Why are you looking at me like that,” you ask softly, heart hiccuping.
“Because I’m lucky as hell,” he says without even blinking.
And just like that, you’re melting all over again — but not because of the hot water.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pull him in slow, press your lips to his under the falling spray.
It's slow, slow — the kind of kiss you sink into with your whole body.
He hums against your mouth.
The kiss deepens, steam curling around you both, and you feel him grip your hips like he might forget what he was doing.
You pull back just enough to whisper, teasingly:
“You're getting distracted again.”
San smirks. “You literally taste like vanilla and warm water. How am I supposed to focus?”
You laugh into his shoulder. “Finish rinsing me, San.”
And he does.
But the way his hands keep slipping a little lower? You’re pretty sure you’re not leaving this shower untouched.
—
The shower ends with your back pressed lazily to his chest, both of you reluctant to step out into the cooler air.
You’re the one who finally reaches for the knob, sighing. “We should get out before we start round 2 just from steam.”
San grins behind you, shameless. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
You swat his thigh without looking.
He helps you out first, careful with his hands as always — but the moment your feet hit the mat, he’s already reaching for a towel.
“Sit,” he murmurs, patting the bathroom counter like he owns the place.
You arch a brow. “I can dry myself off.”
“Please?,” he says with a glint in his eyes, already kneeling a little to start at your legs.
You give in — because you're sore, and he’s impossibly warm like this.
Gentle and full of affection. His hands work slowly, drying every inch like he’s mapping you all over again.
He glances up at you, curls damp and stuck to his forehead. “Still mad I carried you in here?”
You give him a small smirk. “No. But only because your massage game is elite.”
“Elite, huh?” He drags the towel up your thigh, fingers lingering too long before he slides it higher. “Do I get a trophy?”
“You’re already trying to earn one,” you mutter.
His only response is to kiss the inside of your knee.
You twitch slightly. “San…”
“Just drying,” he says — entirely unconvincing, because his hand stays exactly where it doesn’t need to be.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, blushing.
But still — you don’t stop him.
He stands slowly, now using the edge of the towel to press soft, careful dabs to your chest, your arms, your neck.
He trails it up to your face, and your breath hitches at how gentle he gets — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
His thumbs brush beneath your eyes again, drying what little water clings to your lashes.
Then he leans in and kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
You're smiling now. You can’t help it. “I thought you were drying me off.”
“I am,” he murmurs against your skin. “But you’re very… distracting.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re the one making this impossible.”
He hums and wraps the towel around your body fully now, pressing it snug at your back like he’s hugging you and drying you at the same time.
You lean into him. “You really can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”
He pulls back just enough to look at you — eyes soft, adoring, almost like you’re something rare and glowing.
His voice is quiet but honest:
“Nope. And I don’t plan to learn how.”
Your chest squeezes, heat curling all the way down your spine.
He presses a kiss to your nose now.
Then your lips.
Then murmurs: “C’mon. Let me get you into something cozy.”
You smile, letting him lead you — wrapped in his towel, in his arms, in his attention.
And the truth is:
You don’t want him to stop touching you, either.
—
That evening, your living room is dim, the only light flickering from the soft glow of your TV — low volume playing some show neither of you are watching.
You’re straddled on San’s lap, facing him, your thighs resting on either side of his hips, one of his old hoodies swallowing you whole.
The fabric smells like him — faint cologne, detergent, that warm scent you know better than your own by now.
He’s shirtless beneath you, just lounging in some gray sweats, all tanned skin and quiet muscle, his arms looped loosely around your waist.
Your fingers are tangled in his hair, gently twirling one around your finger as you talk — about nothing, really.
Something dumb. Something comforting. You don’t even remember how the topic started.
And you’re not really paying attention to your words anyway — not when he looks like this.
His bare face is unfairly beautiful. His jaw is sharp and clean from shaving.
The light catches the slope of his nose, the tiny beauty mark just beside his left eye, the sleepy droop of his lashes as he listens to you — and God, his lips. Full, soft, kiss-bitten from earlier.
You feel like you could cry just from looking at him.
You run your thumb gently across his cheek. He closes his eyes briefly under your touch.
And then — too soon, too cruel — he shifts slightly beneath you and murmurs,
“I have to leave soon.”
Your smile fades. “What? Why?”
He exhales slowly, rubbing his hand down your back like he’s trying to soften the blow.
“I have work in the morning. Early.”
Your heart drops a little.
You blink at him, lips parting. “But… can’t you stay tonight?”
“I want to. I really do.” His voice is soft. Regretful. But firm.
You feel your chest tightening already, throat beginning to ache with the heat of unshed frustration.
“I barely get to see you anymore,” you whisper.
“I know.” He brushes his knuckles against your thigh. “I hate it too.”
Your arms slowly wind around his neck, pulling yourself into him, burying your face into the crook between his shoulder and jaw.
You don’t say anything at first — just hold him there like if you’re quiet enough, he’ll change his mind.
He strokes your back gently.
“I’m not leaving yet,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’ve got a little time.”
You cling tighter. “Can you sleep over again? Just for tonight?”
A pause. It lasts too long.
“I can’t,” he says, and this time it sounds like it hurts him more than you. “If I don’t go home, I’ll be late.”
You nod, but you’re not ready to let go. Your arms stay locked around his neck. You hate how warm he is. How safe. How rare.
“I’m gonna miss you,” you murmur brokenly.
His hand slips under the hoodie, spreading wide across your back. He cradles you there, holds you tighter.
“Aw, baby…” he whispers, leaning his head into yours. “I’m gonna make time for us. I promise. This isn't always going to be like this.”
You sniff, but you don’t cry. Not yet.
“Don’t promise if you can’t keep it.”
His voice cracks. “I will. Even if it means losing sleep. I’ll be here. I want to be here.”
There’s a long silence between you two.
Just the sound of his breathing against your neck and the quiet, creaking shift of the couch when he leans back again.
Then you whisper something, voice soft and a little bitter:
“…And stop calling me when you’re jerking off, okay? It makes me want you even more.”
That surprises a low chuckle out of him — hoarse and heartbroken.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, a soft, rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“But I love calling you,” he admits. “It’s the only way I feel close to you when I can’t be here.”
You sigh, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble.
“You don’t need to call me to feel close to me, San. You are close to me. Always.”
He nods once, eyes shimmering just slightly.
Then you both fall into a long, warm silence. He holds you.
You stay in his lap, hoodie swallowing your bare legs, his fingers tracing soft circles on your thigh like he doesn’t want to let go.
You know he’ll leave soon.
But not yet.
So you press your lips to his cheek. Then his nose. Then his mouth.
You whisper, “I’ll wait for you.”
And he says, “You don’t have to wait long.”
But still — the ache stays.
Because even when love is strong… it still hurts to say goodbye.
San calls out for you as soon as he comes home, shoes barely off. He wanders around the apartment looking in every room, calling out your name like a cat searching for its human.
He gets to the bathroom and opens the door to a cloud of steam and the scent of almonds filling the air. You don’t seem to hear him, too focused on scrubbing your hair and humming along to your playlist.
He bites his lip for a moment, teetering between leaving you alone and joining you, the latter winning without much effort.
He shreds himself of his clothes, folding them neatly on the chair because he knows you don’t like it when he leaves them on the floor.
Slowly, he steps into the shower. You’re still unaware of his presence, eyes closed and head back as you rinse your hair. He takes the loofah, lathering it with soap, and starts rubbing it on your arm.
You jump in surprise, heartbeat suddenly rising at the intrusion. You rub your eyes clean from the water, finally able to see your smiling boyfriend in front of you, and you breathe a sigh of relief.
“San you can’t come into the shower unannounced, you almost gave me a heart attack…”
He places a soft peck on your cheek and continues running the loofah up and down your arm. “I’m sorry Princess, I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ve been calling your name since I came home, did you not hear?”
You shake your head, suddenly aware of the situation.
You run your eyes over his naked body, so toned and tanned, splashes from the shower decorating his skin with sprinkles of light. When you meet his gaze again, a slight shade of pink ornates his cheeks, but the way he looks at you only shows desire.
“Turn around.” He orders softly.
You do as you’re told, heart beating fast for an entirely different reason now.
He scrubs your arm again, gently but thoroughly, starting from your fingertips, all the way to your shoulder. When he’s circled each area a few times, he places a light kiss on your skin, your hairs rising at the touch.
He continues to lather you, the exfoliation quickly followed by his soothing lips. You close your eyes, head falling slightly, humming at every brush of his lips.
He reaches your other hand, placing a kiss on each fingertip before lacing his fingers in yours with his free hand. Your teeth graze your bottom lip at the feel of his undivided attention.
His hand doesn’t leave yours as he continues to clean you, making his way down your back slowly - almost too slow, but you don’t rush him. You let him take his time, enjoying every second..
You can feel his breath clinging to the water on your back between every kiss. You moan quietly - his breath hitching, almost drowned out by the sound of running water.
The circles on your back are getting lower and lower, your muscles tightening in a sharp, helpless reaction, nerves flaring at the ghost of his touch.
When he gets low enough, he tugs at the hand he’s still holding, prompting you to face him again. You look down at him, chest rising in shallow breaths, as he looks into your eyes - quiet domination written in his.
You shiver from pleasure. Nothing has happened, but the intimacy of this moment burns hotter than the steam around you.
He continues to rub the sponge on you, never breaking eye contact as he peppers your stomach with featherlight kisses, slowly making his way up your body.
Your head falls back involuntarily but his hand tugs at your still intertwined fingers - a silent demand to look at him.
His bottom lip lingers on your skin for a moment as he takes you in. Your skin is flushed - from his touch, or perhaps from the scalding water, maybe both -, your eyes slightly hooded from pleasure, the droplets running down your face, caressing your skin in a thousand places at once.
He carefully rises to his feet, brushing his lips between your breasts, slowly making his way up your neck, meeting your mouth at last.
His kiss isn’t rushed, it’s deliberate. His soapy hand cups your chin as his nose nudges up for you to let him in, which you do in an instant.
The water mixes in with his warm lips as he kisses you like he has all the time in the world, tongue tracing yours in a quiet promise. An approving breath echoes in your mouth - not yours, but his. He holds you like you’re the most precious thing he owns, and you can’t help but melt into him.
Your hardened nipples press against his chest and you whimper as he moans, pressing his forehead against yours.
You press your lips against his once more, more urgent this time, and he reciprocates momentarily before pulling back, removing the wet hair from your face.
“I haven’t cleaned your legs.”
You watch as he kneels down, grabbing your right foot, and starting the cleaning process again. Your eyes are glued to his every move. His proximity to your exposed core makes your head spin, but your body is frozen in a state of awe. He slowly makes his way up your leg to your thigh.
You shiver as the sponge brushes against your sensitive clit, but he places your foot down before you can do anything, grabbing your other foot and repeating his movements.
This time, though, when he gets close enough, he doesn’t put your foot down. Instead, he hooks it above his shoulder, taking in the view of your glistening folds.
The water isn’t the only reason you’re dripping.
He watches you for a moment with starved eyes and you feel on the edge, desperate to know what he’ll do next.
He inhales slowly, as if to ground himself. You close your eyes, expectantly, and jolt at the unfamiliar sensation that suddenly grazes your clit.
You look down to see him washing you there, slower than he did for the rest of your body. His eyes keep shifting between your face and your core, as if torn between admiring your body and burning the look on your face in his brain forever.
The pleats and creases in the sponge mixed with the foam make for a feeling you’ve never experienced before. It’s like you’re being overstimulated, and yet the pressure is so slight it’s almost not there.
He presses a little harder and your hand slams on the shower wall, craving something to hold on to. His breathing is ragged from restraint - it’s taking everything in him to not touch you himself.
He continues his languid movements, drawing more and more whimpers out of you. Heat is already starting to gather in the pit of your stomach and you feel dizzy.
Your nails claw at the tile, eyelids fluttering, and without realising it, his name falls from your lips in a needy whisper.
He stills for a second. “Princess?”
“San…” You repeat more desperately, no other words coming to you.
Something in him switches - that quiet plea breaks all the restraints he was holding on to.
His voice drops. “Just keep saying my name Princess.”
You look down at him and the sight alone could make you cum - his hair is drenched, sticking to his forehead, his eyes heavy hooded and dark with need, his skin flushed but so ethereal in the shine of the water. The way he’s looking at you - desperate, eyebrows pulled together from the effort -, makes butterflies erupt in your chest.
At long last his mouth meets your tender clit, starved. Your cry explodes out of you at the familiar feeling and you instinctively grab his hair, inciting a groan from him. Your back slams against the wall, overwhelmed in the best possible way.
One hand on your leg, the other on your waist, kneading your skin, he devours you - his tongue creating all kinds of delicious patterns on your skin. You keep whimpering his name. In this moment, there’s nothing in the world but you and him. His touch is all encompassing and he’s all you can think of.
Your hips roll ever so slightly into him as you moan his name over and over.
His hard on is getting more difficult to ignore with every pass of his tongue, the rush of blood becoming painful. But he’s not done with you yet. You taste so good, so sweet, and so his.
He runs his fingertips against your wet folds, coating them, before carefully inserting a finger into you. A strangled breath stays stuck in your throat. His rhythm is calculated and precise, making sure to curl at the perfect angle - the one that makes your back arch and your head fall back.
His view is perfect to watch the way you respond to the feel of his finger and tongue, your hand in his hair bringing him closer to that taunting edge - the one that would force him to bury himself inside you.
Your body isn’t your own anymore, it’s his. It responds to his touch the way he knows it will, the way he expects. The roll of your hips is getting messier as the tension builds inside you, your knees faltering under the weight of his control - even his name is barely coherent as your brain fogs.
He can see and feel you getting closer as he inserts another finger and you cry out, his own moans growing desperate from looking at you.
You whine when he removes his tongue from your clit to watch you, but with his attention fully focused on his fingers, that loss quickly disappears from your mind. The way he hits that spot every time, whilst his eyes bore into you with so much intensity and admiration, finally undoes you.
Your entire body convulses as he continues to drive his fingers into your clenching walls, kissing the inside of your thigh on that thin sensitive skin. Your vision becomes blurry from the energy being drained out of you, and when you’re done, you collapse against the wall, your foot slipping off his shoulder as he holds you up. Your hand in his hair loosens and he grabs it, placing a kiss on your wrist as he stands.
“You look incredible Princess.”
You scoff, hazy, your senses slowly creeping back in. When you finally look at him, the bathroom light behind him glows like a halo, and you instinctively weave your arms around his shoulders to kiss him. That kiss doesn’t just say you love him, it says thank you for taking care of me.
And he knows it.
His hands wrap around your waist to pull you close, and you can feel the erection you didn’t even realise he still had. The brush of your skin against his sensitive tip incites a whimper from him.
His kiss grows hungrier, one hand finding your cheek as his other lifts you up slightly to place you on his length, and he slides in, slowly. Every inch he buries into you extracts a moan from him, your tightness proving just how sensitive and needy he is.
You’re standing on your tiptoes, unable to do much, but you don’t need to. His hips roll into you in a way you’ve never felt him do, and your head falls back. He takes this opportunity to kiss your neck, lifting you up higher so you wrap your legs around his waist. The angle is heavenly, your breath stuttering.
He doesn’t change his rhythm, continuing to sway to the riveting beat of the music you forgot was playing. His need for you is obvious, every touch a special detail - every rock of his hips, every kiss on your neck, every tightening grip of his fingertips on your waist.
His moans and whimpers are getting louder as he approaches his release, blurring with your gasps.
Gosh, you love hearing these breathless, desperate sounds coming from him - it breaks you every time. The heat builds in your core again, almost painful. You grab his neck, pulling him to you to swallow his wanting breaths, feeling them reverberating inside of you.
His hips drive into you with more intensity, chasing release, and you cry out as he groans your name over and over again, like he’s begging you to give him everything he needs and wants.
The rush comes without warning, shattering inside both of you. Your head falls against the wall again as your body goes limp from the pure bliss of that feeling as he rides it out inside of you.
When he’s done, he rests his forehead against your chest, trying to catch his breath. You run your hand in his hair, soothing, like you’re rewarding him for a job well done.
When he looks up at you, eyes sparkling, a grin tugs at his lips, and you know he’s utterly yours.
---------
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content warning: sex with cutie san; pining for years like a good man should
Masterlist
Minors DNI 🔞
word count: 5521
You heaved the box up the stairs, the weight of it making your arms burn. San passed you on the way down to the moving truck to collect the last of his things and looked up at your struggling face with a grin. "You're so strong (y/n)," he teased as you huffed and puffed another step.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, San," you shot back, rolling your eyes. "Just wait until I move. You're carrying every pair of shoes individually. Even if I have an elevator, you'll be taking the stairs."
He laughed all the way down the steps, and you felt a little victorious as you crossed the threshold of his new place for the last time now that the moving truck would be emptied. The box felt heavier than it had a second ago, and you were just about to set it down when the bottom gave way. Immediately, a bunch of envelopes scattered across the floor, flying every which way as you tried to capture the rest from spilling out.
"Shit," you muttered, dropping to your knees to gather them up. Just as you'd started to arrange them into a pile, your eyes caught something strange. You realized that every single one was addressed to you.
Your brows furrowed as you held the paper, running your finger along the indented ink that spelled out your name. Why did San have all these letters for you?
You picked up the stack, your curiosity growing. Among the mess was a letter opener, tucked into the now-crumpled box. You hesitated, but your fingers were already moving, sliding the blade through the flap of the first envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter, dated from just a few months ago. You skimmed the words quickly then stopped...your heart pounding. It was about that time you two had gone out for ice cream, and you'd gotten some vanilla on your nose. You'd tried to lick it off with a laugh, but San had wiped it off with his finger and a dimpled smile. You hadn't even noticed at the time that he'd sucked his finger clean.
I'd never truly tasted vanilla before that day, he had written. I never noticed how something so simple could be so sweet.
Your heart thudded in your chest. What was this? And why was it making you feel so weird?
You searched around for another to read and settled on a yellowed, obviously older envelope. Your hands trembled slightly, and you glanced at the door to make sure San wasn't there before pulling out the letter. This one was from Christmas a few years back when you'd handmade gingerbread cookies for him.
I find myself dreaming about getting to bake with you on holidays in our reindeer pjs and snowman aprons, the letter confessed. I wonder if you know what that would mean to me.
The words swirled in your head as you stared at the letter, your mind racing.
Just as you reached for another envelope, you heard footsteps behind you.
"Hey, why are you on the floor..." San's voice cut off abruptly as he stepped inside and saw what you were holding. "Where did you find those?" he asked, his tone shameful, but not angry as he carefully placed the last tub on the ground and shut the door behind him.
"The box broke and..." you looked around, showing him that letters truly were everywhere. You hadn't meant to go through his things.
San sighed and leaned against the counter with crossed arms and blushing cheeks. This secret he'd kept for years had just fumbled out of his hands without him even meaning to.
"I didn't mean for you to find them. I didn't even plan to ever show you," he murmured as he began collecting the envelopes closest to him, treating them as if they were both fragile and beautiful and worthy of the care and effort...you supposed, to him, they were.
You finished pulling out the letter in your hand from its envelope, skimming it now, and finding it filled with an idealized version of your life just like the others.
I hate it when you're sick. But I like it when you need me. Sometimes you're too proud to ask for my help, but today you've called 5x...6x to ask me to bring you soup and medicine and just now so you wouldn't have to be alone while watching a scary movie. I hope you get better soon, but I hope you remember how happy I am to be needed by you.
You remembered the day he was talking about, and the miserable week that had followed. You had a horrible flu and felt bothersome to ask anybody but San to do those errands. He never seemed annoyed by your requests.
"Why didn't you tell me?" you asked in a whisper; eyes still glued to the page as if you could feel the love that went into writing each sentence.
"Because I didn't want to mess things up," he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "You're my best friend. I don't want to lose that."
You picked up another pile of letters. The envelopes were a mix of old and new looking. You knew now that each one contained imaginings of a life he wanted with you, of feelings you didn't know if you could reciprocate.
"How long?" you asked in a low voice, almost scared to know the answer.
San sank to the floor against the wall and hid his face in his hands as he answered. "Years."
You sucked in a surprised breath. Years? San had felt like this for years, and you hadn't known?
...or had you?
There were times when San called just to check in when a storm was rolling through. Those nights had always made you a little jumpier, and he somehow always knew you'd be freaking out. He'd laugh it off like it was no big deal, telling you to just breathe, but his voice would stay on the line with you until the thunder faded. You thought he was just being a good friend.
And then, there were mornings when he would show up unannounced with your favorite breakfast—an exact order of your go-to coffee and bagel, down to the light spread of cream cheese you liked. You'd asked him why he'd gone out of his way, and he'd shrugged it off, claiming he was just "in the neighborhood." You never questioned it, but now... now it was so obvious.
He had always paid for everything when you went out, insisting on it even when you tried to argue. He'd always stand on the side of the street closest to traffic without saying a word, and you'd tease him about being overly cautious. But he never laughed it off; he'd just smile softly and keep walking.
There was another night when both of you had been too drunk and too tired to think straight when you'd been leaning on him as he guided you home, stumbling over your words and feet, and you thought you heard him say it. Something quiet, something that almost got lost in the noise of the city.
"I love you."
At the time, you had convinced yourself that it was just your imagination. You were both exhausted and a little tipsy...a lot tipsy.
But now, standing in his new apartment with his letters scattered around you, it all made sense. All those moments...the breakfasts, the phone calls, the way he always looked at you when you weren't paying attention...it had been there all along.
Your heart tightened in your chest, and you felt a warmth rise to your cheeks as the weight of it all settled over you. How had you missed this? How had you not seen what was right in front of you?
You glanced over at San who was still sitting on the floor, his face buried in his hands, consumed by embarrassment and vulnerability. He had loved you for years... years...and had kept it all hidden.
"San..." you whispered, his name barely leaving your lips. He looked up, his dark eyes filled with uncertainty. You could see the way he braced himself for whatever you were going to say next. It broke your heart how afraid he looked.
You crawled over the letters to him until you were kneeling just in front of him until his forehead rested against yours, and his breaths danced across your lips. He breathed deeply, waiting for the moment that would change everything one way or another. Either you'd accept his feelings or reject them...
"I love you too," you whispered before pressing your lips to his.
For the briefest of moments, San's eyes snapped open in surprise before his mouth caught up and began to kiss you back. His hands reached out to pull your waist closer, and you obliged, straddling him on the floor with your arms around his neck.
He moaned into the kiss and pressed his large hands into your back to urge you as close as possible. Your fingers wound through his hair and you forgot this was the first time you'd kissed him. It felt so natural...so right.
Before you even realized it, your hips had begun to move against him and his jaw went slack as he made breathy groans of pleasure. You pressed your forehead to his and watched his pupils blow out as he grew harder beneath you.
"(Y/n)," he moaned.
Your heart fluttered at the sound. Your name leaving his lips like that was so incredibly hot that you felt heated up inside like a flame had ignited.
You whined in response as you continued to grind against him. His cock was aligned perfectly for you to feel against your clit, and you held his shoulders for support as you worked to get yourself off which should've been impossible in this many clothes.
You reached for the hem of his shirt, and San's eyes went wide when he realized what you wanted. He pulled the shirt off with one hand and tossed it aside, allowing you to touch and see the toned muscles hidden underneath it.
You'd known San was ripped. You'd seen and felt it before. But this was different.
You dragged your fingers across his abs, noticing the muscles tighten, and smirked at him for being a show-off. San flashed a shy, dimpled smile and you leaned in to press a kiss on his chest right over his heart.
He stopped breathing as you did so, and when you finished, he cupped your face in his hands as if you were delicate and made of beautiful porcelain. There were twinkles in his eyes when he looked at you, and you couldn't help but smile back at him.
"I love you," he said with complete certainty.
It was like a weight literally lifted off his shoulders. San looked so free and light and happy. It made your heart soar.
"I love you, too," you replied.
In response, San's dimpled smile grew even wider, and he somehow managed to stand while supporting you. You laughed in surprise and hugged yourself to him with a kiss on his cheek, loving the way his skin turned pink when you did so.
He carried you to his room and set you down on the bare mattress, having not unpacked his sheets yet. You removed your shirt while he watched.
"We don't have to... I just wanted you to be more comfortable," he stuttered with flushed cheeks as he tried not to stare at your chest, but finding it difficult.
"Do you want to?" you asked, as you reached for his hand and pulled him to the bed beside you.
"Of course I do," he whispered. His eyes darkened, and he reached out to brush your hair away from your shoulder. Your heart pounded as his finger lightly skidded across the skin all the way down to your hand that he intertwined with his. He glanced down adoringly to watch your fingers melt together.
"San," you said with conviction, "I want you."
He sucked in a breath and snapped his gaze back to yours. "I've waited so long to hear you say that," he muttered before pressing his lips to yours and gently guiding you to lay back on the bed.
His hand ran up your side as though he couldn't get enough of touching you, and your fingers entwined themselves in his hair, tugging slightly to earn pretty whines.
You could feel San everywhere. His waist ground against you, his chest was flat on top of yours, and your lips melted together as if they were made for each other.
San's hand journeyed down your side again and followed the trim of your leggings with a light finger. You trembled at the feeling, becoming a whimpering mess as your back arched into him. You'd never been touched in a way that made you feel so desperate, and San seemed so proud that he was the one to have brought those noises out of you.
You kissed his neck as he did it again, and found yourself gripping his shoulders in a struggle to not cum just from him touching your waist.
When he did it a third time, you were wondering what you'd done in life to deserve San. His touch felt better than any sex you'd ever had, and you were still pretty much fully clothed.
When he asked if he could take the leggings off, you almost said no just to see if he really could make you cum just from touching your waist, but your curiosity got the best of you. If he was that good at touching your waist, how would he feel touching everywhere else?
You permitted him to remove them, and he kissed you sweetly as a thank you before kissing down your neck. His lips left goosebumps in their wake as he ventured further south. He kissed across your chest, over your bra, and down to your stomach that wasn't nearly as toned as his. Still, he loved it anyway, he loved all of you.
He looked up one more time through patient eyes as he traced your waist again, giving you the chance to change your mind, but with whimpers of desperation, you raised your hips and slid them down the first few inches with him.
He finished taking them off, leaving you in just your underwear and bra now. Unfortunately, you'd not known this was going to happen so you had on some not-so-sexy underwear from the bottom of your drawer, but San wasn't even phased.
Instead, he pressed his knuckle in between your folds, over the fabric, testing how wet you were. The warmth from his hand made your legs open wider, and he smirked at you with excited eyes. He loved how much you were enjoying this.
"Please," you whispered and raised your hips again. "Take them off."
He hadn't assumed he'd get so lucky so quickly, and so he wasted no time removing the underwear with light skims of his fingers across your thighs and calves that had you even more needy for him.
Once they were thrown to the floor, he turned his attention back to your face, as if checking on you, before trailing down your body slowly, memorizing every detail until he reached your entrance. He placed his hands on your inner thighs, rubbing circles there with his thumbs that made you cry in pleasure.
San bit his lip to hold back while watching you grind against the air shamelessly as you sought some sort of friction. He blew cold air from his lips down to your leaking cunt, and you whimpered and stilled, feeling yourself throb around nothing.
"San," you whined, wishing nothing more than to be touched by him.
He inhaled a deep, shaky breath and you felt his thumbs move closer, though he still didn't give you what you wanted.
"Say my name again," he begged, his voice low.
Your cheeks blushed when you realized you'd just moaned it out loud. Your best friend's name, a name you'd said more than any other, had left your lips in such a sinful way. And now it was the key to getting what you wanted.
"San," you said more normally, but still sensually enough that one of the thumbs just barely grazed your clit.
San!" you arched off the bed in surprise, and he leaned in, bringing his tongue to flick it instead.
The immediateness of the pleasure shocked you, and you gasped, gripping his hair in surprise as your body writhed in every direction as it tried to understand this wave of warmth that was washing through you.
With one strong hand, San held your waist down so he could work you up with the other. It probed your entrance, and San looked up while he sucked your clit, as though asking permission.
With shaky whimpers, you nodded and felt him insert a thick finger into you. You whined and ground against him, desperate for release and feeling it impose itself already when he curled his finger inside you.
"S-San!" you trembled and came around his finger already, uncertain how he'd managed to pull that out of you so quickly when it took others hours.
He pulled his finger out and licked it clean before bringing his tongue to your entrance to lap up as much as he could with red cheeks, flushed from embarrassment at how much he wanted to taste you.
Your body shook against him until you had nothing left, and he finally pulled away before coming up to attack your lips with his.
You instinctively wrapped your arms and legs around him and moaned at how good everything felt. San pulled away with his adorably boyish smile and kissed the tip of your nose with sparkly eyes.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured before kissing you more deeply, in such a way that you felt down to your soul just how much he cared for you. He inhaled deeply through his nose, refusing to separate for a second, even for a breath of air.
His gray sweatpants did very little to hide how passion-filled he was, and you felt his dick probing against your center as he leaned into you even more. You ran your hands down his back, hearing him vibrate under your touch. And you playfully smacked his bum, feeling him smile into the kiss before pulling back.
You grinned shyly back as his beautiful eyes made your heart flutter. "Hey Sannie," you hummed.
"Hey (y/n)," he grinned cutely. It was such an adorable contrast to how hard he was that you nearly forgot until he shifted, and you felt it rub against your thigh.
"Sannie," you said in a lower voice as you shifted against him again and let out a little moan of satisfaction when he rubbed against your clit.
He cursed and looked down to watch your hips rise and fall against him. Your cheeks were flushed and your eyes pinched shut when you felt him reach for your hand to hold it adoringly.
You opened your eyes and watched as he kissed the back of your hand before standing up to retrieve something from the living room. Lying naked in San's bed...well, in a bra...alone was sobering. You weren't just friends anymore. You couldn't be. That revelation was terrifying and exciting.
When San came back, he was carrying one of the envelopes in his hand, and you sat up and used his shirt to cover yourself as he spoke, feeling that this would be important.
He turned the envelope over in his hands, and you realized that, unlike the others, this one was already opened. The corners of the flap were worn and ripped in some places as though he'd reread it countless times over the years. San gave you a soft smile and handed it to you.
"I wrote it the first day we met...well actually, I wrote it that first day we hung out alone."
Back then, you'd been two members of a campus clean-up crew at school. Two members out of dozens, and you barely even noticed one another. There was a last-minute clean-up organized and you and San had been the only two to show up. Rather than cancel altogether, you spent the day cleaning up litter around campus and then he took you out to dinner at this little walk-up stand that had hot dogs and ice cream and picnic tables to eat at. Back then, you had argued that vanilla was the best flavor because it was the base of everything else. San had laughed and had gotten strawberry. From that day on, you were attached at the hip having formed an unwavering friendship simply due to cleaning up a little bit of trash.
"You've known all this time..." your voice trailed off as tears began to well in your eyes. The well-worn envelope was also the only one you'd seen with a stamp.
He nodded. "I actually sent it to you the day I wrote it. But the next day you told me about how happy you were to have made a friend since you were struggling with being so far from home... I didn't want to take that away from you so when we went back to your place..."
"You offered to get the mail..." you whispered in recollection before reaching for his hand. "San...I..." You didn't know what to say. An apology didn't feel right because a friend was what you needed at the time.
"Go on," he encouraged with soft eyes. "You can read it now."
The envelope and what it held felt so heavy in your hands. You didn't know if you'd make it two sentences before crying, and you handed it back to San with a hopeful expression, "Will you read it to me?"
He took back the letter and set it aside before reaching for your other hand. "Close your eyes," he whispered.
You glanced over at the letter again that sat beside his leg and back to San who was encouraging you to listen with a sweet expression.
You obeyed and heard him take a deep breath.
"May 7, 2020."
Your eyes snapped open and you saw the letter still encased in the envelope. San smiled softly and motioned again for you to close your eyes. It was then that you realized he had it memorized. San had reread these words so many times that he no longer required the page to recite them to you. The thought made your heart swell with how much he loved you, but you also felt incredibly sad. He'd sat in these feelings for years...all for you.. all so he could be what you needed.
"May 7, 2020,
Dear (y/n),
I haven't written a letter in a long time, but I'm too shy to tell you these things in person so...here it goes...
Today was the best day of my life. Not because we did anything that special. Not because the weather was nice. And not because we cleaned the campus in record time. No... It was the best day because I got to spend it with you."
Your heart fluttered and you squeezed his hand a little tighter as you listened. The memory of the day became so vivid as if it had just happened, and you couldn't help but focus on his massive dimpled smile when he'd found a dollar by the tree. A single dollar that had made him grin so wide all because a dollar was all that he needed to get a red Gatorade from the vending machine... a Gatorade that he ended up sharing with you.
"After I dropped you off, I couldn't stop thinking about you. Everything from your slightly sunburned skin to your obsession with vanilla ice cream was so endearing and cute that it replayed in my mind all night. I don't know when the switch happened, but at some point today, I realized that I couldn't be your friend."
You bit your lip to hold back the flood of emotions coursing through you.
"I realized that I wanted to be the person you come to when you're incredibly happy. I want to support you when you're sad, and entertain you when you're bored. I want to be the person you call when you're excited about something."
San paused, sucking in a sharp, shaky breath as he gently stroked his thumbs on the backs of your hands. You kept your eyes closed, tears gathering in the corners as you began to cry.
"I think I love you. Actually, I know I love you. And I know it's too soon to say that, so I'm writing it. But I feel deep down that you are the single most important person I will ever meet. And if we stay best friends forever, I can live with that. I'll do anything to keep you in my life. But I want to be brave enough to at least ask if you want more. So (y/n), do you feel the same way?"
Your lip quivered, and you felt San's lips brush against yours to calm them.
"Love (or Your Friend depending on how you feel), San"
You finally opened your eyes, unable to stop yourself from crying when you made eye contact with him.
San pouted adoringly and pulled you into his lap with a gentle kiss. "Don't cry," he chuckled even though he was crying, too.
"It's just...you waited so long," you embraced him tightly, hiding in the nook of his neck and shoulder.
"I didn't want you to know what it said to make you cry, (y/n). I just wanted you to know my true feelings."
"And they made me cry!" you argued jokingly. "This is your fault."
San laughed and squeezed you tighter before pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Well, I'm glad you know now. Even if it made you cry."
You sniffled and pulled back to look at him, "I'm happy I know, too. And now..." you shifted your hips against him again, allowing his still-hard cock to run through your folds. "I want you to show me..." you pleaded.
San groaned and could no longer hold back with the restraint he'd been showing all afternoon and for the last four years. He slowly lowered you to the bed with lips attacking yours, and removed your bra in the process.
His hands found your tits and pinched the nipples lightly, making you arch into him, and once again you found yourself wondering how he was so incredible at touching you. He palmed your tits perfectly and lowered his head to your chest to suck and nibble on them. His tongue would expertly lap the nipple as he sucked it between his teeth, and you moaned his name between expletives as you tried not to cum yet.
"Sannie," you whimpered as you reached for the waist of his sweatpants.
He nodded understandably and pulled away with a warning expression. "I'm nervous for you to see it," he admitted.
You wanted to laugh at him, but the honest worry in his face stopped you. Instead, you pulled him in for a kiss and promised, "No matter what, I want this San."
With another shaky inhale, He lowered his sweatpants and boxers in one go, revealing the prettiest, thickest, longest dick you'd ever seen.
"San..." you shook your head in disbelief. "Why were you nervous for me to see that."
He shrugged shyly, "Thought it might not be enough."
He tried to cover himself but you pulled his hands away and encouraged him to lean into you, allowing his cock to finally make some sort of contact with your cunt. You rolled your hips back and forth against it just as you had been doing when it was clothed.
"It's more than enough San. You're perfect," you hummed against him until he finally believed you and kissed you back again.
His hands rode up your sides as they had earlier and you whined, desperate to be full of him.
"Sannie, I want you inside me now," you begged, cheeks turning red as you said it.
San's eyes were wide as though he couldn't believe this was happening, and he reached down to insert a finger again, checking if you were ready. You whimpered into his neck and felt him remove it right away to align his cock instead.
"Go slow," you whispered, knowing his cock could stretch you in two now that you've seen it.
He smirked as if to say he'd been patient for 4 years and could do it for 4 minutes. "I will," he vowed as he pressed his lips to yours gently and pushed in.
Your warm walls enveloped him, wrapping around his cock like a tight hug. Every inch that entered you drove you to higher and higher streams of ecstasy.
Your mouths were both opened against one another, breathing in surprise at how heightened it felt...how amazing.
"You're doing so good, baby," he groaned as he kissed your cheek and continued pushing in.
Baby
The word made your chest tighten and your cunt throb around him, already about to cum.
"Fuck," he grunted. "You liked that? You like it when I call you baby?"
You nodded against his shoulder, pressing your hands against his back in an effort to ground yourself in reality. But if this was real, why did it feel so magical?
"I'll call you baby for as long as you'll let me," he muttered with another peck to your temple. "Almost halfway now. You're doing so good."
"Sannie," you whimpered, feeling so full that you needed a moment. "Give me a sec."
San stilled and turned his gaze to you, checking to make sure you were okay. With flushed cheeks and breathless shaking, you kissed him. He groaned in response, his cock twitching inside.
What had he said... almost halfway
Your heart pounded as you imagined what it would be like with him fully inside you. You pushed down on his cock, feeling his jaw go slack when he met you halfway and bottomed out, filling you so much that you could see it in your belly.
"Fuck, baby," he moaned against your neck.
You felt so much pressure in your belly, like your insides were a ballon he was pressing in on, about to pop. It felt so good...so incredibly good.
He pulled out slightly and pushed back in again, reaching the squishy part of you that made you want to come undone. Your hands clawed at his back when he set a slow but steady pace that had the mattress rocking into the wall.
You whined and writhed beneath him, nearing your end, while San whispered sweet things in your ear that set you on fire.
"So beautiful, baby. Such pretty noises for me."
San had one hand on your side, holding himself up from placing all of his weight on you, and the other traveled from your chest and nipple (that it lightly grazed in a way that made you hum) down to your bundle of nerves. He used an expert thumb to spell his name on your clit, watching you unwind and lose control of yourself.
Your body was no longer your own as it twitched and convulsing ways you'd never seen. Your lips spoke only his name when your body finally gave up the fight and emptied onto him again.
San's cock thrusted through your release until he neared his end and glanced at you desperately seeking permission.
"Do it, Sannie," you allowed and you felt his hips tremble against yours as he filled you with his warm, milky release.
You pulled him close with gentle hands on his neck and kissed him deeply, feeling the love flow freely between the two of you. San felt like home, you realized. And you wondered how long that had been the case.
When you both finished, he pulled out and laid down beside you to cradle you to his chest. His strong, familiar body was so comfortable to relax into that you closed your eyes and just breathed.
He gently stroked his hand through your hair before whispering a quiet, "Wow."
Your eyes opened to meet his, so loving, so awestruck. You couldn't help but smile back and place another kiss over his heart...his heart that belonged to you now, in the same way yours belonged to him.
content warnings: MDNI, strong insecurities (f), slight soft power dynamics, oral (f receives), fingering, slight boob/nipple play, multiple orgasms, public semi-secluded place, unprotected sex, a tear here and there, creampie.
words: 2.9k
*everything is fictional, just for some distracting fun*
Reposts are super appreciated 🤍
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There’s a moment of calm as you sit in the trunk of his car with the back seats down, Han river in front of you, the city lights dancing on the windy ripples of the water. He hung up fairy lights and put on music in the background as the heater hums lowly. The car is parked in a secluded spot where no one can find you - your own little bubble.
But Seonghwa isn’t looking at any of it. He’s looking at you. The way your skin glows in the warm lights, your little smile of contentment as you hum along to the music, laying your head on his chest. Your fingers trace mindless patterns on his open palm that you’ve been playing with for what feels like forever.
You can feel his gaze on you and look up with a smile, his heart skipping a beat at your starry eyes.
It’s everything he ever wanted for you. To see you happy.
“Hi.” You say softly.
He places a soft kiss on your forehead. “Hi.”
He brushes the hair out of your face, stroking your cheek tenderly. “You’re pretty.”
You giggle a little, nose scrunching as your cheeks turn pink.
“I mean it Angel. You look so beautiful right now, you have no idea.”
You bite your lip as you look down. It doesn’t matter that he’s your boyfriend, that you’ve been together all this time - you still get shy when he compliments you.
He hooks his finger under your chin and tilts your face back up to his.
“Why do you always look away when I say that?”
You look down again, unable to help it.
“I don’t know.” You chew on your lip a little, thinking about it. “Maybe because you’re so much prettier than me, it feels silly when you say that to me.”
His brows pull together, his lip curving in shock. “You can’t be serious... Angel, that’s not true!” He grabs a hold of your face a little tighter. “You’re genuinely the most beautiful person I’ve ever met - inside and out. You don’t understand it, and it kills me inside every time you deny it. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you…”
You can see his eyes shining and your heart breaks a little. You never meant for him to feel hurt.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t think you’d be so hurt by that… Hwa please don’t cry.” You say as you sit up, straddling him into a hug.
His throat feels tight. “I’m not hurt y/n, I’m just sad you can’t see the beauty you have. I wish I could find a way to show you…” he whispers against your hair.
You scoff quietly at the absurdity of the statement - not because it’s amusing, but because you know he’s tried before, and yet your insecurities always overpower everything else.
He pulls you off of him slightly, enough to look you in the eye. “I know what you’re thinking. But I’ll break through them. All those walls - I don’t care how long it takes, I’ll get through no matter what. I won’t stop until you finally see yourself the way I see you.”
A knot starts to grow in your throat at his words and you avert your eyes again, unable to hold his gaze.
His hands find the back of your neck and pull you into a kiss.
He’s gentle with you, afraid you’ll run away. But you won’t, and deep down he knows it. He’s your safe space - the one who you can be your most authentic unfiltered self with, despite everything.
His lips barely graze yours, allowing you to come to him. You’re hesitant at first, your mind replaying his shining brown eyes. He can feel it, noting the way your hands don’t quite lay fully on him, and he tightens his grip on your neck a fraction - just enough to break you out of the tornado of thoughts.
Your fingertips wrap around his shirt, holding onto him, and you let yourself melt into him, little by little. He relaxes too as he feels you let go of your hesitations, humming softly against you. The sound travels straight down your spine, making you shiver.
He’s always had a way of breaking you, setting you free. You don’t know how, but he instantly learned how your mind and body works, knowing when you need him to be the grounding pillar and when you need him to be your escape.
One of his hands comes to hold your jaw, tilting your head up just enough to slip the tip of his tongue past your lips. You don’t object - he’s in control now, and you like that you don’t have to think, that he can do it for the two of you.
Your back arches into him a little more and your hands hike up higher, grabbing onto the soft dark strands. Your mind is emptying more and more as he caresses your face, and you start to let go, losing yourself in the pleasure of the now.
His tongue dances with yours, slowly, and his sweet taste makes you whimper. Nothing in the world tastes better than his lips, you could spend the rest of your life kissing them and that would be enough.
As for Seonghwa, any part of you that you relinquish to him feels like a reward, like a tiny trophy handed to him. Whether it’s a kiss during an evening stroll, holding hands in the car, whispering his name in the middle of the night as he buries himself into you - every part of it makes his heart soar.
“I love you so much.” He whispers against your mouth as he runs his hand up your back.
“I love you too.” You mumble. “I’m sorry I can’t be what you want me to be…”
He pulls away from you for a second. “Hey, no. This isn’t about who I want you to be.” He kisses your jaw, working his way down to your neck. “You already are who I want you to be - you’re you. You just haven’t realised it yet.” He sucks on your collarbone a little. “I’ll get you there Angel. One day at a time.”
Your eyes flutter closed, both at his words and his touch, your fingers grabbing hold of his hair like an anchor. His lips travel down to your cleavage, venerating you, and your breathing grows shallower.
“Show me what you want.” He murmurs against your skin before lifting his head to your level. “Show me where you want me.”
There’s a moment of hesitation as you look into his deep brown eyes, but all you find there is warmth, desire and safety, and your hand instinctively grabs his, bringing it under your skirt to where your skin is burning.
Both of your bodies erupt in goosebumps at the contact - yours from feeling him where you’re aching, his from seeing you let go.
He starts rubbing against your sensitive clit, making your hips buck. Your eyes fall close, head dropping back.
“Fuck Angel you’re so sexy like that.” He grunts, turned on to the hilt at the sight of your gaping mouth.
Your hips start rocking back and forth, just an inch, but it’s enough for him to strain against his waistband. His fingers increase their pace against your core and he uses his other hand to push your underwear to the side. The direct feeling of his cool fingers on your skin makes you whimper and he bites his lip hard. He’s such a goner whenever it comes to you.
“Hwa…”
“Show me.” He repeats.
You lift your head back up, grabbing his wrist to push him further, guiding his fingers inside of you whilst your mouth engulfs his. The intrusion makes you whimper with pleasure and his stomach flips. You’re so incredibly wet already, and feeling your gummy walls suck his fingers in like that is devastating.
He curls his fingers gently, wanting to make it last as long as possible, but you want more, your hips rocking harder.
“More…” you beg.
This right there. This is exactly the kind of moment where he feels like he could evaporate into the air if it was possible. When you let go and let yourself be more confident and demanding, that’s when his entire being is so overwhelmed with love he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
As your hips sway over his hand, they keep brushing on his hard length, making him hiss. You notice, and a moment of boldness takes over as you adjust your angle to be right on top of him.
The way he looks at you makes you feel like you’re gonna cum right there.
“Fuck… so good…” You whimper against him, your scattered breaths mixing with his.
“Yeah?” He pants, head completely gone. “Show me how good you feel, Angel.”
You grab the back of his neck, bracing your forehead against his as you feel the pressure building at the base of your spine. Your hips falter as you start to lose control but his fingers take over, pumping relentlessly, hitting that sweet spot over and over, until you finally come undone, your nails digging into his neck as you coat his hand with your arousal.
Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you come down from the high, and he’s right there to welcome you back, his eyes watching you softly, reverently. You feel safe, and it turns the volume down on all your insecurities. It’s like you’re someone else, like your body has been taken over by a version of yourself that isn’t afraid. And you find yourself reaching for his hand, bringing it to your lips, and sucking your juices off of his fingers.
He’s never seen you like that, and it draws a moan from his lips.
“Angel…” he whispers.
You create friction against his hips again, indicating that you’re not done - you want him, need him. He’s ready for it, been ready the moment he kissed you, but the way you’re saying you’re ready for him has him losing his grip on reality.
This new version of you that is starting to scratch at the surface is hotter than anything else he’s seen, because it feels like you’re finally realising how capable you are, and it feels like the work he’s put in to try and make you see it is finally paying off. He’s so in love with the powerful version of you he’s seeing right now. This you could bring him to his knees, bring anyone to their knees.
You bring your lips to his starstruck mouth as your hands travel down to his jeans, unbuttoning them, and lifting up just enough to pull them down, taking his boxers with it.
His breath hitches as your fingers make contact with his sensitive skin, tiny whimpers falling from his lips like a precious liquid you make sure to collect.
You start stroking him gently, rubbing your thumb over his leaking tip and he jolts, a pained moan echoing through the car.
“Fuck…” he mumbles against you.
You lift your hips, lining yourself above him, before sinking down as slowly as possible whilst you admire his face. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this and it makes you feel even fuller than his cock does.
His body shudders from the restraint it’s taking him to not start driving his hips into you. He wants to see what you’ll do next, completely mesmerised by you.
You trail a wet path down his neck with your lips, revelling in his fluttering pulse, right before you start moving back and forth on him. A strained moan escapes you instantly, the feeling of his every vein and ridge inside you making you even more sensitive.
You see him struggle to grab something, only half aware of it, before you feel a weight on your back as he covers you with a blanket, just in case. Your heart swells at the gesture.
A string of tiny moans fly out of you as you sink deeper and deeper onto him, your hand braced on his shoulder for support whilst his own hold the blanket and your waist to guide you. You can’t tear your eyes away from his and neither can he, obsessed with the slightly fucked out look on your face that’s starting to peek through the more you let go.
“So fucking gorgeous.” He moans out as his finger tucks your hair behind your face so he can have a better view of your features.
You lean down towards him as you continue swaying your hips.
“I want you to touch me.”
Your voice comes out more begging than you thought, but it’s only because of just how desperately you need to feel him everywhere on you. You’re not used to him being so laid back and you crave his touch.
Before he can ask where, you grab the hands that are on your waist and slide them up under your shirt until it’s lifted enough to reveal your pink lace bra, guiding his fingers to rub your hard peaks.
He takes over, squeezing your breasts gently but firm, eyes locked on your smooth chest, speckled with red from the effort.
He’s completely engrossed in this version of you, feeling like he’s a third party witnessing everything rather than himself. You’ve given him a taste, and there’s no way he can go back.
He leans forward, lightly biting on your tender skin as you keep riding him, his hips meeting yours in unison, unable to help himself. You tangle your fingers into his hair, head thrown back, lost in the feeling of him everywhere in and around you, and he can feel your movements faltering.
There’s no need to ask, he knows you need him to take over now, rolling you onto your back as he settles between your legs. He halts just long enough to readjust the blanket before he starts rolling his hips into you again, seamlessly.
Your back arches under him, allowing him to continue nibbling on your tits, massaging your waist, hips and thighs softly.
“You feel so good.” He whimpers, your cunt clenching around him in response. You don’t even have words for how he’s making you feel right now.
Your lids are closed, letting the stars dance behind them as your world turns white, full of static. Your toes are tingling and you smile absentmindedly, hearing a curse escape him at the sight.
“Fuck, Angel. So beautiful, so sexy, so perfect, so mine.” He grunts, voice breaking and brows drawn together as his eyes turn glassy.
Despite your blurry vision, you manage to claw at his back, bringing him down to meet your lips, sloppy but so tender, wrapping your legs around his waist.
When he pulls away, the fairy lights adorning his skin with a dozen sparkles make him look ethereal, and it pulls at your chest. He’s so beautiful - not just in his looks, but in the way he loves you, the way he cares for you - and sometimes you wonder how you got so lucky.
On his side, the way you’re looking at him with so much love makes him want to both cry and love you until the end of time. He’ll never stop thanking his lucky star that you chose him out of everyone in this world.
“You’re the best thing in my life Angel you know that?” He hisses as his thrusts turn sharper, your nails digging further into his skin. He kisses your lips over and over, his hand caressing your cheek. “I love you so fucking much. I’ll never stop making sure you know it.” His words are more and more jolted and his movements jagged as he’s nearing climax.
“Thank you, t-thank you, I love you.” You keep repeating against his lips as you feel the pressure build to an almost painful peak on your lower back, a tear falling down your cheek onto his thumb.
He shakes his head as he drives his hips deeper into you for the final effort, his voice coming out in a mix of emotion and whimpers. “No Angel, thank yourself.”
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, desperately kissing your collarbone as he finally spills into you with a cry, your own orgasm flowing through you like a torrent. Your whole body convulses against his and you hold on to the hair at the nape of his neck to make sure you don’t float away, trying to breathe through the intensity of it all.
He stays buried inside of you, not ready to leave your warmth yet, just content with embracing you. He peppers your skin with soft kisses, the salt of your mixed sweat making his lips tingle. He creates a path up to your jaw, running his thumb across your lip as you look down at him.
There’s a moment where you just look at each other, not speaking a word, but saying a thousand silent things.
He brushes your sweaty hair off of your forehead.
“You see how easy that was? You just need to trust me.”
You chuckle a little, a hint of embarrassment coursing through you, but you also note that you find some comfort in his words, in his constant reassuring presence.
“Of course I trust you.”
It’s like the most natural thing you could say, because why wouldn’t you trust him when he’s your entire world?
In his chest, Seonghwa’s heart is soaring higher than the high rises surrounding them.
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Like what you read and want your own story? Check out my pinned post for a link to my commissions form!
── .✦ You join the gym after a painful breakup, expecting only physical change, but as you grow closer to your trainer San, you rediscover your confidence and find unexpected romance that heals you both.
pairing: trainer!san x afab!reader
genre: strangers → friends → lovers
rating: smut, mature 18+
wc: 11.2k
tw: [themes of body image/insecurity, infidelity/cheating, alcohol use, some strong language]
warnings: [explicit and detailed smut, unprotected sex, creampie, softdom!sannie, making outttt <3]
ᝰ.ᐟ honestly so sad that I didn't focus on san's ass appreciation bc he def loves reader's ass. also, woosan goes crazy sometimes. expanding to ateez again, and trying to come up with something for bts. who should be the first I write for if I do? enjoy hunnies <3
: ̗̀➛ masterlist ੈ✩‧₊˚ message me! ੈ✩‧₊˚
Your sneakers squeak on the polished floor as you walk into the gym. You grip your phone tightly, suddenly aware of your body, your hoodie, and the mirrors along the walls. You remind yourself you’re here for you—no one else.
“Hey.”
The voice is warm. Easy. You look up and immediately forget how lungs work.
He’s tall and broad, making his black joggers and fitted T-shirt look almost too good. His skin is honey-toned, his eyes sharp but softening when he smiles, dimples appearing. He looks strong, but not intimidating. He feels safe.
“I’m San,” he says, holding out a hand. His grip is gentle. “First time here?”
You nod, shaking his hand, hoping your blush isn’t visible under fluorescent lighting. “Is it that obvious?”
He laughs, light and genuine. “A little. But that’s okay. Want me to show you around?”
You follow him past the treadmills and weight racks, doing your best not to stare at his shoulders. He explains everything patiently, tells a few silly jokes, and never makes you feel out of place.
By the time you get to the free weights, your heart is racing. You came for a revenge body, but ended up with a crush instead.
After the tour, he leads you back to the front, where you tell him you’re getting the membership.
You stand there, debit card in hand, nails pressing into the plastic as the gym buzzes around you. Weights clank in the distance. The music thumps quietly, a beat you haven’t caught up to yet. Your hoodie feels too warm, and your leggings feel tight in all the places you try not to think about.
San leans against the counter, clicking through the computer screen with a focused look as he enters your basic information.
“Okay,” he says, tapping the screen and turning it slightly toward you. “This plan gives you full access, group classes if you feel brave enough, and a complimentary trainer for your first week.”
You blink. “Free?”
“Mhm. No traps. No surprise charges. No ‘gotcha’ moment.” He grins. “We’re not completely evil.”
That pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it.
He walks you through the paperwork, explaining everything clearly and never rushing. If you pause on a screen, he stays quiet. If you hesitate before signing, he looks away. He gives you space without making it awkward.
“So,” he says casually, folding his arms on the counter. The black T-shirt pulls across his chest so nicely that you have to avert your eyes. “For the trainer week, you can pick anyone you want. We’ve got a few really great ones.”
He scrolls through a list, pointing as he goes. “Jihyun’s amazing with beginners. She’s terrifyingly strong. Like…casually deadlifts your body weight strong.”
Your eyes widen. “That’s horrifying.”
“She smiles while doing it too,” he adds, dead serious. “Honestly, most of our female trainers could destroy the men. It’s very humbling.”
You snort before you can help it, covering your mouth as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Good to know.”
He glances up at you, amused, clearly pleased he made you laugh again. “I’m just saying. If strength is the goal, they’re your safest bet.”
“And you?” you ask before thinking.
He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. “Me?” A beat. Then, with mock confidence, “I might be the best. Possibly. Allegedly.”
You roll your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Of course you would say that.”
“Hey, I said might,” he laughs. Then his tone softens, more grounded. “But seriously, no pressure. You can choose anyone. Or switch later. Or never train again after the week. Totally your call.”
You look at the screen again, reading the names. You catch your reflection in the shiny surface—small, soft in places you wish you weren’t—standing next to someone who looks like he was made to be here.
Training with him would mean being seen at your sweatiest and most awkward.
“I don’t really…” You trail off, fingers tightening. “I don’t want to feel…worse about myself.”
San’s smile fades, just a little. Not gone, just gentler. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m very professional. And respectful. That’s kind of my whole thing.”
He gestures vaguely behind him. “You can ask literally any of my clients. I won’t be offended if you don’t pick me. I just want you to feel comfortable.”
He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t persuade. Just waits.
The choice weighs on you.
You swallow, then nod. “Okay,” you say, surprising yourself. “We can try.”
His smile returns, slow and bright, dimples carving themselves deep into his cheeks. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
San taps your name into the system. “Cool. Then I’ll take extra good care of you.” A pause. “Gym-wise,” he adds quickly, laughing.
You laugh too, feeling nervous and your heart beating fast.
The consultation room is quieter than the rest of the gym, tucked away behind frosted glass and muted walls. The bass of the music outside fades into a distant thrum, like something happening in another life. There’s a small table, two chairs, and a clipboard resting neatly on top. It feels intimate in a way you didn’t anticipate. Less gym, more confessional.
San is already there when you step in.
Black joggers again. A fitted charcoal hoodie this time, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose forearms that look insane. His hair falls in his eyes slightly, parted near the bridge of his nose. He looks great.
“Hey,” he says, standing as you enter. Warm smile. Dimples. Perfect white teeth.
“Hi,” you manage, voice softer than you intended.
He gestures for you to sit and takes the chair across from you instead of next to you. It feels professional and thoughtful. He opens the clipboard but doesn’t look at it right away.
“So,” he begins, tone easy, unhurried. “This is just a vibe check. No pressure. I want to know why you’re here and what you want out of this.”
You swallow. “Well,” you start, defaulting to something rehearsed, something safe. “I just want to get healthier. Stronger. You know. Routine. Consistency.”
San nods patiently, but his eyes stay on your face. They’re sharp but kind, as if he can see what you’re not saying.
“Mhm,” he hums. A pause. Then gently, “That’s the brochure answer.”
Your mouth twitches. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little,” he admits with a soft smile. “But that’s okay. You don’t owe me the real one if you’re not ready.”
He finally looks down at the clipboard, giving you space. The room goes quiet. You stare at your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together.
“I can’t help you properly if I don’t know what’s really going on,” he adds quietly. “And whatever it is, this room’s safe.”
The way he says it makes your chest hurt.
You inhale, then exhale slowly. “My ex cheated on me.”
San’s pen stills.
You keep going before you can stop yourself. “I know it’s not my fault. I know he’s the one who messed up. Everyone keeps telling me that. But…” Your voice wobbles despite your effort. “I can’t stop wondering why.”
You finally look up at him, eyes burning. “Was I not enough? Did I let myself go? Was there something missing?”
You laugh weakly. “He said it ‘didn’t mean anything.’ Like that makes it better.”
The words spill out now, months of quiet insecurity finally finding air. “I feel inadequate. Like, no matter how hard I try, there’s always someone better.”
San doesn’t interrupt once.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t try to fix it mid-sentence. He listens like this matters. Like you matter. When you finish, the room is silent again, but it feels different. Lighter.
He takes a slow breath, clearly choosing his words carefully.
“You are enough,” he says, voice firm but gentle. No hesitation.
Your throat tightens.
“What your ex did says everything about him and nothing about your worth,” he continues. “People don’t cheat because their partner isn’t enough. They cheat because they don’t know how to sit with themselves.” He pauses, then continues. “Curiosity isn’t an excuse. It’s a character flaw when it hurts someone else.”
He leans back slightly, still keeping a respectful distance. “It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t okay.”
Then, more casually, as if it’s obvious, he says, “And for what it’s worth, you’re gorgeous.”
Heat floods your face instantly. “San,” you protest, half laughing, half mortified. “Is that professional?”
His grin is immediate, boyish, devastating. “Absolutely not.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“My job,” he says, tapping the clipboard, “is to help you see what’s already there. Strength isn’t just muscles. It’s confidence. And you have more potential than you think.”
Your heart stutters.
“We’ll take this one step at a time. I’ve got you.”
San stands first, the chair legs scraping softly as he reaches for a tray of locker keys by the door. They clink together, the sound grounding you after everything you just shared.
“Alright,” he says, lighter now, like he’s intentionally easing the air. “Logistics.”
You watch him sign a number onto your file, neat handwriting, practiced motions. When he hands the key to you, his fingers brush yours briefly.
“So,” he continues, walking toward the door and holding it open for you, “fitness goals.”
You trail after him, heart still fluttery from the conversation. “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say.”
“That’s fine,” he replies easily. “Some people come in with spreadsheets. Some people come in with vibes.”
You huff a laugh. “I’m definitely vibes.”
He laughs and nods approvingly before continuing. “Common reasons are strength, endurance, flexibility, and body composition. Sometimes all of the above.”
You chew your lip as you think, the hallway to the locker rooms echoing softly. “Okay. Um. Honestly?”
He glances at you. “Always.”
“I want to be skinnier,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can soften them. “I want to feel confident. And maybe…grow my ass in the process?”
The words linger in the air.
San slows down before stopping.
He looks at you, expression unreadable for half a second, then his mouth curves into something amused and dangerously calm.
“You already have a nice ass,” he says, conversationally. Like he’s commenting on the weather. “Doesn’t really need growing. Maybe toning, if that’s what you want. But it’s your body.”
You nearly trip over your own feet.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt, heat flooding your face. “What?”
He keeps walking, as if nothing happened, utterly unbothered. “You heard me.”
No. No, surely not.
You scramble to keep up. “San.”
“Mhm?”
“Can you repeat that?”
He stops again, turns fully this time. Same relaxed posture. Same warm eyes. Same devastating composure.
“You have a nice ass,” he repeats evenly. “And we’ll train based on what you want and need.”
Your brain short-circuits.
He laughs then, low and genuine, dimples flashing. “I’m professional,” he says. A pause. Then, with a shrug, “For the most part.”
Your eyes widen.
“But,” he adds smoothly, “I’m still a man. With eyes.”
He winks.
You stand there, the locker key digging into your palm, your heart racing, wondering if this gym membership comes with hazards you're not emotionally prepared for.
The scale sits in the corner of the assessment room, silently mocking you.
San pulls the privacy curtain halfway closed, not because it’s required, but because he notices the way your shoulders tense the second you see it. He gestures toward it with an easy hand.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says gently.
You slip off your shoes, suddenly hyperaware of everything. The softness of your stomach. The curve of your hips. The way your thighs touch when you stand still.
You step onto the scale, eyes fixed firmly on the wall instead of the numbers lighting up beneath your feet.
San doesn’t react. He writes the number down calmly, like it’s just another data point in the world.
“These,” he says gently, motioning to the clipboard, “are just numbers. They’re not a grade. They’re not a judgment.”
He moves to take your measurements next, tape cool against your skin. He asks before each one. Arm. Waist. Hips. Thigh. His touch is professional, careful, never lingering longer than necessary.
“You don’t need to feel shy,” he adds quietly, as if reading your thoughts. “Not around me. Not around anyone here. My coworkers included.”
You swallow. “It’s hard not to.”
“I know,” he says. “But this is just a starting line. We take these now so later we can look back and say, ‘Wow, look how far you’ve come.’ Or even just, ‘Wow, I feel better.’ That part matters more.”
He steps back, meeting your eyes. “Strength is important. And obviously, health is most important. But mental health is part of that—I want you to leave feeling good in your skin.”
You feel a little more at ease.
You hesitate, then admit softly, “I’ve always been…thicker than everyone else in my family. They’re all small. Petite. I kind of stuck out.”
San glances at your hips, then back up, smiling warmly. “Well,” he says, “people are built differently.” He taps the clipboard. “And some people are lucky to have a little extra.”
Your face goes hot instantly. “San.”
“What?” he asks innocently, dimples deepening. “Nothing wrong with having something to hold onto.”
You laugh, a little flustered, but also more comfortable around him.
The first week is hell.
There’s really no other way to describe it.
You learn this the moment you catch your reflection in the locker room mirror, tugging at the hem of your athletic wrap top. The outfit is new, carefully chosen.
Black leggings, a black sports bra, and a wrap that hugs your waist just enough to help you feel secure. Black hides sweat and shadows. Still, you look cute.
San notices immediately.
You’re halfway through stuffing your things into the locker when he stops short behind you and lets out a low whistle.
“Well,” he says, impressed and entirely unashamed. “Someone understood the assignment.”
You feel heat bloom across your chest and neck, laughing as you shut the locker a little too hard. “You’re distracting.”
“It comes with the job,” he says with a grin. “Ready?”
Fifteen minutes on the treadmill nearly convinces you to quit on day one.
San matches your pace beside you, chatting casually while you struggle to keep up. Your legs ache, and sweat forms at your hairline almost right away.
“Warming up,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta wake the muscles.”
“They were asleep for a reason,” you gasp.
He laughs.
Then you stretch on the floor. Mats, slow movements, deep breaths. San shows each pose with ease, correcting you gently and always asking before he helps. He explains why each move matters.
And then he introduces the workout.
“It’s beginner-friendly,” he promises.
It is, technically. But beginner-friendly does not mean painless.
Squats that make your thighs scream. Push-ups that feel personal. Core exercises that you swear are invented by cruel people with vendettas. San counts your reps, encouraging and praising you, never letting you give up, but never forcing you past your limit either.
“Breathe,” he reminds you. “You’re doing amazing.”
By the end of the hour and a half, you’re drenched, legs shaking, and drinking water as if you haven’t had any in days. San crouches in front of you, eyes bright, still full of energy.
“You crushed that,” he says. “Seriously.”
You groan. “I think I saw my life flash before my eyes.”
“And yet,” he grins, “you survived.”
The rest of the week follows the same pattern.
Pain. Sweat. Soreness in muscles you didn’t know you had. Stairs are tough. Sitting down takes effort. Have you ever had to grab the sink basin for support just to sit on the toilet? It was that bad.
San’s constant positivity is almost annoying at first, always upbeat and encouraging. But somewhere between the soreness and the sweat, something changes. You start to feel good—capable and proud.
By the end of the week, when San asks if you want to keep training, his enthusiasm is already there before you answer.
“Absolutely,” you say, smiling.
He grins right away, looking proud. “Knew it,” he says. “This is just the beginning.”
Three months in, the mirror tells a different story.
It’s not a dramatic change or a movie-style transformation. It’s real progress. Your body hasn’t become unrecognizable. It’s still yours, still soft in places, but now there’s muscle underneath. You feel stronger and more grounded.
Your habits have changed before you even noticed. You wake up earlier, drink more water, and stretch when your body needs it. Now you want to move, not to punish yourself, but because it clears your mind and makes you feel stronger. That change alone feels huge.
San did that.
Well, not exactly. He guided, nudged, and helped you change.
You remember the first time you told him you wanted to go into a calorie deficit, how casual you were about it. Like it was obvious.
“That’s all I know,” you’d shrugged. “Eat less. Count everything.”
San had frowned, concerned. “You don’t need to eat less,” he’d said patiently. “You just need to eat better.”
And then he dismantled everything you thought you knew. Explained food like fuel instead of calories entering your body. Taught you to stop demonizing meals and start building them. Protein. Fiber. Real food. He laughed when you complained about cutting dairy.
“Why are you drinking cow milk,” he’d said, deadpan, “if you’re lactose intolerant?”
You hated that he was right.
Somewhere in that first week, you’d exchanged numbers. Strictly practical, he said. So you could send him photos of your meals. Proof you were sticking to the plan.
That lasted about four days. Now you text constantly.
Memes, random thoughts, updates about your day. He sends you gym jokes and terrible puns. You send him screenshots of design projects and ask if the colors look good. One night, you had to drive two hours to your parents’ for an emergency, and he asked you to share your location.
“Just so I know you’re safe,” he’d said casually.
It shouldn’t feel this intimate. It definitely isn’t professional.
But you love it.
You love that he checks in on rest days. That he celebrates your non-scale victories harder than you do. That he notices when you’re tired. That he still hypes you up like day one.
Sometimes he flirts.
A comment about how strong you’re getting. A look held a second too long. A teasing remark that makes your stomach flip and your brain scramble for explanations. Is this confidence boosting? Trainer encouragement? Or is this a man flirting with a woman he’s interested in?
You’re not sure.
What you do know is that you’re healthier. Happier.
Six months changes things in quiet, dangerous ways.
You don’t realize how much until you walk through the gym doors wearing pink.
Not muted blush. Not dusty rose. Pink pink. Leggings that hug your figure perfectly, a matching sports bra that leaves your shoulders bare, your midriff unapologetically visible. No wrap. No safety layer. No oversized hoodie clutched like a shield.
Now you do the pump cover thing. Oversized shirt on the way in, hoodie tied around your waist. You shed it once the heat builds, once your body warms, once you remember that you’re allowed to exist like this. You’re not fully confident. Not bulletproof. But you know, deep down, that you look good.
Your waist has cinched in naturally, like it finally remembered its shape. Your stomach lies flat, especially after San stopped gatekeeping his debloating tea, leaning in close one morning as if he were sharing state secrets.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he’d whispered, glancing around dramatically before murmuring the name.
The gym is quiet today. Too quiet.
You slow near the front desk, fingers brushing the counter as you look around. No clanking weights. No treadmills humming. Just the shitty gym music thumping through the speakers.
You frown. “Hello?”
And then, like he’s been summoned by the sound of your voice, San pops out from behind the hallway with a grin that hits you square in the chest.
Pink suits him too, apparently, because his eyes drop for half a second before snapping back up, dimples carving deep into his cheeks.
“Wow,” he says, not subtle at all. “You’re glowing.”
Your cheeks warm instantly. “You’re staring.”
“I am appreciating,” he corrects.
You cross your arms, pretending not to love that. “Where is everyone?”
“New Year’s Eve,” he replies easily. “Everyone’s either getting ready to go out or already starting parties.”
“Oh,” you say, glancing around again. “That makes sense.”
Then it hits you.
“You’re here,” you point out.
He hums, stepping closer, hands tucked casually into his jogger pockets. He looks relaxed. Very much not in trainer mode.
You haven’t quite adjusted to that yet.
Last week still feels surreal.
When the program ended, you’d panicked. Told him immediately you wanted to extend. That you weren’t done. That you still needed him.
He’d laughed, pulled you into a hug without hesitation, arms warm and familiar around you.
“You don’t need me like that anymore,” he’d said fondly. “Besides, you could train me now.”
You’d laughed, but the fear had lingered. That you’d become just another success story. That he’d give someone else the same attention, the same care. That he’d share locations with new clients. Send them memes. Check in like he did with you.
It had made your stomach twist.
San must see something on your face now because his smile softens. “C’mon,” he says, nodding toward the treadmills. “Let’s warm up.”
You fall into step beside him.
“So seriously,” you ask, trying for casual. “Why are you here if it’s dead?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Because you are.”
Your brain short-circuits.
“Oh,” you manage, voice betraying you entirely.
He grins, glancing sideways. “Relax. You’re stuck with me.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah,” he says, amusement laced with something deeper. “You’re my gym wife. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”
You scream internally.
You step onto the treadmill beside him, pulse racing, the empty gym suddenly feeling charged with possibility. New year. New body. New rules.
You both start your machines, walking side by side, arms swinging loosely, conversation drifting without effort. San talks about a client who tried to deadlift in jeans. You complain about a design project that refuses to cooperate.
Then he bumps the speed up.
“Light jog,” he says.
You groan, but comply, breathing evenly as your ponytail sways behind you. He keeps talking like this is nothing. A minute passes. Then two. Then he grins at you and taps the console again.
“Sprint.”
“What—San!”
But you’re laughing as your legs pump faster, heart racing, lungs burning. He matches you effortlessly, glancing over with that maddeningly calm expression, counting under his breath.
“Ten more seconds.”
You survive. Barely.
Jog again. Then sprint. Then jog. Over and over, until sweat slicks your skin and your muscles sing with effort. By the time he finally slows you down, your chest is heaving, legs trembling, a wild, exhilarated smile on your face.
“That,” he says proudly, “was beautiful.”
You flip him off affectionately.
Since the gym is empty, he connects his phone to the speakers. His playlist fills the space instantly, bass-rich, energizing, so much better than the generic gym loop. You stretch together on the mats afterward, San correcting your form with touch instead of words now, hovering close.
Then it’s squat time. Leg day for him. Glute day for you.
You grab your water bottle and phone, bending to set them down beside your rack. You feel his gaze before he says anything. When you glance over, he’s mid-warm-up, bar resting across his chest, eyes very much on you.
“Yeah,” he says casually. “You can definitely tell.”
You blink. “Tell what?”
“The difference in your glutes,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Especially in that pink set.”
Heat rushes straight to your face. “You’re flirting again,” you accuse. “And staring.”
He shrugs, dropping into a front squat with effortless depth. “I’m not your trainer anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean you stop being a gentleman,” you counter, folding your arms.
He rises smoothly, racking the bar, eyes bright with amusement. “I have my limits,” he says simply. “Especially when it comes to you.”
Your laugh comes out nervous, breathy.
He grins at the sound, clearly enjoying your reaction, then turns his focus back to his workout like he didn’t just unravel you with a sentence.
You grip your bar, heart racing, very aware that something between you has shifted again.
You eye the plates for a long second before you speak. Your bar is loaded heavier than usual.
“Hey,” you say, glancing over at San. “Can you spot me?”
His eyebrows lift, impressed before he even answers. “Going for a PR?”
You nod, nerves buzzing. “Last set.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”
You kick off your shoes first, nudging them aside with your foot. The rubber soles thud softly against the floor. Bare feet feel better. More control. You learned that from him. The bar rests heavily across your shoulders as you step under it, grip tightening, breath slowing.
And then San is behind you. Not touching yet. Just there.
You are suddenly acutely aware of everything. The heat of the room. The sheen of sweat on your skin. The way his chest rises behind you as he mirrors your stance, knees bent slightly, ready. The mirror in front of you reflects it all. Your focus. Your strain. Him, solid and steady at your back.
“Alright,” he murmurs near your ear. “Deep breath. I’ve got you.”
You squat slowly. Controlled. Your hamstrings and glutes burn immediately, muscles protesting as you sink deep. San follows your movement instinctively, his body lowering with yours, close enough that you can feel him without being touched.
“Good,” he encourages softly. “Stay with it.”
You push up with a strained exhale, core tight, jaw clenched. The bar moves, slowly, heavily. But it moves.
Again.
Your legs shake this time, breath turning ragged. You catch your own expression in the mirror. Determination stares back.
“Come on,” San urges, voice firmer now, breath warm against your neck. “You’re strong. Push.”
You drop into the last rep, muscles screaming, lungs on fire. For a split second, you think you might fail, then you hear him.
“Up. Up. You’re right there. Don’t quit on yourself now.”
You grunt, every muscle firing, and rise.
The bar clears. You lock out. Hands shaking, you re-rack the weight with a shaky clank and stagger forward, breathing hard, a soft, involuntary whimper slipping out as the tension finally releases.
Before you can process it, San is cheering.
“Oh my god!” he shouts, bouncing on his toes like a kid. “You did it!”
He pulls you into a hug, arms tight around you, energy vibrating off him. You freeze for half a second.
“Wait,” you laugh breathlessly, hands hovering awkwardly. “I’m sweaty.”
“I don’t care,” he says immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes bright. “That was insane. That was clean.”
His excitement is contagious. You feel it bloom in your chest, pride rushing in where doubt used to live.
“I can’t believe I did that,” you say, still panting.
“You did that shit,” he insists.
And then you’re both laughing, jumping up and down, celebrating like idiots in the empty gym. Your heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the weight anymore.
You find San again at the treadmills, both of you drifting back to the same place. Your legs are tired in that deep, satisfying way, muscles humming instead of screaming.
You step onto the treadmill beside him and set it to a slow walk—cooldown pace. Breathing evening out, sweat cooling against your skin.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then you glance sideways. “Hey, thanks again for spotting me earlier.”
San waves it off like it’s nothing, eyes forward. “You did all the work. I just existed behind you.”
“You existed very helpfully,” you counter.
He laughs, shaking his head. “That was your strength. All you.”
You smile at the console, chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.
A minute passes. Your steps fall into rhythm again.
“So,” you say casually, maybe a little too casually. “How are your other clients doing?”
He hums, considering. “Good, mostly. Progress all around.”
“All girls?” you tease.
He snorts. “Obviously.”
You laugh. “Of course.”
Then he hesitates. It’s subtle, barely there, but you’ve learned him well enough to catch it. There is a slight pause before he speaks again. The way his jaw tightens just a fraction.
“I actually had to cancel a program recently,” he says finally.
You glance over, surprised. “Why?”
He exhales. “One of them kept asking me out, wouldn’t let it go. Made things uncomfortable.”
Your steps falter just a bit. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” he adds quietly. “Just wanted to help her. Sucks.”
There’s no bitterness in his voice, just tired honesty.
You feel something twist in your chest. Sympathy, anger on his behalf, because you remember that first week. How careful, intentional, and genuinely kind he was.
Like that day a few months back, when you were cooling down after your session, and he’d drifted away briefly. You’d watched him approach a teenage girl on the stair master. Plus size. Nervous. Clutching the rails and pushing herself despite her anxiety screaming at her to leave.
You remembered his smile then. Big and encouraging.
“Hey,” he’d said to her, holding out a water bottle. “Hydration check.”
She’d taken it, cheeks burning red as he playfully scolded her. “I don’t wanna see you in here without water again, okay?”
She’d nodded furiously, glowing under the attention, and you’d felt something settle in your chest watching it.
San had never been just his body. Or his face. Or the way people looked at him like he was a prize to win. He was this.
You reach the end of your cooldown and hit stop. Without thinking too hard, you reach across and stop his treadmill too.
“Hey,” he says, confused. “I wasn’t—”
You don’t answer. You step off your machine, cross the small gap between you, and climb onto his treadmill. He barely has time to react before you wrap your arms around him.
He stiffens for half a second. Then he hugs you back tightly. Like he needed it more than he realized.
Your cheek presses against his chest, heartbeat steady beneath your ear. “I see you,” you murmur. “All of you.”
His arms tighten just a little more, breath leaving him in a slow exhale. For a moment, the empty gym fades away entirely. The hug lingers with him long after you let go.
San stands there for a second longer than necessary, arms slowly dropping back to his sides, chest warm where you pressed against him. Your words echo loudly.
I see you.
It lands deeper than any compliment ever has.
He’s felt attraction before; he’s not naïve. He knows what it’s like to be wanted for his body, for his face, for the idea people build in their heads the moment they look at him. That part of life has always been loud.
This is different.
He knew it early. Earlier than he probably should’ve admitted to himself. That first week, when you stood at the front desk looking like you might bolt at any second, eyes darting around, shoulders tight, pretending you didn’t need help while absolutely needing it. He remembers thinking, immediately, dangerously: God, she’s beautiful.
Not in a trying-too-hard way. In a soft, real, devastating way. Curvy, pretty face, expressive eyes, a laugh that snuck up on him. A combination that would’ve undone him even if you’d never lifted a single weight. He would’ve taken you exactly as you were.
But he respected you too much not to respect your goals.
And then you started changing, not just physically. You stood taller, looked at yourself differently, and wore less of your old defenses. Confidence grew slowly, almost without you noticing, and that’s when it really felt unfair.
Beautiful. Curvy. Confident. Triple kill.
And yes. That ass.
He’s not blind. He’s not a saint. He noticed the difference the lifting made. The way your body responded to routine. Rounder. Firm in a way that made him have to actively remind himself to look away.
Professional. Be professional.
San knows who he is. He knows he’s handsome. He knows his smile disarms people, knows his body turns heads. He’s never pretended otherwise. But whenever someone compliments his face, he always laughs and says it’s his mom’s doing. That part isn’t his.
His body, though? That’s his work. Years of discipline. Of consistency. And still, none of it compares to how he feels when you smile at him like you trust him.
He’s trained plenty of women. He knows why most of his clients are female. He’s dealt with the awkwardness, the crushes, the crossed lines. He never wanted them.
You’re different. Not because you’re prettier, but you are. Not because you’re kinder, but you are. It’s the way you see him. The way you notice the things no one else does. The way you hug him without wanting anything in return.
He wants to treat you so well it scares him.
He wants to buy you things just because you mentioned them once. Take you places you’ve never been. Hold your hand absentmindedly while you talk. Kiss you slowly like he has nowhere else to be. Wrap you up in his arms and make the world smaller around you.
He even thinks, fleetingly, irrationally, about your ex. About finding him. About explaining, very calmly, what happens when you fail to cherish something soft and rare.
San exhales, shaking his head at himself. Down bad doesn’t even begin to cover it. In his head, quietly, carefully, he already calls you his.
When you finally pull away, the absence hits him immediately.
His cheeks are warm. Too warm. He’s painfully aware of it, the heat blooming under his skin, the way his ears probably match.
You notice. Your eyes flick up to his face for just a second longer than usual. He sees the recognition spark there. The pause. The choice you make not to say anything.
God. That might undo him more than the hug itself.
He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back, forcing himself into something that looks normal. “Uh,” he says lightly, gesturing vaguely. “Cooldown accomplished.”
You laugh, mercifully playing along. “Barely survived.”
“That’s a win,” he grins, relief loosening his chest. “Still alive.”
You both move around each other easily now, picking up water bottles and phones, tossing towels into bins. The tension doesn’t go away, but it becomes something softer and more familiar. It’s comfortable, like you’ve crossed a line but aren’t ready to talk about it yet.
He cracks a joke about your playlist-stealing privileges next time. You fire back that his taste in music is elite, and the gym doesn’t deserve it.
At the front desk, Yeosang is leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone. San lifts a hand automatically.
“Later,” he calls.
Yeosang looks up, smirks, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Later,” he replies, tone knowing in a way that makes San suddenly very interested in the exit.
The cold evening air hits as you step outside, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. San exhales, shoulders relaxing as the gym doors close behind you.
This is usually where it ends. A wave. A casual “text me when you get home.” A routine goodbye. You turn toward him, stepping closer, arms already lifting.
San’s heart stumbles.
He opens his mouth before he can overthink it. “Hey—”
You pause, looking up at him.
His brain scrambles.
Say it.
No, don’t say it.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Do you,” he starts, then stops, breath hitching, then tries again. “Do you want to maybe have dinner later? At my place?”
The words hang there, fragile.
You blink. Once. Twice.
“Oh,” you say, surprised. Then you smile, softer. “Yeah. Sure.” Friendly dinner, you assume.
“Really?” he asks, grin breaking through before he can stop it.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His face fully brightens, boyish and unguarded. “Cool. Cool. I’ll text you.”
You hug him then, quick and easy this time, and wave goodbye as you head to your car.
San stands there for a second longer after you leave.
Dinner. At his house.
Oh shit.
Dinner at his house.
He sprints to his car, realizing he needs to start cooking.
The drive over feels longer than it actually is.
Your hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary as you pull into his apartment complex, headlights washing over neat rows of parked cars. You’re dressed casually but intentionally. Jeans that fit just right, a nice top that you stood in front of the mirror debating for far too long. Comfortable enough to feel like yourself. Pretty enough.
Your stomach flips.
Why was he nervous earlier?
That question circles your head as you park and cut the engine. San doesn’t get nervous. San is composed. The kind of man who knows exactly where he stands in a room. And yet earlier, he’d stumbled.
And now you’re here at his place.
You know, with absolute certainty, that he doesn’t do this with clients. Or former clients. You’ve seen the lines he draws. How careful he is. That’s part of why this feels so significant, so loaded with meaning it makes your chest buzz.
You take a breath, step out of the car, and walk up to his door.
Knock. Knock.
The seconds stretch just long enough for doubt to creep in.
Then the door opens.
San stands there like he hasn’t seen you in months instead of a few hours. Big smile and crinkled eyes. Hair slightly tousled, like he’s run a hand through it one too many times. He looks comfortable in his slightly baggy jeans and T-shirt.
“Hey,” he says, bright and genuine.
Your heart trips. “Hi.”
He steps aside immediately. “Come in.”
His apartment is warm, clean, and lived in. Something savory and delicious fills the air, making your stomach ache in a good way. Shoes sit by the door, and a jacket is tossed over a chair.
He gives you a little tour, pointing things out with easy enthusiasm. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Then the spare room.
“And this,” he says, opening the door with a sheepish grin, “is where I keep my problem.”
You step inside and stop short.
Plushies. A collection of them: big ones, small ones, and everything in between. Carefully arranged on the shelves.
Your hand flies to your mouth. “Oh my god.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t judge me.”
“Judge you?” you gasp. “San, this is the greenest flag I’ve ever seen.”
His ears turn pink. “I win them at festivals,” he admits. “And I can’t throw them away.”
You stare at him, heart swelling. Big gym bro, killer body, and a plush collection.
I want to marry him, you think while looking at each one.
He guides you toward the kitchen before your brain can spiral further. The counters are occupied. That’s when it hits you. Dinner. You’re here for dinner. Not to mentally plan a future with this man. Not to imagine him folded into your life. Not to fall in love.
Too late, whispers something traitorous in your chest.
You clear your throat and look down at the food.
San glances at you, amused. “You okay?”
You nod quickly, cheeks warm. “Yeah. I just—wow.”
He smiles, pleased. “Sit. I’ll grab bowls.”
As he turns away, you watch him for a second longer than necessary before sitting at the table, heart loud, thoughts tangled.
You came here for dinner.
But standing in his kitchen, surrounded by warmth and care and something that feels dangerously close to affection, you’re not sure you’re leaving with just that.
He sets the bowls down carefully, and steam curls upward immediately, carrying the deep, rich scent of kimchi jjigae through the kitchen. It’s warm and spicy and comforting all at once, the kind of smell that settles into your bones before you even take a bite. The pot sits between you, still gently bubbling, red broth catching the light.
“Kimchi jjigae,” he says, almost shyly. “It’s kind of my thing.”
Your eyes light up. “You made this?”
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly feels exposed. “Yeah. I make it a lot. For my family. Friends. Me.” A small smile tugs at his lips. “I’m a Namhae boy. We take our food seriously.”
You grin. “I’ve heard.”
“Oh, Namhae is the best county in South Korea,” he says immediately, pride blooming in his voice without a trace of arrogance. “Best food. Best people. Best views. No competition.”
There’s something about the way he says it—so certain and full of love. Everything he talks about feels cherished, not boastful. You realize how much he appreciates his roots, his family, his job, his home, and the life he’s built here. He never takes anything for granted.
You lift your spoon and take a bite, and nearly die.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, eyes widening. The flavor is insane. Spicy but balanced. Rich without being heavy. Comfort in liquid form. You hum involuntarily and take another spoonful immediately, not even trying to hide it.
San watches with bated breath. “Is it good?” he asks, voice hopeful, eyes searching your face.
You nod vigorously, mouth still full. “San, this is so good.”
He laughs, cheeks flushing, ducking his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the praise. “Really?”
“Yes. I might cry.”
That does it. His smile spreads slowly and bright, dimples cutting deep, happiness written all over his face. He eats too, more relaxed now, watching you enjoy it like that’s the best compliment he could’ve received.
Conversation flows easily after that. Stories about each other’s childhoods and work. Laughing over small things, teasing each other gently. The kind of talk that doesn’t need effort, just presence.
When the bowls are empty, you stand instinctively. “I’ll wash the dishes.”
He shakes his head immediately. “Nope.”
“I insist.”
He reaches out, catching your wrist lightly. “I’ll do them later.”
And before you can protest again, he tugs you gently toward the couch, presses the remote into your hand, and says, “Find something good.”
You blink. “You’re not…?”
“Wine,” he says over his shoulder, already heading back toward the kitchen. “Give me a second.”
Okay. Wow. This is not at all what you expected.
You sink into the couch, heart racing, the remote warm in your hand, and realize you’re smiling without even thinking about it.
You scroll through the options longer than necessary, thumb hovering as trailers auto-play silently in the background. Your instinct pulls you straight toward horror. It always does. Something about the tension, the adrenaline, the way it makes your heart race.
But then you remember him.
The way he’d laughed once, almost embarrassed, admitting he scares easily. How he said it, like a confession, as if he expected to be judged for it. You’d found it endearing then. Still do now.
So you settle on an action movie instead. Explosions. Fast cars. Something loud enough to be exciting but not enough to send him hiding behind a pillow.
You’re just settling back when you hear footsteps.
San reappears from the kitchen with two wine glasses balanced carefully in his hands and the bottle tucked under his arm. He looks relaxed. Soft around the edges in a way that makes your chest ache. His smile is bright, easy, pure golden retriever energy as he hands you a glass.
“Here,” he says. “Tell me if it’s too dry.”
He glances at the screen just as the opening credits roll, and his brows knit together in confusion.
“…That’s not horror.”
You freeze for half a second. “Oh. I just—” you shrug, suddenly shy. “You said you get scared easily. I didn’t want to freak you out.”
He stares at you. Then his lips pout. Actually pout.
“I wanted to get scared,” he says. “I wanted you to hold me during the scary parts.”
“I—what?”
Your face burns instantly as you scramble for the remote, suddenly very invested in finding literally any horror movie. “I mean, if you want—I can change it—I just thought—”
He laughs, loud and warm, eyes crinkling so deeply it makes your stomach flip. “I’m kidding,” he says gently, dropping down onto the couch beside you.
Not touching, but close. So close you can feel the heat of him through the fabric of your clothes. His thigh just barely brushes yours when he shifts. He pours the wine carefully, handing you your glass before setting his down.
You put a scary movie on anyway.
You giggle suddenly, nerves bubbling over, and stand up. “Wait.”
He watches you with curiosity as you cross the room and flick the lights off. The apartment dims instantly, shadows stretching, the TV glow suddenly brighter.
When you sit back down, San makes a small, very real whining sound.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs.
But he scoots closer anyway. His arm brushes yours now. You pretend not to notice how your heart starts racing again, how the couch suddenly feels smaller, how the space between you disappears inch by inch.
The movie starts in earnest. Music swelling low and ominous. San leans in just a little more.
You thought he was exaggerating, you really did.
At first, you think the way San edges closer and his arm brushes yours again and again is on purpose. Maybe he’s flirting, using fear as an excuse to get closer. You tell yourself he knows exactly how charming he is.
Then the first real jump scare hits.
A shrill sound cuts through the room, and San yelps. He jerks so hard his knee knocks into yours, and he nearly launches himself off the couch.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, startled more by him than the movie.
He grabs the blanket in a panic, yanking it up and throwing it over both of you like it might save his life. His heart is pounding. You can feel it. Fast and frantic against your arm.
“You’re kidding,” you whisper, half-stunned.
Another tense moment builds on screen. You brace yourself, but San does not. He screams again, higher this time, and clutches your sleeve like you’re a lifeline. His whole body jumps, shoulders up near his ears, eyes squeezed shut as he peeks over the blanket like a terrified child.
You try, you really try. But when he jumps so hard he nearly slips off the couch, a small snort escapes you.
Silence.
Slowly, he turns to look at you, eyebrows creased, lips pushed into the softest pout you’ve ever seen. He looks embarrassed and slightly betrayed.
“That wasn’t funny,” he whines.
You cover your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you laugh quietly. “I just—I didn’t think you meant it like this.”
He huffs, then reaches for you with zero hesitation, grabbing your arm and throwing it over his broad shoulders. He shifts closer, tucking himself against your side, big body pressing into you for comfort.
“Hold me,” he mutters. “It’s scary.”
Your heart absolutely loses its mind.
You should feel bad. He’s genuinely frightened. He’s clinging to you for safety, not seduction. But you don’t hate it. Not when his head dips closer. Not when his arm wraps securely around your waist. Not when the warmth of him sinks into you like he’s made to fit there.
The wine bottle on the coffee table is nearly empty now. He’s clearly more relaxed because of it, movements looser, voice softer, fear less filtered. He reacts dramatically to every sudden noise, burrowing closer each time, hiding his face against your shoulder before peeking again.
“I hate this movie,” he mumbles, voice muffled.
“You wanted scary,” you tease gently.
“Hmph.”
You laugh quietly, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without thinking, steadying him when the tension spikes again. He sighs contentedly at the contact, melting into you completely.
Still not complaining, you think. Not even a little.
A little while later, he gets up to use the bathroom.
The door clicks shut behind him, and a minute later, you hear the sink run briefly. You stretch your legs, adjusting the blanket over yourself, your eyes flicking to the faintly glowing screen paused in the dark.
Then suddenly—
Footsteps. Fast ones.
San sprints down the hallway like he’s being chased, socked feet slapping against the floor before he all but launches himself back onto the couch beside you. He lands hard, breathless, blanket flying as he scrambles to tuck himself against your side.
“What happened?” you laugh, startled.
He clutches his chest dramatically. “I forgot the lights were off,” he says, voice a little too loud, a little too breathy. “I stepped out, and it was just darkness.”
You laugh harder now. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I hate it,” he mutters, already reaching for the blanket and pulling it back up like armor.
An hour later, the next part of the series auto-plays before either of you can stop it. The opening music hums low and ominous, and San stiffens immediately.
“I can change it,” you offer, thumb hovering over the remote. “We can watch something else.”
He shakes his head quickly, then pauses, correcting himself slower, more deliberately. “No. It’s fine.”
You glance at him. His eyes are glued to the screen, jaw set like he’s psyching himself up for battle.
“I can be brave,” he adds, quieter. “Besides…” He trails off, cheeks faintly pink, and shifts closer. His thigh presses fully against yours now. His arm sneaks around your waist again. The wine has definitely loosened him and made him softer, less guarded. He’s clingy now, unapologetically so, warmth radiating from him as he leans into you.
You don’t move away. If anything, you tug him closer, your fingers brushing his arm, your body accommodating his without thought. Earlier, during the second half of the first movie, you’d laughed at one of his over-the-top reactions and absentmindedly threaded your fingers through his hair to calm him.
He hasn’t forgotten.
He shifts again, this time fully curling into your side, knees tucked slightly, broad shoulders fitting surprisingly well beneath your arm. He pulls the blanket up to his chin, peeking over it at the screen, then reaches up and gently places your hand on his head.
No words. Just a quiet request.
Your heart stutters.
You hesitate for half a second before your fingers move, sinking into his hair again. It’s soft. Warm. He sighs immediately, melting into the touch like he’s been waiting for it, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before snapping back to the movie.
There’s a jump scare. He flinches, but this time, instead of yelping, he presses his face into your shoulder, his fingers gripping your shirt, while you run your hand through his hair again, soothing, grounding.
“See?” you whisper, teasing gently. “So brave.”
He hums against you, not arguing, not pulling away. The screen flickers with shadows and sound, but his focus is elsewhere now. On your hand. Your warmth.
A sudden crack, sharp and close enough that both of you jolt at the same time. You gasp, San yelps, and for a split second you’re both frozen, hearts racing, staring at each other like you’re in the movie.
Then another boom rolls through the air, deeper this time, followed by a cascade of pops and whistles.
Fireworks.
“Oh,” you breathe, realization blooming. You glance at your phone. “It’s midnight.”
San blinks, then laughs softly, almost incredulous.
You pause the movie without thinking, and the room falls quiet again, except for the distant noise outside. Together, you stand, movements a little clumsy from sitting so long, from wine, from nerves. He reaches for the blanket automatically, draping it around his shoulders before tugging you closer and wrapping it around both of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on,” he says gently. “Let’s watch.”
The balcony door slides open, cool night air rushing in, crisp and sharp against your skin. You shiver instinctively, and San tightens the blanket, his arm coming around your shoulders, anchoring you against his side. The city stretches out before you, lights glowing, and above it all, the sky erupts in color.
Red blooms first. Then gold. Then brilliant whites that crackle and fade, one after another, reflected in windows and glass and eyes.
You tilt your head back, watching in quiet awe.
San does too, at first. Then his attention drifts.
He looks down at you without realizing it, the fireworks lighting your face in shifting colors. Gold flashes in your eyes. Soft light catches the curve of your cheek, the shape of your mouth as you smile at the sky. His chest tightens.
He doesn’t remember deciding to stop watching the fireworks. Only that suddenly, they’re secondary—background noise. Beautiful, yes, but nothing compared to you standing there, so close he can feel your breath.
You sense it and turn. Your gaze meets his right eye first, then his left. You swallow, eyes flicking down almost without permission, tracing the line of his nose, lingering on his lips. Full, soft, and oh so close.
When you look back up, he’s already watching you. He doesn’t look away.
The world seems to slow, fireworks still bursting behind you, light and sound framing the moment as if it were planned.
San leans down slowly, giving you time. Space to pull back. To say no.
You don’t.
His lips meet yours gently, carefully. The kiss is warm, unhurried, full of everything that’s been building for months. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, holding you there like he’s been waiting for this moment all along.
Fireworks explode overhead, but you barely notice.
This is the only thing that matters.
When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with yours in the cold air.
“Happy New Year,” he whispers.
You don’t hesitate. Not for a second.
The moment he pulls back to speak, you’re already leaning in again, fingers tightening at the back of his neck, drawing him back to you like it’s instinct rather than choice. He lets out a soft, surprised laugh that barely exists before your lips meet again.
The fireworks crack overhead, loud and brilliant, but they fade into background noise as San steps back until the cool metal of the balcony rail presses against your back. He cages you there without pinning you, hands firm at your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of your hips like he’s grounding himself.
He tilts his head just right, careful, practiced, so your noses brush instead of bumping. The kiss deepens naturally, unforced, and you realize with a quiet jolt that he’s very good at this.
Insanely good.
You feel every subtle shift of his mouth, the way he draws you in and then eases back just enough to make you chase him. His lips are warm, soft, and persistent. When his tongue brushes yours, it’s unhurried, exploratory, like he’s memorizing you rather than taking.
You’ve kissed plenty of times before. But this is different.
You’re suddenly aware of things you’ve never paid attention to before him. The way he breathes through his nose when he kisses you. The quiet sound he makes in his throat when you respond the way he likes. The gentle tug of his teeth, more promise than pressure, followed by a soothing sweep of his lips like an apology and a praise all at once.
His hands tighten reflexively, then soften, grip turning into slow caresses over and over again, like he can’t decide whether to hold you still or pull you closer. He chooses both, pressing his body into yours, solid and warm, making you feel small in the best way.
Your arms loop fully around his neck now, fingers sliding into his hair, and he exhales against your mouth.
He doesn’t push you or insinuate anything, but you can feel the pressure building between your legs. You want him. And by the feel of the hardness pressing against your stomach, he wants you too. That alone makes you blush and press into him.
You lean back, breaking the kiss. You’re both breathing heavily, and before San can lean back in to kiss your lips, you press a kiss to his neck, before pausing not to see, but rather feel his reaction.
His head falls back instantly, exposing more of his neck as if inviting further exploration. A soft moan escapes him—completely unintentional but very telling—and his hands grip your hips tighter. The action presses him more firmly against you, leaving no doubt about his arousal.
His pulse point throbs against your lips, matching the rhythm of his heavy breathing. San's body is reactive, honest almost to a fault when it comes to physical touch. And right now, his body is screaming for more. For you.
You take that as a sign to continue, pressing your lips harder against his neck, sucking softly, leaving a mark.
A sharp intake of breath is followed by a low groan that rumbles deep in his chest. His fingers dig into your hips almost painfully as he holds onto you for dear life. He moans your name softly, wantonly.
When you lean back to look up at him, his eyes are closed, his fingers digging into your hips. Not to cause pain, but to steady him.
“What’s wrong?” You ask him, cupping his cheek. You don’t realize he’s trying to show restraint, trying to respect you even though he would love to pick you up and take you to bed. To show you what you do to him.
His eyes flutter open slowly, dark brown irises almost black with desire. San swallows hard, his throat working against your palm. "Nothing's wrong," he whispers hoarsely. But the way his jaw clenches and unclenches gives him away. He's trying so hard to be good when all he wants is to be bad with you.
His self-control is hanging by a thread. One wrong move and he might snap.
"Just... trying to behave," he adds, his voice low and strained.
Ah. There it is. Choi San, the man you are.
You brush your thumb along his bottom lip. “I want you,” you whisper up at him, your other hand trailing up his firm, clothed chest.
His breath catches audibly. San's composure cracks—just a little. His eyes flutter shut again, lashes fanning against his cheeks, and you feel his entire body tense as if savoring the permission.
When he opens his eyes again, they're not soft anymore.
"Say that again," he growls quietly, voice dropping two octaves.
“I want you,” you repeat louder. “Take me to bed.”
Without a word, he bends down and scoops you up in his arms. You gasp, surprised, and instinctively wrap your arms around his neck for support. He holds you close, one arm banded around your waist, the other supporting your thigh. His face is buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he strides purposefully towards his bedroom.
The room smells like him—clean linen and the faint spice of his cologne. He closes the door, and the noise of the world falls away. He turns to you, and his expression isn’t hungry, not yet. It’s reverent.
“Months,” he said, his voice a low hum in the quiet. “Wanted you for months now. Let me see you. All of you.”
Your heart hammers, but the familiar, gnawing whispers of insecurity are quiet. He’d dismantled them brick by brick, session by session. So you nod.
He undresses you with a slow, unhurried focus, his knuckles grazing your skin not with lingering intent, but with a steady purpose. Cool air meets your shoulders, your back, your stomach. You stand before him, utterly bare, and his eyes don’t just look. They drink you in.
“You’re beautiful.”
Your throat tightens.
He lifts his hand, brushing his knuckles lightly along your arm. “I thought that the first day you walked into the gym.”
You blink. “You did?”
He nods, eyes never leaving you. “Yeah. I wanted you then. Just like that. Nervous. Soft. Real.”
Your chest aches.
“I would’ve had you exactly as you were,” he continues gently. “But I loved watching you grow, watching you get happier. More confident. That smile you wear now?” He smiles back at you. “That’s everything.”
You swallow, emotions rising fast and sharp. “Even now?”
He steps fully into your space, then rests his forehead against yours. “Always,” he murmurs. “You’re gorgeous to me. At any size. In every version of you.”
His hands finally come up, framing your sides, grounding you there like he’s making a promise instead of a move.
Then he sheds his own clothes, and your breath simply stops.
The faint light from the window paints him in silver and shadow. Tight, defined abs that shift as he moves. Firm pecs that beg for your touch. Biceps that bunch and relax, bulging with latent strength. His shoulders are broad, his back a sculpted landscape of muscle that tapers down to narrow hips. Muscular thighs, a perfect ass. And his traps, rising from his shoulders like the foundations of a statue. He’s a work of art, carved from living marble.
And then his cock. Thick, heavy, already hard, and curving up against his stomach. Pretty wasn’t the right word. It was formidable. Majestic. A promise of ruin.
You reach out, your fingers trembling only a little, and wrap your hand around him. The heat of his skin is a shock. The velvet-over-steel texture makes your mouth water. A low, needy sound vibrating in his chest.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his head tilting back. “Just like that. Feels so good, baby.”
You sink to your knees, the carpet soft beneath you. You take him into your mouth, and his reaction is immediate, vocal. A sharp intake of air. A broken, “Yes.” His hands come to cradle your head, not pushing, just holding. You work him, your tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside, swirling over the slick, smooth head. Every time you hollow your cheeks and take him deep, a guttural groan tears from him.
“Your mouth…fuck, your mouth is perfect. So warm. So soft. Don’t stop, please don’t fucking stop.”
You don’t. You suck him with a dedication that feels like worship, and he gives you his sounds, his praises, his complete vulnerability. You feel powerful. You feel adored.
When he pulls you up, his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “My turn,” he growls, and the softness is gone, replaced by a gentle but firm command.
The switch had been flipped.
He lays you back on the bed, your head sinking into the pillows. He kneels between your thighs, and for a moment, he just looks, the distant fireworks painting his face in fleeting color. Then he bends his head.
His mouth on you isn’t a quick feast. His tongue is soft, tender, licking slow, broad stripes that made your back bow off the mattress. Then it changes—firm, pointed flicks against your clit that has you gasping. He sucks gently, then nibbles with a careful scrape of his teeth that sends electric jolts straight to your core.
He’s making out with you there, his lips and tongue moving with the same tender, then passionate rhythm of a deep kiss. He moans into you, the vibration traveling through your entire body. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you, angling you so he can go deeper, his tongue fucking into you in soft, relentless thrusts.
“Taste so good,” he mutters, his voice muffled against you. “Gonna make you come on my face. Wanna feel you shake.”
And you do. The orgasm builds not like a wave, but like a firework—a tight, coiling tension in your belly that he stokes and stokes with his tongue, his lips, his soft sucks—until it bursts. Your vision whites out. A silent scream catches in your throat as you clench around nothing, your hips bucking against his mouth. He holds you through it, drinking every last pulse, every last shudder.
Before you can even come down, he’s moving up your body, his weight settling over you. The head of his cock pressing against your entrance, hot and insistent.
“This,” he says, pushing forward just an inch. A burning, perfect stretch. “This is going to ruin you for everyone else. Just me.”
And then he sinks in.
Oh.
The fullness is absolute. It steals the air from your lungs. He’s thick, long, stretching you in places you didn’t know could be stretched. He doesn’t move at first, just lets you feel him, lets your body adjust to the invasion. Then he begins to move.
Slow, at first. Withdrawing almost completely, then sliding back in with a deep, rolling grind of his hips. Each stroke is a masterclass in sensation. He angles his hips, and the thick head of his cock drags over a spot deep inside that makes you see stars. He changes his pace—short, hard thrusts that make your tits shake and makes wet smacking noises echo in the room. Then long, slow, deep pumps that feel like he’s reaching your soul.
He fucks you with a focused, possessive rhythm. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip, his fingers pressing into your flesh. His eyes never leave yours.
“You take me so fucking well,” he pants, his breath hot on your lips. “So perfect. Made for me. All for me.”
The fireworks continue outside, a silent, brilliant accompaniment to the ones he’s setting off inside you. Every nerve ending is alight. The world narrows down to the joining of your bodies, the slick sounds of friction, the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of him on your tongue from earlier.
He’s a gentleman and makes sure you come again, his thumb finding your clit and circling with perfect, dirty pressure as he pistons into you. The second climax is sharper, brighter, a supernova that ripples through you, making you clamp down on him with a violent, rhythmic squeeze. He groans, a sound of pure pleasure and strain.
“Fuck, yes…squeezing my cock just like that…I can’t…I’m gonna…”
His thrusts became erratic, desperate. His beautiful body tightening above you, every muscle corded. He buries himself to the hilt, his pelvis grinding against yours, and lets go.
“Fuck! I—oh God—Y/N, baby—” he grunts out, hips stilling.
A hot, wet flood erupts inside you. It isn’t a trickle; it’s a claiming. Pulse after pulse of his release, filling you, marking you. It’s filthy. It’s wet. It’s messy.
And it’s beautiful, because it’s San, and he has a way of making everything feel special.
He collapses onto you, his weight a warm, comforting anchor, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His breathing ragged against your skin, pressing slow, lazy kisses.
You're in love with your coworker Hongjoong. Sort of. Not really. But, you like him, and your friends, San, Jongho, and Yunho, they hate him. They really hate him. He lives in a constant repetitive pursuit of stringing you along just to drop you all over again. When a company gala is announced, you're certain he'll ask you... Until you catch him with another girl. Again. Summer in the city, your friends form a plan, a fake boyfriend plan to make Hongjoong jealous, leaving you and Yunho to trudge around Manhattan under the sun to make it believable. Unspoken boundaries set in place six years ago get tested. Are you making it out of this with your best friend?
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ yunho x fem!reader - {30.8k words} don't read the warnings if you don't want spoilers! fake dating, idiots friends to lovers, enormous sweet tooth rotting plot, explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking, cussing, dirty talk, some of these guys are kind of mean at work, yunho's a sweetie, san and jongho are funny, smut warnings; p in v, oral if you squint, biting, spit if you squint, dom!jyh, cum inside, nip play, accidental exhibitionism, unprotected (do not do!)
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ happy valentines day mon! ✿ it's me, your secret valentine fic giver! i had so much fun writing this piece, and i had so much fun secretly learning about you (totally not creepy). you inspire originality, and i hope i conveyed a tiny bit of what you inspire others to invoke within themselves. you're so cool! (you'll get this after you read hehe). i'm so grateful to have become moots, friends, and to experience your art, your writing. you're truly an artist, and you bring so much joy here to the tumble community, i hope you never forget how loved and wanted you are here! hugs & kisses cool kid ✿ @03jyh23
thank you @everyonewooeverywhere for putting this event together ✿
✿ this is also a love letter to my favorite series created by my best friend @minkieater ✿ the city holds a very special place in my heart for a plethora of reasons i'll take up too much text space trying to explain. some of her characters pop up here, please go check out their story! i highly recommend it and all of it's mini spin off shotties. ily, t.
yun: JUST CAME ON.. I think the lady next to me on the subway can hear it ‘cause I turned it up all the way and she gave me this crazy look.. This music though.. Maybe it’ll help you feel better about your meeting.. Good luck……… See you at Dante’s later
*yun sent a song*
[ I Melt with You - Modern English ]
Finishing your hair in the foot long mirror above your bathroom sink, you tapped on the song with your pinky and tucked one more pin into the bun on your head. Whimsey filled the quiet where the only sound to be heard was the lullaby of the city outside of the cracked bathroom window. Open barely three inches, as far as it allowed, fresh summer air blew in with the pop of a siren, a car horn, people chattering below on the streets, above on their balcony.
Wiping your fingers under your eyes, settling on light makeup for the work day, your hips rocked to the beat, a poppy type song dipped in something angsty, teenage rebellion. You’ve heard this before, in some movie, you think, the two of you probably watched at some point which is how it came to circle through his music library.
A song for every mood, a song for every occasion, a song no matter the cause- Yunho had one for everything. You could see him now, headphones covering his ears, wrapping over his head, the wire tangling with his leather bag that hung over his shoulder and sat on his lap, a bag too frail and too old, but one he won’t rid of because it’s from the seventies.
Listen, Shug, you don’t get it…
He worked downtown at a record store part time when he wasn’t on the clock and running errands for his big named producer boss, Jag, the coolest, the raddest, most amazing Jag. After sorting records and analyzing set lists for local bands big and small, Yunho answered Jag’s calls, his messages, his damn pages, and disappeared for a few hours, returning with insane lore drops on the latest albums close to release, and who he caught kissing who in the lounge of Republic Records.
Capping the mascara tube, twisting it shut, you blinked at yourself in the mirror just as old as Yunho’s bag and groaned. Pursing your lips, longing to paint on a fun color, one the company you worked for wouldn’t allow, you took a deep breath and blew a raspberry.
Yunho could wear whatever he wanted. Yunho could dress like himself, he could wear the patterned sweaters you thrifted together, the crappy sneakers he’s certain John Lennon owned, ripped denim, silky slacks, he could wear it all and accessorize the crap out of himself. Earrings, layered necklaces, leather or braided bracelets, unique glasses changing each day, a hat or two somewhere in the rotation.
Trudging into your bedroom, not even two feet from the bathroom door, you reached into your shoebox of a closet and pulled out a grey pantsuit, one that hugged you in all the right places but killed the part of you that longed to wrap yourself in color.
Bopping your head to the song that repeated from the edge of the bathroom sink, you hummed along to the lyrics you half knew while you dressed yourself, ignoring the belts hanging around the bed post, or the funky sunglasses you bought several pairs of from a street festival last summer with Yunho and San.
Grey corduroy slacks, a white button down, and a grey vest concealing your chest. Fastening each button, securing the details in place, not that there were many, you twisted side to side in the full-length mirror you found on the street leaning against a mailbox, one San hung up for you, and loosed a breath.
“You’ve seen the difference and it’s getting better all the time,” you sang to yourself, quietly, not wanting your neighbor to bang on his wall again, and picked up your phone.
Tapping out a message, letting your knees bounce to the music, a smile pricked onto your bare lips.
you: I know this song??? How am I singing this right now???
yun: It was in Valley Girl
Giving yourself a look in the mirror, you rolled your eyes and typed back.
you: That movie sucked, Yunho
He answered quick.
yun: ‘Cause you don’t have taste, Shug
you: I know the song!!!!!!
yun: Doesn’t count, you hate Valley Girl, grow a pair and watch it again, this time we’ll drink, then you’ll love it..
Pocketing your phone, the clock up in the corner taunting you as it ticked down to the minute you had to part with your sanctuary, you slipped into black heels two inches tall and slung your work appropriate purse over your shoulder, one that matched the olive of another suit you could’ve worn, the only color they’ve allowed you to toy with.
“There’s nothing you and I won’t do,” you sang, pulling a lip gloss from the pocket on the side, slicking it on while you bounced a bit more. Capping it, feeling your phone vibrate, you exchanged the lip gloss for your cell.
yun: Did it help.. The song..
Your smile grew.
you: Yes… it did, thank you
yun: :) :) :) :) :) :) the future’s open wide
A giggle escaped you, reading the lyrics he sent just as they came out of your phone. Swiping out of open apps, you silenced your phone and popped it back into your pocket. Sucking in a deep breath, the slightest bit of nerves making themselves known in your stomach, you hummed to yourself, the song he’d sent, the one you just shut off.
Every morning song he’s sent you, you’ve had to turn it off before leaving the apartment, to not disturb your neighbors, to not be a nuisance on the street though every corner came with at least three. You tucked him into your pocket, with your cell phone, with the song, and you became someone else entirely, someone he didn’t know, someone he didn’t get to see. A girl who wouldn’t listen to the songs he sent, and certainly not a girl who would enjoy them.
You became one he’d look at. One that he’d shoot subtle smirks at when the boss tripped over a word or two. A girl that laughed at every joke he told, even if it fell flat with whoever else stood around you. Hongjoong, he worked in the office beside yours, an assistant to a manager who worked beside a manager you assisted. Too often, since starting, the two of you had been assigned the same task at the same time. A coffee run, a folder to file, an exchange of documents for the others’ boss to look over.
From day one, Hongjoong in black, his slicked back hair, his perfectly pristine suits ironed and hung daily… You liked him. With his shoulders rolled backward, his posture uptight, he oozed charisma, a confidence that would certainly skyrocket him forward in no time. Graduating from NYU, pursuing post-grad degrees, some you didn’t understand, he walked and talked with a gust incomparable to most. A boss. A leader. The type of guy to lower his brows, soften his eyes, give you a reassuring smile and shake of the shoulder, and suddenly you’d feel as though you could take on the world as well.
Career wise, you knew it’d be best to keep him on your side, however…
With the mess of time and endless hours you spent together, you didn’t account that falling for the guy would ever become a possibility.
Yet here you were, wearing pantsuits you had to take a loan out to afford, and pinning your hair back in ways you’ve only seen older women in movies pull off. Another corporate daisy in the garden that was the office he frolicked about, dancing his fingers over the edges, the petals of each one, appeasing them all with that god damned wicked smile that came out with a wink.
Accidentally. Sometimes. You think. You hoped.
He drank champagne at corporate parties. A pocket watch hung from his slacks, and he’d sling his jacket over his shoulder to reveal what he’d been wearing was a tailored three piece he copped from Rodeo on vacation with his sister and her car company owning husband. With a pinky in the air he laughed in singular syllables as the department heads cracked their jokes you didn’t understand, most likely a guy thing, and he made sure to compliment every woman that breezed past him.
The kind of girls that had legs miles long, hair blown out and bouncing at their shoulders or below, low cut dresses front and back, diamonds dripping in the plunges front and back. They’d give a tight lipped smile, one you’ve practiced in the mirror before feeling utterly ridiculous, and he’d end up coercing one into the back of a car with a driver provided by the company. A car you arrived in together. A car you’ve never been the girl to go home in after the party was over.
You’d catch a cab, tipsy and groveling, and meet up with Yunho and San at Dante NYC, your favorite bar on MacDougal, the street of all things food and drinks. The owner knew the three of you, you’ve frequented Dante’s since your days at Columbia, escaping back down to the Village once the classes in Harlem were through.
Small, as places in the city were, Dante’s had a vibe none other could replicate. Tiny plates of just enough food to each order on your own and pass around to share, bartenders on shift before they scurried off to audition for a Broadway show that worked and lived for tips, offering heavy pours if you offered up your cash, an old Italian energy, a type of culture that Manhattan yearned to hold onto. It’s where you were off to tonight, Yunho and San in attendance, along with Jongho, another co-worker of yours, if you could convince him.
One of the last times he ended up at Dante’s with you three he drank his body weight in whiskey and sang a Celine Dion duet with the bartender, stripping down to his undershirt beneath his button down. San has the videos to prove it, and he isn’t afraid to use them if Jongho is acting snippy in the groupchat.
You’d be there in mere hours, drinking and singing along to the music Yunho would be in charge of, ordering plate after plate of whatever the chef felt like cooking up, hanging off of San’s broad shoulders and groaning about your boss with Jongho. You just had to make it through this mandatory meeting your entire branch was required to attend.
Slipping into a cab headed uptown, city sights whizzing by the window in the blink of an eye, you’re dropped off in front of a skyscraper, one unlabeled, but drilling into the fluffy summer clouds. Swiping your card, bidding your driver a good day, you stepped onto the concrete and smoothed out your shirt. Just as you were headed to grab the golden door handle that stretched across half the glass, a beefy bicep hooked into your elbow and yanked you backward.
“Ladies should never open the door for themselves,” his melodic voice tickled your skin.
Shooting him a tight smile, a slight roll of your eyes, you met his milk chocolate gaze and said, “Jongho, you are much too kind.”
Pulling the door open for you, he leaned down to mutter, “Just showing you how a gentleman should act towards a lady.” Guiding you inside, he ushered you through the lobby, throwing an inconspicuous wave toward the receptionist you’re pretty sure he’s slept with. “Holding doors, never letting them navigate uncharted territory on their own.”
“Pretty sure I’ve worked here for two and a half years,” you giggled, nodding toward a group of employees chatting by the elevators.
Heels clicking on the tiled floor, the sound echoing up into the tall ceilings carved with marble and painted like the sistine chapel, you took in everyone's appearance, them having done pretty much the same as you, taking themselves a bit more seriously this morning.
“This meeting is uncharted territory,” you mumbled, meeting eyes with a few colleagues plagued with tunnel vision. Jongho sighed, glancing about the room.
“I haven’t seen anyone this paranoid since- Ah! Mr. Song,” he cut himself off as the two of you turned a corner, running into a man in a tuxedo fit for a royal wedding. Bending in half some, a bow of sorts, you panicked and copied him, having no idea how to act in front of the man who traveled across the country to speak with your company.
Mr. Song gave you both a light smile, acknowledging the way Jongho held onto you, the way he escorted you through the building. Giving him a short look, one with a bit of pride, he said, “Good morning. I’ll see you soon.”
Jongho beamed. “Prompt as usual, Mr. Song.”
The older man flickered his gaze toward you, his eyes glazing over your body, ending on your hair. His smile had somewhat faded, and he didn’t give you as much as a sigh before he turned to continue his pursuit over the tile.
Scoffing to yourself, so Jongho could hear you, you shot him a glare as he slipped his arm out of yours. “Did you know he was going to be down here?” He nibbled the insides of his cheeks. “You asshole, you used me.” Situating your purse over your shoulder, you shoved him like a child and bounded ahead of him, straight for the stairs.
“Hey,” he spat, hurrying after you. Long strides brought you far, but he was quicker, catching onto the strap of your purse with the curl of a finger. “Hey, Shug,” he teased, pulling you to a complete stop.
Whirling around, you narrowed your eyes. “You can’t call me that.”
He smiled. “What’s it even mean? I’ve listened to him call you that for a year.”
Shrugging, you jiggled your head around. “Shug, like sugar, I dunno, you know him, it’s vintage,” you drug out in a deep voice to mimic Yunho’s.
Jongho eyed you curiously, how you fidgeted with your bag, how you glanced around like you were sharing a secret. “Okay,” he said softly with the smallest nod, gesturing toward the stairwell, “After you, y/n.”
“And after these are filed, we have to get those into his mailbox, and then Seonghwa has to sign these for you, I’ll get Wooyoung to sign these for me, and then we’re set,” Hongjoong flashed a dazzling smile your way, buckling your knees. He oozed charisma. He smelled of something musky and dark, something you yearned to taste on his smooth skin adorned with silver jewelry hanging off of him.
Taking the folder from his nimble fingers he wore rings on, you smirked. “And then we have to sit through that meeting.”
Hongjoong rolled his eyes and leaned forward on the counter, dipping his shoulder toward you to nudge you. “Did you get a look at Mr. Song? I don't know whether or not to expect anything good from this.”
Inching closer to him, you narrowed your eyes. “You think we’re all fired? Forever?”
Matching your energy, a wickedness flashed in his eyes. “We’re gonna have to work the corners, he’ll rip everything away from us.”
“In that suit, with that attitude, he will,” you said, and he laughed.
He tapped you with a fist, sliding over more papers across the counter before reaching for two coffee cups. “We’re gonna be fine,” he mumbled, shaking his head as his smile softened, “I have an in.” Wiggling his brows, he flashed you a wink.
Gulping, keeping the heat that longed to rise to your cheeks at bay, you tilted your head. “Of course you do, Joong, I expected nothing less.”
He laughed again, filling up the cups in front of him. “It’s gonna be good, I was just messing with you.” Raising his gaze, intense and disarming, he winked again. “Hope you’ve got a dress that drips off of you like those pants, y/n.”
Jaw popping open, blinking entirely flustered, you took the coffee cup he held out for you as he passed by, and didn’t say much else aside from, “I-I do,” and you watched him strut away wearing that goddamn smirk. I do?
You thought to yourself, tearing through your closet in your brain. Dresses you owned, sure, but nothing compared to what you wore today– bland, grey, itchy fabric. A dress? You were going to need a dress? After today's meeting?
“Shit,” you whispered, collecting yourself, bounding for your boss’s office.
For hours you worked beside Seonghwa, Mr. Park, a tall man with broad yet slender shoulders and clean cut black hair pushed backward off of his forehead. In a sleek black suit, his jacket hanging on the back of his door, he wore the top two buttons of his shirt undone, giving you a peek of the chain that hung beneath the collar. Utterly stunning, but too old for you, you adored watching him subdue clients that sat in the chairs in front of his desk, both women and men falling under his spell, dazed by his beauty.
He treated you fairly, like anyone else in the office. Though you were his assistant, and you answered to his commands, you were his equal in a sense, and you felt nothing but comfortable in his presence.
Wooyoung on the other hand, Hongjoong's boss, he’s one to watch out for. Handsy after a glass of whiskey, married for what seems like a billion years, his wandering eyes have caught you in quiet hallways on the way back from the restroom more than once.
“Tell me, y/n,” Seonghwa sang from his chair, sitting back against the leather, tapping his hundred dollar pen on his desk, “What keeps you at this company?”
You puttered about his office, straightening books, organizing filing cabinets. Glancing at him over your shoulder, his gaze locked in on yours, curious, you hummed and brushed your hands against your pants. Itchy fabric.
“Pay is good,” you said, and he let out a loose laugh. Stepping toward his desk, you leaned over the back of one of the two chairs facing him. Eyes drawing over the nameplate in front of him, you smiled. “The people are fun.”
Seonghwa lowered his brows. “Are they?”
“Why do you ask?” Twisting your fingers together, you copied his face.
He sucked in a breath and let out a guttural sigh, surprising you. Standing to his feet, you stood up straight as well. “I’ve been thinking some thoughts.”
“As one does,” you joked, watching him pace along the back part of his office, staring out the floor length windows.
Turning to you, he sat down on the edge of a cabinet and flicked the pen between his fingers. “You don’t think some of them are too egotistical?” Pressing your hands to the front of your hips, your lips parted with a thought you weren’t sure you should say. Seonghwa noticed, dropping his chin. “You can tell me. Your secret is safe with me, they always are.”
Wooyoung popped into your head. The nights spent at company parties watching Hongjoong act like Mr. Big Dick popped in right next to him. Passing by Mr. Song on the first floor, the way he looked at you, looked down at you, popped next to him.
Seonghwa’s lips curled into a smile. “I can see it,” he sang, pointing at you with his pen, “You’re thinking it.”
“I am,” you whispered, scrunching your face up. “Am I going to get fired?”
He chuckled and walked around his desk, pushing off of the cabinet with his foot. “I’d never fire you, you’re much too good at what you do, and you don’t act like these… assholes.”
Your gasp made him snicker. “Mr. Park,” you teased.
“Please,” he shot you a look, “What do I say about that.”
You crossed your arms over your chest and lowered your chin. “Mr. Park, what do I say about that?”
Rolling his eyes, he walked by you to the other side of his office. In a silly voice, he mocked, “It’s not professional.”
“It’s not,” you said, tone stern, “Now sit down and think about what you’ve done.”
Seonghwa whirled himself around with a smile and listened to you. Plopping back into his chair after his circle around his space, he pulled himself under his desk and placed his elbows on it.
“After today's meeting,” he said quietly like the walls could talk, “We need to talk.”
Nerves struck through you. “Do you know what it’s about?”
Perking a brow, he shook his head.
“Hongjoong said he knows,” you said, and Seonghwa rolled his eyes more dramatically than before.
Splaying backward in his chair, he exclaimed, “Of course he does– see, this is what I mean!” Jolting forward with a wave of his hand, he groaned. “What did he tell you?”
Glancing at your feet, your cheeks flushed. Setting aside how your heart stuttered at the thought of his words, you mumbled, “That I’ll need a dress, or something.”
Seonghwa paused. Resting his hands over the wood of his desk, he cocked his head aside. “You still have a crush on him?”
“Seonghwa!” Heat blasted through your cheeks, the hot and cold too much to handle.
Your boss smiled. “Just checking. Is that why you won’t agree with me, that they’re assholes?”
Admitting it made it true, and you didn’t want it to be true.
Under his gaze, Hongjoong’s, you’ve never felt more valuable, like the work you did here mattered, like the punishing of yourself daily while you readied yourself in the morning was worth something. One day you’d be the girl climbing into the back of the car with him. One day he’d place his hand on the small of your back instead, he’d waltz you around hotel lobby’s, through ballrooms, he’d introduce you to men with big names you can’t pronounce…
“Y/n,” Seonghwa cooed.
You blinked. “Sorry, I just…”
He drug his tongue over his teeth, taking a deep breath. “What have I told you before?”
Your fingers curled under the vest you wore. Dropping your eyes to his desk, you muttered, “That good guys don’t work here.”
Seonghwa followed your eyes and dropped his to the desk. Tapping his pen a few times, he clicked his tongue and said, “Why don’t you break until we have to go sit in that room full of testosterone?”
Perking up a bit, you breathed, “Really?”
He huffed a laugh, gesturing to your purse hanging up on the wall. “Please. Go get a drink before we have to subject ourselves to nonsense.”
Taking yourself across his office, you slung your bag over your shoulder and rifled around in it for your cell phone. Giving him a crazy look, you said, “No drinking on the clock, it’s-”
“Unprofessional,” he said at the same time as you, bobbing his head. “I’ll see you in an hour.”
you: And then he said, do i own a dress that drips off of me like the pants i’m wearing
sannie: bro wants you, what the hell
yun: Gross.. objectifying you per usual, i’m not surprised in the slightest
you: not objectifying, thats wooyoung, hongjoong has never put his hands on me
sannie: but you want him toooooooooooooo
you: I do, god, he’s so smiley today too……….
yun: Are we still going to Dante’s or what..
you: Yes and Jongho is coming, he just doesn’t know it yet
sannie: FUCK YES
sannie: tonight we get him to sing whitney houston
you: ANNNND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
sannie: EEEE-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL ALLLLWAYS
you: LOOOOVE YOUUUUUU-WHOOOOOOOO
yun: Classic
“Typing a mile a minute,” his voice struck your skin like he doused you like ice cold water, “What’s so funny?” A flick of a lighter. A sharp inhale and long exhale. Cigarette smoke washed over you where you sat on the concrete bench of the corner park across the street from the company.
Dropping your phone face down in your lap, you folded your arms over yourself and shot him a look. “None-ya.”
Hongjoong grinned, sitting on the edge of the bench beside you. “Oh really,” he teased with a wiggle of his brow. “Texting your little boyfriend?”
Now ice cold water did wash over you. Sitting up a little straighter, you shook your head in a convincing way that hid the fact that you were desperate for him to know that you were very much single. “Not my boyfriend,” you moaned, “My friends.” Putting emphasis on the S, you reached for his cigarette.
Giving it up, he eyed your lips as they wrapped around the tip. “Insane.”
Blowing out the smoke, handing it back over to him, you crunched your brows in question.
He rolled the cigarette between his fingers and gave you half of a shrug. “That you’re single, that’s all.”
You wanted to squirm with how his eyes fell over you. You wanted to wriggle around, get a little friction between your legs by the seam of your pants, and then straddle him and get a public indecency charge. It sucked he could read it all over your body.
With a smirk, he took a drag of his smoke and met your eyes. “You got a dress or what?”
“I do,” you said.
You don’t, but you will.
“Good,” he crooned, sucking down another hit of his cigarette. “You ever been to a company gala before?”
Company gala. A Gala. Excitement bubbled within you. Asking you if you had a dress, asking you if you’ve ever attended a company gala…
“We started around the same time, Joong, do you think I ever have?” Teasing him, you snatched the cigarette from him and finished it, jabbing it into the concrete of the bench before flicking it into a nearby garbage can. “You’ve been to plenty, Mr. Mayor, okay?”
He laughed. Apparently you were funny today.
Crossing his legs, bouncing his foot, he shook his head as his smile grew. “I just know how to work them, sweetheart,” he crooned, and your insides did a cartwheel, “You could too if you’d just give it up.”
Your phone vibrated on your lap. Picking it up, you opened the message and smiled at it. “Give it up?” you asked, half paying attention. Typing back to Yunho, you giggled to yourself and pressed send.
Hongjoong, quicker than you, reached for your phone and pulled it from your hands before you had the chance to lock it.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, scooting toward him, scrambling for it, “Give that back.” Fighting you off with his elbow in your gut, he skimmed the message and laughed. This time instead of him laughing with you, you could feel it in your gut, he laughed at you.
“What the hell is a Shoog,” he curled his lip up, reading the text aloud. “Shoog, I don’t know about you but that song is stuck in my head, we can get Jongho to sing that one later instead, that’d be really funny.”
“It’s Shug,” you huffed, pushing at him, trying to reach for the cell he gripped, “It means sugar.”
Leaning into you, almost onto your chest entirely, his smile rested in a way you’ve never seen. Devious, but a little enticing. “Sounds like a boyfriend to me.”
“He’s not,” you almost shouted, catching your phone as he tossed it into your lap. Hongjoong used his body weight to rock onto his feet, brushing off his thighs from the concrete. “You have a problem if he is?”
Pursing his lips, cinching his brow, he scoffed. “The fuck you take me for, sweetheart? I don’t care who’s in your pants and who’s not.” Pointing at your phone, he jerked his head. “Loverboy has a nicer suit than me?”
Exclaiming aloud, shock evident on your face, you pressed your fingers between your brows. “What is going on?” Dropping your hands, you shot him a glare, one he returned with a sultry smirk. “Joong, what are you getting at here?”
He straightened his suit jacket, cocking his chin. “Nothing,” he said simply, nodding toward the building across the street. “I’ll see you inside. Meetings in ten.”
Without a response from you he left, strutting across the street and over the steps into the lobby. Sighing roughly, letting the sound regulate your nervous system from whatever that was, you picked up your phone.
yun: Shug I don’t know about you but that song is STUCK in my head.. We can get Jongho to sing that one later instead.. That’d be really funny..
A smile graced your lips.
you: I'd love that, I have been singing it all day… About to go into the meeting… wish me luck
yun: The store is dead.. You should skip it and come hang out with me..
yun: Kidding, good luck corporate candy, don’t let them eat you..
Men flooded the room. Whenever the company filed into the conference like this, bodies upon bodies, the realization that with more than one company across the country that there were more men just like this to crowd rooms…
The women were far and few between, in tight black dresses and high heels, with their hair on their heads like crowns. Make up done to the nines, their jewelry glittering underneath the harsh overhead lighting, they clung to their supervisors, the men they assisted, some of them arm in arm, waltzing through the conference room doors with their sharp jaws and pointed noses turned up.
You waddled beside Seonghwa, like a little duck, following the man that stood six foot tall around the room, smiling politely as he shook hands and introduced you to men who spared you a glance for no more than three seconds. After each round Seonghwa leaned down to murmur in your ear, “Assholes.”
He says your name properly, he doesn’t introduce you as his assistant, he introduces you as his colleague, his second, his right hand, a partner in crime of sorts, though most of the men didn’t find that one too funny. But, it made you laugh. And, to Seonghwa, that’s what he cared about.
He prefaced this meeting letting you know that he knows how it feels to be a little fish in a corporate ocean, let alone be a woman in a predominantly male field, to which he told you he doesn’t know, but he takes the time to understand. He had your back, he always has and he always will, which is why he favored your opinion on where to sit.
There were open seats beside higher ups visiting for the day, the ones that weren’t onstage. Some were beside the charismatic mouths that most tried to steal the attention of, beside Wooyoung and Hongjoong who laughed louder than all the mouths you could try to count.
Jongho sat toward the back, his chin tipped down, focused on his phone. On his own, his keeper elsewhere, he pressed his phone to his ear and babbled a mile a minute, letting his eyes scan the crowd. Meeting yours, he lit up, and his hand shot in the air. Giving him a meek wave, keeping your cool in front of your office's CEO that Seonghwa discussed matters with, you waited for him to finish, and then just as Mister Boss turned his back, you pointed at Jongho.
“Seats,” you offered.
Seonghwa gave you his soft smile, lifting his eyes to Jongho flinging his arm about. A gentle laugh pushed through his lips. “Sure.”
He would’ve sprawled across the chairs next to him if you didn’t hightail it over there. Weaving through men in suits, some side eyeing you but shaking Seonghwa’s hand, your smile grew as you got closer to Jongho.
“No, I gotta go,” he said into his phone, standing up to throw an arm around your back like the two of you didn’t bump into one another that morning, “I gotta go! San, she’s here, let me go.”
Gasping, you tore his phone out of his hand and pressed it to your ear. “Saaannie,” you sang, heart warming at the giggle that answered you, “Why are you not wooorking?”
Seonghwa shook Jongho's hand and slipped behind you into the seats, leaving one open in the middle for you. He greeted the man on the other side of him and fell into conversation.
San’s warm voice melted through the phone, “I’m on my way to go see Yuuunho.”
“Lucky, we just got into our meeting,” you huffed, plopping down next to Jongho who slung an arm around the back of your chair. “It’s full of men. Old men.” Seonghwa whipped his head of black hair around to give you a look. “Sorry,” you smiled, and laughed as his lip curled.
“Seonghwa’s there?” San sighed, “He’s so hot- Love your jacket! …No, you! …No, you!”
Crossing your legs, you sat backward against the seat cushion and Jongho’s arm. Sharing a glance with him, you muttered, “He’s making friends again.”
Jongho rolled his eyes, flicking his bangs from his forehead. “When is he not?”
You moved the phone between your ears, Jongho leaning in to have a listen. “It’s a store on Broadway… Broadway and 12th… By Ribalta… The Italian place! You’ve never been? …You have to go!”
“San,” Jongho said.
The men took their place onstage, squabbling with one another about who gets to sit where and who will speak first. Mr. Song, Mingi, the man who looked down on you this morning, with his chin held high he waltzed about the stage, like a celebrity, waving to those who were worthy.
“It’s really good, I swear… Ugh, I know, it’s like sometimes they try too hard to be authentic, trust me, babe, this one is worth it…”
“San,” you said.
Seonghwa and the man beside him focused forward as the room began to fall quiet.
“...It’s right next to it… The store… Yeah, but they’re limited to what they carry, so they might not have it in season right now–”
You and Jongho both sneered, “San!”
“What!”
“We have to go,” you breathed, wanting to laugh, but the pressure of the men above you literally and physically ate you alive. Putting the phone back in Jongho’s possession, you sucked in a breath and settled in your seat.
Jongho whispered into his phone, “Yes, yes, I’ll see you later… Dante’s? No, she didn’t tell me, but I’ll be there… Okay, okay… I will not sleepover… I don’t care what happened last time, I’m not– Goodbye!”
Mingi tapped on the mic connected to the podium, stepping up with a grin and thunderous applause. Your hands stayed folded on your lap. As did Jongho’s. As did Seonghwa’s.
You glanced at Jongho with a perked brow. “Last time?”
He sighed, shaking his head. “Let it go.”
“You owe me for this morning,” you narrowed your eyes, and he copied you. “No, no, tell me, Mr. Misogyny.”
“Not Mr. Misogyny, fine,” he groaned, shifting in his seat to face you a bit more. The applause died down as he leaned into you, whispering, “The last time we went to Dante’s and I got shit faced, San was supposed to take me home.”
Furrowing your brow, not listening to Mingi’s opening greeting, you whispered, “Did he not take you home?”
Jongho’s eyes widened. “Oh, he took me home. And he stayed.”
Gasping internally, your smile spreading over your cheeks, you gripped his knee, digging your nails into his slacks. “Gay.”
He shot you a glare. “Bi.”
Rolling your eyes, you whispered, “San is gay, you are a typical bisexual New Yorker, you’re not special, we’re all bi here.”
He took a hand to his chest, clutching nonexistent pearls. “Ouch?”
Glancing to his hand that screamed gay, you popped your brows. “Mr. Misogyny.”
He threw his other hand toward you, whacking your arm. “Shut up!”
“Shut up, you shut-”
“Children,” Seonghwa scolded with a smile, breathing through a laugh at how you and Jongho froze to look at him, arms tangled, faces scrunched up.
Pulling yourselves into your own seats like toddlers, you set your focus forward and pursed your lips. Mr. Song went on and on about the success of his company, how proud he is of how his success has spread nationwide, that he’s grateful to have such strong men like himself working beneath him, for him. You could hear how Seonghwa’s eyes rolled. You couldn’t wait to tell Yunho all of this.
Scanning the room, the lot of bald men and those with receding hairlines eating up every word though it all came out extremely backhanded, your eyes land on Hongjoong, snickering with Wooyoung, the two acting as though Mingi spoke directly to them.
Hongjoong sat at the end of the row, on the section opposite of yours. His legs were crossed, his slacks rising above his ankle to flash his designer socks. He wore no suit jacket, just his button down, a statement to the men around him, that he didn’t need to act or present himself like they did, that he was better than them. He sat here with ease, a relaxed posture, both him and Wooyoung simply waiting for the words to be said, and once they were, he sat forward with a gust of excitement, celebrating with the rest of them. But, then he turned over his shoulder, and his eyes landed on you like he’d kept tabs on where you were sitting.
Mingi announced, “That’s why we’ll be throwing a Harmony Foundation Gala, for all of our branches, right here in Manhattan. You’re all invited. Open bars, the finest catering, exquisite music, hours upon hours of not working,” he added coyly, and the room lost their minds, “And you will all receive a plus one.”
Seonghwa muttered to the man beside him, not surprised in the slightest that something of the sort would occur. Neither of them seemed to be excited, unlike the rest of the men who started a riot, shouting across the room to one another, elbowing each other in the guts with grins on their faces.
Jongho sighed heavily. “Well, this should be fun.”
“It should,” you mumbled, staring back at Hongjoong who shot you a wink. “This is why I need a dress.”
“Huh?” he asked, resting an elbow on your shoulder, following your eyeline to Hongjoong who turned away once he’d been caught. Jongho groaned, “Oh no.”
“He told me I need a dress,” you almost whispered. “I think he’s gonna ask me to the gala.”
Jongho sucked in a breath, one he didn’t seem to release. Glancing between you and the back of Hongjong's head, he stuttered, “Uh, really? How do you know? We just found out.”
“He knew about it,” you shook your head, “He fucking knew about it.”
Seonghwa tapped you with the back of his hand. “You were right.”
“I was,” you whispered. “He was.” Your belly bubbled with excitement, your heart beating three times faster than normal. You needed a dress, a good one, a gorgeous one. You had to schedule a hair appointment, a nail appointment, a facial, or something, whatever else it is that these other girls did before these kinds of parties, a wax, a bikini wax, Brazilian wax! And your eyebrows, you needed those done too, and maybe your face, just in case, you haven’t checked out those details in a while–
“New shoes,” you uttered out loud, and Jongho laughed.
Snapping your neck to look at him, he nearly leapt backward. “Christ,” he gasped, his hand reaching up for those non-gay pearls once again, “What just happened?”
You stood up abruptly, grasping the bottom of your vest. “I have so much to do.”
Seonghwa hooked a finger in the back of your vest by the collar of your shirt and pulled you back down. “He’s not done, you can buy your dress later.”
“And then he turned around,” you shouted over the music, hands splaying across the wooden table littered with empty drinks. San leaned forward, his broad chest bumping the table, rattling the glasses. Jongho sat beside him sucking on a straw making an awful sound. Yunho sat back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest, his face upturned. “And he looked at me.”
San threw himself backward with a gasp, his biceps rippling under the short sleeves of the tight black t-shirt. “No he did not,” he squawked, slapping a hand to Jongho’s shoulder, making the straw pop out of his mouth and his eyebrows skyrocket.
“He did,” he teased, rolling his eyes, setting the cup down on the table with a clang. Putting his elbows on the wood, he put his chin in his hands and eyed Yunho. “What do you make of all this?”
Kicking his foot around, the one crossed over his knee, he shrugged. “I think he’s a dick.” He held a finger up toward you just as a whine almost slipped out of you. Giving you a look from behind grey thin rimmed glasses, he said, “You deserve better, I don’t know why you’re chasing him.”
San, rubbing the back of his neck, slinging an arm around Jongho’s chair, muttered, “Mr. Big Dick…”
Yunho groaned, “Oh, great.” Jongho scoffed, nudging San as Yunho sat forward for his empty cup and knocked back the little bit at the bottom, and a few ice chips. Pushing them around with his tongue, he shook his head and leaned into you. “You can do better, Shug.”
Jongho kicked your leg under the table.
“Ugh,” groaning aloud, you shot a hand toward San, “You get it, don’t you?”
He picked the cherry out of his glass and popped it between his teeth. “I do, trust me, he’s packin’, but…” His voice trailed off, his gaze dragging over to Yunho.
Looking at him, then looking back at San, you swatted two hands at Yunho and groaned again. “But, what!”
“Nothing,” he shouted, twisting his lips into a smile. “We need another round, Jongho’s not drunk enough.” Yunho threw a hand in the air to call over the waitress who has served you more than once.
Jongho tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. “Why me? Why me.”
San slung himself around the boy in a hoodie much too heavy for the summer heat. “Because, pretty boy, we like to hear you sing.”
“I can’t sing.” About half the bar stopped to glare at him, even the waitress who took Yunho’s order.
Grabbing his cheeks, San squished them and brought his lips dangerously close. “So humble, so cute.”
“Enough,” Jongho shrugged him off, poking a finger into his bicep to push him away with a hysterical glare.
San’s eyes dropped to the hoodie. “That’s coming off in an hour.”
Sliding your hand across the table, you raised a pinky for him to hook with his. “I’ll take that bet.”
Exchanging wicked grins, San shook your hand around. “Loser has to let the winner take him home.” Jongho sighed, then smiled up at the waitress who clicked her pen.
“Bet,” you whispered with a scrunch of your nose.
“Thanks so much,” Yunho smized, the girl waltzing away with a pep in her step. Facing the table, he pushed his hair back off of his forehead and released a breath. “You guys are nuts.” Pouting, you propped an elbow on his bare shoulder exposed by the cut off tee he wore. He set his jaw in place, narrowed his eyes, and took his time looking at you, before he flickered his eyes over to San, then Jongho. “I give it a half hour.”
San, cracking a laugh, grabbed onto Jongho once again and shook him around, the two getting into a minor fistfight as San tried to take the hoodie off of him now.
Giggling, letting your bodyweight tip more onto Yunho, you caught his eye and gave him a small smile. Nodding toward where the waitress plugged in your order, you mumbled, “She was cute.”
He didn’t have to look at who you were talking about to know. Locked in on you, he smirked. “She’s taken.”
“How do you know that? You asked her already, didn’t you?”
He let out a laugh, shaking his head. Breaking his gaze from yours, he nodded toward the corner of the bar where a scrawny boy with blonde hair to his shoulders sat, one too pretty to even be a boy, so maybe he wasn’t. Dressed in a large white t-shirt and jeans way too big for his hips, he stared out the window with wide brown eyes as he guzzled his drink. Oblivious, almost, until the waitress popped in front of him and his cheeks broke out with the widest smile and most perfect teeth.
“Cute,” you whispered, and Yunho looked at you. You watched as the boy took the girl's hands and pulled her closer, his eyes full of galaxies as he listened to her speak. He asked her a question and she blushed, glancing over her shoulder with a laugh as if to see if anyone else had heard him. “Really cute. They look young.”
Yunho considered it, tilting his head. “Not much younger than us.”
You met his eyes. “You aren’t even looking at them.”
“I don’t have to,” he said quietly. Not even the way Jongho laughed at San could break his gaze. “Do you really like Hongjoong?” He wore a singular necklace today, it hung over the old band shirt he wore, shaped like a star, or some sort of sun. Reaching for it, you pulled your lips to the side and messed with the points hanging on the chain.
“I think I do,” you said.
“You think you do?”
Looking at him, you said, “I do.”
He flashed you a lazy smile. “You sure?” Tossing his necklace at his chest, ignoring how it bounced off, you shoved away from him with a huff. He twisted in his chair, following you, leaning into you instead. “No, no, I’m just asking. Are you sure?” One of his elbows rested on the back of his chair, the other on the edge of the table. He caged you in, his size incredible.
Folding your arms around yourself, now wearing a cropped tank and ripped jeans, you blinked up at him and shrugged. “I think so.”
“Well,” he breathed through a laugh, “As long as you think so.”
“Stop,” you whined, nudging him.
“No, I get it,” he nodded, tipping his chin up, “Mr. Big Dick, I’d like him too, he’s a hot shot.”
“You’re dumb,” you mumbled, facing the table, turning a shoulder toward him. He took that as an invitation to lean in and prop his elbow on it. “Get off’a me-”
“Shug,” he said just above a whisper, stopping you from pushing him away. He had your arm in his grip, gentle, but strong. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, you’ve told us so much about him, Jongho doesn’t like him, he doesn’t seem like a good guy, that’s all.”
“What do you know?” Shrugging again, he let you go, but then grabbed your ankle with his feet and trapped it. Glaring at him, he smiled back.
“I know you,” he said, “And I know that you’d rather share a cigarette with a stranger and then buy a beer for a bum on the street, clink your glasses together and talk about the ways of the world, rather than become a CEO’s wife.” Averting your gaze to his chest, his necklace, you listened to him. “You think he’d wanna come here and see how long it takes for Jongho to strip?”
“Hey,” Jongho whined, giving you both a mere glance before San took his attention back.
“You think he’d wanna sit here and try every drink on the menu? Will he tip our waitress too much ‘cause he knows what it's like to struggle? Will he think it's funny that you have to jump once on the floorboard by the lightswitch in your kitchen otherwise the light won’t turn on?”
Blinking up at him, you muttered, “Why the lesson?”
He shrugged, glancing around the bar before he said, “I just don’t want you to forget who you are. I’ve known you for six years, Shug. This crush is growing, I don’t want you to lose yourself in the process. If you wanna sleep with him, sleep with him,” you both laughed, “Just don’t get attached ‘cause he doesn’t seem like the guy to hold onto a girl.”
You twisted around to face him again, pulling your leg free from his hold, though now your knees were nestled between his. Closing them in, capturing you, he flashed you a smile.
Perking a brow, you glanced behind him, though you could barely see over his shoulders. “And you should sleep with the waitress.”
Yunho turned around briefly, the sight of the waitress and the blonde boy making eyes at each other making him hum his disapproval. “Think that little guy does just fine,” he said, turning back toward you.
Comfortably letting life occur around you, you and Yunho shared a smile, one that faded as your eyes danced over the other's face. Six years you’ve shared, one of the first friends you made after your move to Manhattan, the cool guy in the record store you stumbled into looking for new wall decor.
San was a bonus, his roommate, a packaged deal those two. You guys clicked in an instant, sharing interests, music taste, a love for the city and all that it offered. By your third visit into the store he was inviting you out for drinks that weekend. Surprised when you asked San to join, he stuttered a few times, but agreed, mumbling something about you all getting to know one another better. Six years and a Jongho later, here you were.
Pulling your eyes off of him, you notice that the next round of drinks had been dropped off and that San and Jongho were halfway done theirs, staring at you two. Sucking in a breath, you swiveled around in your chair, and Yunho did the same, ignoring how the boys ping ponged their stare between either of you.
“What?” you snapped, reaching for your drink. Yunho pinched his brow and sipped his beer. San seemed to say something to him telepathically, but everyone refused to acknowledge it.
“Anyways,” Yunho cleared his throat, cocking his chin at Jongho and his hoodie, “Off, Choi.”
With one arm wrapped around your shoulders, Yunho kicked his feet in front of him with each step, laughing while he sang aloud and you kicked your feet with him. Smiles wide, drunken laughter bouncing off of the hot concrete into the night sky, San swaggered a few steps in front of you with Jongho under his arm.
Tossing a hand in the air, swaying into your side, throwing you off balance, Yunho sang, “I’ll stop the world-”
“And melt with you!” Jongho slurred, trying to escape San’s hold, but if he did he’d stumble over his own feet and almost fall on his face like he did five minutes ago.
“You’ve seen the difference and it’s getting better all the time,” San’s voice was muffled, Jongho grabbed him as soon as his mouth opened and tried to kiss him.
Yunho, throwing his head back with a laugh that echoed down Bleeker Street, he squeezed you into him and sang, “There’s nothing you and I won’t do!” Hitting you with a grin, he groaned. “It’s so good, it’s so good.”
Bumping his hip with yours as the four of you came to a stop at the corner of 6th Avenue, your tipsy smile made him laugh. “This’ll be your song for the entire next week.”
Dipping down, his nose almost touched yours. “Until-”
“Something makes me feel better than this,” you said at the same time as him, widening your eyes.
Leaning into his hold, letting him balance you, you released a ragged sigh. “I needed this,” you yawned, snaking an arm around his waist for stability. Your several drinks had caught up to you, you needed your sweatpants and your bed. “I needed you.”
He smiled, meeting your gaze, his eyes heavy from the liquor, deeper than ever. “You did?”
Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, your fingers brushing against his bare side, you smiled something lazy and giggled. Then, you giggled again as Jongho almost tripped up the curb across the street. “I did,” you said with a sure nod, following close behind the boys heading up Bleeker.
Yunho snapped his head up and pressed his lips together, trying to hide his smile.
Nudging him, you asked, “What?”
He shook his head, popping out his bottom lip. “Nothing.”
Your laugh projected down the street, “What!?”
“Nothing!”
Digging a finger up into his armpit he clamped down with a cackle, you dug your finger into his sides, in the cut outs of his shirt, bellowing with cries of success as he wriggled around and bent in half. “Tell me! Tell me!” San and Jongho were several steps ahead now, San raking his fingers through Jongho’s hair where his head sat on his shoulder.
Yunho lifted a knee, his whines and rampant giggles a white flag, and he tried to push you off of him. Clamping yourself to his front, your chests pressed together, both hands in the cut outs of his shirt, you had him. His weakness.
“C’mon,” you teased, grabbing him, messing with him, tickling him, all too funny really. “Tell me, tell me, tell me–”
He snapped straight up and grabbed onto your shoulders, pulling you into him as his face wiped clean. “Christ,” he muttered, spinning to the side. His arms slid around your back, holding you tight. Fear shooting through you, you grabbed onto his biceps and whipped your head around, searching for the source of his worry. Behind you, a door to a restaurant had swung open, one that would’ve hit you if Yunho didn’t have several inches on you and hadn’t seen the people coming.
“Excuse us,” a familiar voice slurred. Jung Wooyoung.
Which meant there was the possibility that–
“Hey, sweetheart.” Hongjoong.
Shit. Shit.
Heart lodging in your throat, you shoved Yunho away and brushed your hands over your front. In a cropped tee and ripped jeans you couldn’t believe you were running into him right now, while you looked like this, after several drinks. Crooked hair on your head, a necklace that had spun around the wrong way, the makeup you had put on after work that was now smeared, your lipstick worn in the middle. Yunho stumbled back a step, you didn’t have much power to move him, but your shove threw him off. Clamping his hands to his stomach, he tangled his brows and glared at you.
“Oh,” Hongjoong crooned, looking at Yunho before he smirked at you, “Sorry, I mean, Shug.” He wore what he had on in the office today, black slacks and his white button down that now had more buttons undone. Wherever his suit jacket had gone, you didn’t want to know. The bare skin of his chest made your mouth water.
A woman stepped out of the restaurant in tall heels and a short dress, complaining about the service, or the hostess, or the bathrooms, you couldn’t make much out over the heat of Hongjoong's stare. She tucked herself into Wooyoung's arm that he held out for her, a cigarette now hanging from his lips, one she reached around in his front pocket for a lighter to light it for him. She was handsy, grabbing something else with a smile before she fished the lighter out. Looking up at them, Wooyoung perked a brow, staring at you, catching you watching them.
“What’d you call her?” Yunho asked Hongjoong, cocking his head aside.
That wicked fucking smile. “Shug,” fell from his lips as smooth as the liquor you’re certain they serve inside this five star joint, “That a problem?”
Yunho narrowed his eyes. “What’s your problem?”
By the time you ripped your eyes off of Wooyoung and his girl you had tuned back into what you stood in the middle of.
“My problem?” Hongjoong laughed, “I don’t have a problem, Stilts.”
Yunho scoffed, making the face he made before his anger overcame him. It never usually happened this fast. This was weird.
Yunho took a step toward him, toward you. “Walk away, Shrimp.”
Holding up a hand, pressing it to his chest, you screwed your brows up and gave them both a look. “Stilts, Shrimp… Grow up, what fucking year is it?”
Hongjoong, surprised, snickered, “What a mouth, Shug!”
“Shut up,” Yunho lunged, but you held him back.
“C’mon,” Hongjoong sized, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “You like that old-timey shit don’t you? Play along, Doll, we could have some fun, go to the hop and shake a leg before we have a shag–”
Yunho moved you aside in a blink, lunging for Hongjoong, pushing at his chest with both hands, sending him backward a few steps. “Walk away.”
“Watch yourself,” Wooyoung said, voice steady. He had his phone in his hand already dialed to 911. All he had to do was push the button.
Shoving yourself through the middle of the boys, you swatted at his wrist. “Okay, too far.”
He winked at you, puffing on his cigarette. “He taking you home?” he asked, nodding at Yunho.
Giving his girl a look, she didn’t seem to care. Muttering, “Oh my god,” you turned around and grabbed onto Yunho’s arm, tugging him away from Hongjoong. “Let it go, let’s just leave.” Glancing over your shoulder, you rolled your eyes at Hongjoong who still challenged Yunho. “Leave.”
His eyes glazed over to you, up and down your body, his tongue dragging over the flash of his white teeth. “Not your boyfriend,” he nodded, his eyes fluttering closed for all of two seconds, “Right. See you on Monday, y/n.” The three skipped across the street in the opposite direction. Hongjoong didn’t give you another look, but Wooyoung did, his smirk evident.
Shivering in the summer heat, his eyes making your skin crawl, you wrapped your arms around yourself and started down the sidewalk, following Jongho and San who were long gone.
“Hey,” Yunho breathed, hurrying after you, your pace quick. He reached for your shoulder, but you shrugged him off. “Hey,” he said, louder, “You mad at me?”
Bounding over a cross street, flicking your head in both directions, you didn’t bother to look at him. “No,” you spat, then shook your head, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
You sped up, your feet powered by your stomach that turned in cartwheels, and not the good kind. “I don’t know, Yunho.”
He grabbed onto your shoulder again, and this time you reached a hand up to pull him off, spinning on your heels to face him. Distraught, his face screwed up, he shook his head and tossed his hands out at his sides. “What’d I do?”
You let out one laugh. “Are you kidding me?” Barely moving, all he did was shake his head about. “Oh my god,” you groaned, twisting around to continue your race home.
“No,” he huffed, grabbing onto you to spin you back around, “What’d I do?”
For the last time, you swatted him away. “You really had to put your hands on him?” Yunho rolled his eyes and threw his head back. “I get you don’t like him, but we just talked about this, I do.”
“Even after what he said,” Yunho grumbled, eyeing the buildings on the street behind you, “Sure, you still like him.”
“He was kidding,” you said matter-of-factly, holding up a hand.
“Sure he was,” he said, raising both of his brows, “His boss was too, right? Kidding just like he was at the holiday party this past Christmas when he grabbed your ass?”
“He was drunk, he was–”
Yunho threw his hands up, his voice echoing down the street, “You’re making shit excuses for them, Shug!”
“It’s not excuses, it’s–”
“It’s what,” he slouched, tucking his hands behind his back, knitting his brows together over his eyes, “Tell me what it is. These guys taking advantage of you, for what? You tell Mr. Park they do all this? Speak to you like this? Put their hands on you? What would he say? What would he do?” He’d have them all fired. Or, he’d try.
He even asked you earlier today, if you thought they were all assholes, if you had an issue with them, as if he knew everything already and had been waiting for you to admit it. Even if he tried to help you, the higher ups wouldn’t do a thing. Shrinking into yourself, pulling fistfuls of denim into your hands, you stared at the concrete under your boots.
Gorgeous he was. Hongjoong. Even when filthy words came out of his mouth, you wanted nothing more than for him to follow through. Everything he had given you all day, the closest you’ve come to him giving you the attention you’ve always wanted from him, he seemed to confirm it all in the filthy words he just said to you. Go to the hop and shake a leg before you have a shag. Cringe worthy, entirely. You wanted to laugh and groan and never hear them again, but what if they were true?
The company gala announced at the meeting was a month away. All of his cohort nagging of get a dress, do you have a dress, and his hints of asking you if you’ve ever been to a gala, or if you had a boyfriend. Even the way he looked at you after the announcement…
He was going to ask you. There was no way in hell that he was not asking you. But with how Yunho just acted like he had to protect you from him, it could’ve screwed everything up.
Lifting your chin, meeting his gaze, you gulped and shook your head. “Let it go,” you mumbled, and his posture admitted defeat. Though it hurt your heart, you said, “I like him, and I want to go to this gala with him. I know, I see it, I hear it, but I just… Maybe I need actual rejection to get over him, I don’t know, but I… I like him. Let me do this.”
Yunho clenched his jaw. Averting his eyes, he shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Okay.”
“Thank you,” you whispered. Starting down the street, Yunho kept in time with your steps. After a minute or two of quiet, you looked up at him and asked, “You staying over?”
He didn’t smile, but he looked as if he wanted to. “Course.”
Rejection came sooner than expected. Standing at the coffee counter with two cups in your hands, at a bright nine thirty seven in the morning, you watched Hongjoong push a blonde against the wall down a hallway. Curling a finger beneath her chin, tipping her up to look down at her, his lips curled, and they spoke slowly, and she ate it up. Her slow blinks, her pouty lips parting, the lusty nods of her head.
He kissed her. Their hands slipped lower, exploring parts of them they’ve already seemed to touch, like their kiss. One practiced, one rehearsed, for a long time. An extended period of time. The way her hands roamed his back, over the curve of his ass, his hips, his thighs, up the front of his belly and down to his– Nah.
Placing both cups down, you straightened the crisp blouse you had pulled on this morning, one that you thought emphasized your curves like the dress on that blonde, and darted back into Seonghwa’s office, pressing your back to the door after slamming it shut. It hurt. It shouldn’t hurt, you’ve watched him do this with several other girls before, yet your heart had been pierced with something sharp.
Seonghwa sat at his desk, twirling his pen between his fingers. With one leg crossed, he sat backward on the leather, eyeing you curiously. “You do not look happy,” he said. Throat tightening, you shook your head. He uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “You feel okay? I can get through today alone if you need to go home.” You shook your head again, and he laughed to himself. “What happened out there that got you glued to our door?”
“Nothing,” you squeaked.
Unconvinced, he smiled. “One of these days you’re going to tell me the truth,” he said, “Or, I’m hiring you a body guard.”
“No,” you sighed, pushing off the door, stepping closer to his desk. “That hasn’t happened since–” Cutting yourself off, his brows skyrocketed.
“Continue,” he gasped, “Since?”
Raising a finger, you calculated your words, and sighed once more. “I’ll tell you later.”
Seonghwa studied you, his soft eyes sharp, analyzing you from tone to body language. “I’ll go get our coffee,” he said, knowing you didn’t want to go back out there, “Then we can discuss. Get comfy.”
“Wait,” you almost shouted as he grasped the armrests of his chair to stand up, “I’ll go. I’m sorry.”
Settling back down, he tilted his head. “Apology not needed,” he said gently, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you breathed, shaking your head. “Just… needed a breather.”
Seonghwa asked, “From?”
Four knocks sounded on the door. Sharing a look with your boss, he gave a tentative, “Come in,” and when the door swung open, your heart sank to your knees.
Holding onto two coffee cups, the cups you left behind, Hongjoong, with a grin across his face, stepped inside and held them up. “You left these behind,” he said, breezing past you to pop them on Seonghwa’s desk.
“Thanks,” Seonghwa said through his teeth.
Hongjoong held a hand toward him. “Don’t mention it, please,” he chortled, adjusting the collar of his shirt. There was lipstick on it. Facing you, he cocked his chin up. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You good?”
Thinning your lips, unable to look at him for longer than a second, you hummed, “Mhm.”
“Think she might be coming down with something,” he pouted, glancing at Seonghwa, “She was out partying with her boys all weekend.”
Scoffing aloud, jaw falling open, you shot him a glare, one he returned with a curve of his lips. Seonghwa sighed, reaching for his cup of coffee, not entertaining him.
On his way to the door, Hongjoong leaned into you. “Might want to find a date to that gala soon, Shug,” he sneered. “There’s not many left.”
“There’s not many left.”
San threw himself forward into the table, glasses rattling. “No.”
Copying him, eyes widening, you shouted, “Yes!”
“Asshole,” Jongho stated, hands palms up on the table.
Yunho, pressed to the back of his chair beside you, drug his fingers over his face, rubbing his eyes before he uttered a quiet, “Yeah.”
Knocking back the rest of your drink, slamming it to the wood, you threw a hand over the glasses graveyard before you and your friends and shook your head violently. “He’s… a jerk! That’s it. He sucks!” San, Jongho, and Yunho, they shared a glance before they turned toward you slowly. Squeezing your eyes shut, tightening your hand into a fist, you sighed heavily. “I mean it.”
Jongho asked, “Do you?”
“No,” you breathed, slumping over. Opening your eyes, you drug your hands over your cheeks. “I like him. Damn!” You pounded your fist on the table, glasses rattling again. Yunho rolled his eyes. “But, he sucks.”
“We’ve been trying to–”
“Yunho,” you snapped, pointing your eyes toward him, “I know.”
He screwed up his face and held open his arms in a shrug, his oversized t-shirt dripping off of him like water. “I’m just saying. It’s been all this time, and he’s done this to you so many times.”
Sucking in a breath, one big and dramatic, you leaned back in your chair and smoothed your hands over your thighs to grip your knees. “He has,” you mumbled, recounting the numerous times Hongjoong has flaunted a woman in front of you. “I just… I thought this time… He meant it.”
San downed the rest of his drink and popped his brows. “The bar is low.”
Jongho curled his lip. “The bar is in hell.”
Yunho stared at the table. “Satan is using the bar to hang his laundry.”
Groaning aloud, tipping your chin back, you eased the ache between your lungs with another deep breath.
He meant it. He had to have meant it. You were different from any of the other women he entertained, you were you. Insanely more fun, and interesting, and far from plastic, far from a giggle at every joke kind of girl just because he has money. He had to have meant it, all these insinuations toward the gala, toward taking you, and making sure you were prepared, and had a dress, and a date. You had him. Until…
Snapping your head forward, you twisted in your chair, toward Yunho, who shot you the world's weirdest look. Jongho furrowed his brows and swatted at San’s hand that tried to swipe his half full beer, San who also stared at the two of you, curious. Yunho stared at you, into your eyes, focused, analyzing. An attempt to read your mind, you think.
And then it clicked.
He erupted, hands flying, voice raising. “Oh no,” he shouted, flinging himself around in his chair to face you, “No, no, no! No! I did not do this! This did not happen ‘cause of what I did, Shug, don’t you dare.”
San and Jongho both shouted, “What did you do?”
Gritting your teeth, you whined, then said, “He touched him.”
San gasped. Jongho, slightly alarmed, slightly disgusted, muttered a quiet, “Whaaa–”
Yunho glared at him. “Not like that.”
“Then how?” San asked, successfully grabbing Jongho’s beer, guzzling it down.
Placing your hands flat on the table, you sat up straight and parted your lips, though Yunho begged you not to. “Friday night, when we all left, you two made it back to your apartment first, you left us behind, and we just so happened to run into Hongjoong.”
“And Wooyoung, and his wife,” Yunho added, his tone flat and unamused.
“Not important,” you brushed off.
Yunho’s eyes shot open wide. “Yes important, he would’ve abducted you if I wasn’t there.”
“Hongjoong or Wooyoung?” Jongho asked.
Yunho said, “Wooyoung.”
San elbowed Jongho. “She wants Hongjoong to abduct her.”
“I do not want him to abduct me,” you spat. “Yunho pushed him.”
The boys gasped, both turning to Yunho at once. San smiled, Jongho tilted his head, disappointed.
Yunho held up both hands, feigning innocence. Fluttering his eyes shut, his long lashes splaying over his cheekbones, he said calmly, “He said some fucked up shit, okay? He got in my face, I was drunk, I couldn’t not do it. Mr. Big Dick, I don’t care who you are, you’re in my face, you’re talking shit to my girl, I’m gonna do something.”
Jongho’s jaw popped open. San pulled his lips together before hiding behind his beer, sipping it as his eyes drew over to you.
Cocking your head to the side, you narrowed your eyes. Yunho dropped his hands and looked at you, the face of normal, of patience. Glancing at the table, at the empty glasses in front of him, counting one, two, three, four… Okay.
“You’re drunk,” you said, facing the table and San and Jongho’s disappointment. “He was making jokes, Hongjoong, and he just so happened to get in our way, and between us, and–”
“And I wasn’t having it,” Yunho swung a hand about, “He acted like he had some major claim over you or something, I wasn’t gonna take that.”
Squinting at him, you asked, “And, what? You have ownership over me?”
He snipped, “What?” Facing you, he crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Sounds like it,” you huffed, giving a look to San. “You heard my whole thing about him that night, how it was possible he wanted to go to the gala with me, and I told you, I like him, and when we run into him, you ruin it.”
“He ruined it himself,” Yunho argued, his hands flying, “If he didn’t get jealous and try to piss on you to claim his territory, I would’ve never snapped. You’re not an object to be won, that’s how they look at women, that’s not you.”
Opening your mouth to fight back, Jongho sat forward and slung a hand between you. “Hang on,” he said quickly, taking his time to look at each of you.
Silence fell, though the bar moved around you, tables getting their orders, the blonde boy and the waitress whispering on barstools, faint music pumping in the background. Jongho exchanged something with San, a look that spoke to only them, and in seconds San broke out into a toothy grin.
Jongho said to you, “Hongjoong said something fucked up to you.” The three of them waited, anticipation on their tongues.
Shrugging, you muttered, “I mean, yeah, I guess it was fucked up.”
San continued before Yunho could air his grievances, “And when Yunho stood up for you, it pissed Hongjoong off?”
Giving your best friend the tiniest of glances, you shrugged again. “Yeah?”
San and Jongho both snickered and faced one another, slapping their hands together. “It’ll work,” they muttered to one another, “It’s going to work. It’s perfect, isn’t it? How did we not see this before? He’s so stupid, he won’t see it coming, he’ll be so pissed, he’ll–”
Yunho waved a hand in front of them. “Hello!?” The boys whirled around, taking in your shared confusion.
“What’s going on?” you asked as the waitress appeared at the end of your table, ready for the four of you to order another round.
San smized, mischief in his eyes, his gaze flickering from Yunho, to you. “You’re gonna win this. We’re gonna play his game.”
Four knocks sounded at your door. Timid knocks. Knocks he’s never made before. Usually they’re loud, and obnoxious, and a little excited, like the introduction to a Led Zeppelin song. This time they were any John Denver song ever to exist. Stomping through your apartment in wedged strappy sandals, you grumbled to yourself and yanked the door open, unable to believe he wasn’t going to pretend to be happy about this predicament when he’s the one who got himself here in the first place.
“We won’t have to do this,” is the first thing to leave his mouth before you get a word in. Dressed in denim torn to shreds showcasing his knobby knees and the length of his legs, the cropped black t-shirt he had pulled over his head hung just at the belt, if he had worn one. Tiny chains wrapped around the base of his neck, various golds and silvers wound together in mismatched plaits. His hair hung over his eyes, a bit shaggy today, wavy and natural.
“I don’t, but you do,” you said with disdain.
Following you into your apartment, pushing the door shut, Yunho heaved a dramatic sigh. “But, if you’re not comfortable…”
Uncapping a lipstick, you wandered into the bathroom to glide it over your lips, a shade of pink to go with the stripes on your mini skirt. “Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?”
He appeared in the doorway, just as tall as it, leaning against the frame. Stretching one arm over his head, he made a sound while he thought, and opted to say, “I dunno, cause it’s me?”
Smacking your lips together, dropping the lipstick into the makeup bag on the shelf over the toilet, you shot him a look through the mirror. “It’s you because of what you did.” He rolled his eyes. Turning to face him, you pressed a finger to his chest, his hard, broad, sturdy chest. “This could easily be San, or even Jongho, that’d be the easiest, but this is how you’re going to make that night up to me.”
He dropped his chin, a smirk pulling at his lips. “My penance is being your fake boyfriend, even though Hongjoong thinking I am your boyfriend is what got you into this mess.”
“Us,” you corrected, standing to your tip toes in your sandals, missing his nose with yours by an inch. Pushing by him, he followed you, two steps into the kitchen.
“I was defending you, Shug, you can’t be mad at me for this,” his volume raised, and you held up a finger. “Sorry,” he huffed, slapping his hands on his thighs, dropping his tone, “Yeosang still giving you problems?”
Putting together a purse, a little leather one, you wiggled your brows, fishing your keys off the counter. “Not as of late, but I got something on him now, so if he ever does have some more shit to say, I’ll just tell him all about how I heard him going at it with his boss’s wife.”
Yunho gasped, a smile finally painting onto his face and yours. “You’re kidding me.”
Slinging the purse over your bare shoulder, your strapless top clinging tight to your middle, you pursed your lips and shook your head with pride. “Not at all,” you said, moving for the door. Yunho clung to your tail. “He’s a freak, who woulda thought?”
Stepping out into the hall, giving you space to lock up, Yunho glanced at the neighbors door and started putting puzzle pieces together. “Like… how?”
“Well,” you started, slipping your keys away, “This was last weekend, and yanno, it kinda made me realize these walls are paper thin, so I don’t think I can be too mad at him getting mad at us?” You started down the hallway, Yunho in tow. “Anyway,” you laughed, throwing your hands up, glancing up at him walking beside you, “I heard them come home and fumble with the keys in the door, they were giggling and shit, and he was hushing her. I was paralyzed at the kitchen table doomscrolling through clips of Maneskin’s last tour–”
Yunho squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his chin back. “Will we ever get them again?”
“One can dream,” you muttered with a groan. “I heard them over La Fine, okay? Vic was killing it, her tits were out, it was great, and I heard them.” Yunho held the door to the stairwell open for you. “He was telling her what a bad girl she was,” you amped up the act, walking backward down the stairs, to put on a show for him, “You shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be doing this.”
Yunho grinned, a laugh caught between his teeth.
“What will he think? What will they say?” You held up a hand to signal the character switch. “She says, “Fuck what they say!”
“No!” Yunho shouted, reaching out to grab you as you tripped over your feet and laughed. “Turn around.”
“Yes,” you confirmed, listening to him, facing forward, grabbing onto the railing. “I don’t even think they made it out of the kitchen. I’ve seen his apartment, that wall is shared with the one in my bedroom, they fucked in the kitchen.”
“Damn,” Yunho sighed, pushing open the door to your building, ushering you out onto the summer street of New York City. “Quiet boy has game, who woulda thought.”
Catching him off guard, you spun around and grabbed onto his biceps. Pushing him back against the brick wall of your building, you flipped your brows over all sappy and sweet, and whined, “Take me, Yeo, take me!” Shaking your hair around, you giggled. “Do what he can’t, love me like he can’t!”
Yunho’s shoulders rose, eating his ears as you shook him. Wide eyed, he smiled at your words, at the exasperated way you shouted them, mimicking Yeosang's boss’s wife, but then you gazed up at him, lips pursed, eyes soft, cheeks pouty, and he swore he stopped breathing.
Squeezing his arms in your hands tighter, you fluttered your lashes as you blinked, putting on an act, making fun of the way the woman many years older than Yeosang spoke to him. Fingers pressing into the meat of his biceps, realizing you surprised him, and that he wasn’t prepared to hear you do this in front of him, no matter the context… You gulped and wiped your face clean of emotion.
The summer air grew thicker, your cheeks flushed, your stomach sunk a little– And you weren’t sure why. It’s not the first time jokes like this had been made, your friends always moaned a bit, they were boys for fucks sake, the occasional flirt sneaked out, this wasn’t new. As you gazed up into his sappy brown eyes that weren’t ready to experience this, how it seemed like a part of him was listening, paying attention, you audibly expressed your apologies with a groan and pulled away from him, hands dropping to your side.
“Yeah, it was…” you sighed, dragging a hand through your hair, “It was wild, anyways, should we go? I dunno what time they close, and San said that if we don’t make it there before six then the woman will–”
Yunho pushed off the building and hooked his arm in yours, a smile growing on his pink lips as he pulled you down the street. “Let’s go,” he said, entirely normal, keeping things normal, as normal as normal can be. Looking down at you, he said, “Gonna need you to recreate that for San and Jongho though, that was hysterical.”
Wedging your bottom lip between your teeth, you nodded. “Can’t believe I never told you guys.”
“That Yeosang gets chicks? And that he fucks?” He huffed a laugh, “Can’t believe you never told us either. I thought–”
Jumping in your sandals at the street corner cutting him off, you unhooked your arms and gasped. “Wait, if we’re gonna practice this, shouldn’t we hold hands instead?”
Yunho tugged at the hem of his cropped tee. “Waffle or pancake?”
Oh, how you yearned to lose your shit, fall to the concrete, and laugh at him. Instead, you deadpanned, and said, “You did not just ask me that.”
Holding up your hand for him to take, he scrunched up his face and gave you a look. “Shut up. C’mere, Shug.”
Reaching around your back, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, yanking you into his side, the warmth of his hold engulfing you entirely. Wiggling his fingers to ask for your hand, guiding you with subtle nods of his head and small smiles, he laced his fingers with yours, the hand hanging from your shoulder, then gestured to your other hand wedged between your bodies.
“Sixteen Candles, c’mon,” he mumbled, meeting your eyes with a humor in his.
Furrowing your brows, you scoffed. “Yeah, sure Jan.”
He rolled his eyes. The people waiting at the corner moved on, leaving the two of you alone until a few stragglers flew by with papers in their hands or headphones on their ears. Everyone dressed for summer, tanks, shorts, dresses, crop tops, their variations of outfits mixed and matched yet impressively cohesive– Your neighborhood the neighborhood of color, of originality, thrifted clothes and bright colored hair. Artists, musicians, bohemian spirits.
“I am not Sixteen Candles-ing you,” you giggled, and he clicked his tongue.
“You have to,” he joked with a solemn shake of his head. “I’m sure as hell not doing it to you, I’d rather you do it to me. It’ll be cute, do it.”
“But, there’s no one even around to–”
Yunho used his free hand to grab onto yours, pulling it behind his back as far as he could, allowing you to do the rest. Sliding it into his back pocket.
By the grace of the gods, the heavens, the angels, whoever you believed in, his denim hung off of him loose enough that you weren’t necessarily holding on to anything specific. Until you started walking. His proud smile guided you across the street and across a few more blocks like this, and your palm brushed over him repeatedly.
It felt weird, to feel like this wasn’t right, or that this was crossing a line, even though you’ve smacked him on his ass plenty of times before, mainly after a few drinks. This was intimate. A scene in an old movie you watched together, a scene in a newer movie you watched together… Where the girl needs the boy to do these things, and the boy agrees to make his old girl jealous…
Looking up at him, his brain at work putting pieces of the city together, admiring the streets that didn’t mirror the financial district in the slightest, you supposed this was fine. This was the purpose. Technically, it’s his duty, to help you make Hongjoong jealous, or, more jealous than he already appeared to be. And plus, it was Yunho.
Like you said, this was his way of making that night up to you. Though, at the end of the day, you’d rather be doing this with him than anyone else. Too intimate or not… It felt right.
“What do you mean you don’t have a dress yet?” The woman in jorts and a frilly blouse with big chunky boots on her feet stared at you in disbelief. Standing in front of a mirror in silver high heels, you stared back in shock. Yunho sat behind you on a stool with his hands on his knees, and confusion on his face. Her deep brown hair was tied up in a tight bun, with bangs hanging on her forehead. “How are you buying shoes without owning a dress?”
Shrugging, you parted your lips to answer her, but no sound came out.
“Insane,” she spat, her lips curling, “Every girl knows, you buy the dress first, then you buy the shoes. How do you expect the dress to fit right, or lay right, or fall right at your feet if you’re buying the shoes first? You get a dress, then shoes, how do you know you can even wear the heels? Do you even like these ones? You’ve tried on several pairs, no wonder it’s taking you forever, you don’t have a damn dress.”
Biting your tongue, you sucked down a breath to steady your heart rate and your skin that burned. “This is the one store I can afford, my friends and I are thrift lovers, I’ve never done this before, so I–”
“Great,” she berated, “So I get to deal with the inexperience, wonderful, where did you say you worked?”
“Harmony Foundation–”
Her lined eyes widened. “And this is all you can afford?”
Pressing your hands to your belly, you shook your head fervently, feeling your throat tighten like how it would just before tears slipped down your cheeks. “I-I guess I don’t know, I mean, I’ve never done this, I don’t like to dress like this–”
“Great!” She shouted, and the few other customers in the store turned to seek out the noise. “You don’t even like it, why am I wasting my time, you might as well–”
“We’re done here.” Yunho leapt to his feet, snatching your wrist in his hand, pulling you behind him. The woman screwed her face up as she tipped her chin back to glare at him. “Don’t start. This was a waste of our time. My girlfriend works hard, she deserves this night. Fuck you for making her feel less than. Our best friend sent us here, he’s obsessed with you guys actually. I can’t wait to tell him how disgusting this whole visit has been.” Glancing at her name tag, he scoffed, “Have a nice day, Mina.”
Keeping his grip on you tight, he moved you away from the mirror, away from the lady who started out sweet as pie, and sat you down on another stool across the store. Crouching in front of you, he propped one foot up on his knee and started working his fingers at the buckle, the rough tips of his fingers brushing over your smooth skin.
He clenched his jaw tight, eyes pointed at your foot and shoe he slipped off of you. Moving with persistence, you could see the figurative smoke bellowing out of his ears, the gears that grinded behind his eyes. Switching feet, he slipped the shoe off gently, his actions rough, but the way he touched you– Soft. He put you back into your sandals, his whole hand wrapping around your ankles to move you around, his touch entirely distracting you from the menace Mina had been. Strapped into your shoes, he blinked up at you and sighed heavily.
“My girlfriend,” you teased under your breath, and he sighed again.
“Don’t start, I’m pissed off, Shug. Let’s go.”
He held your hand this time, really tight. Fingers intertwined, the grip he had on you almost made you want to peel his hand off ‘cause it was so tight.
“Yunho, it’s fine,” you breathed, trailing behind him as he bounded down the street, dodging bodies that crowded now that it was past six o’clock. “I’ll find something later, we don’t have to go anywhere else, I’m over this today.”
The shake of his head told you plenty. “Me too.”
Dropping your hand, setting you free, he crossed his arms over his chest and stopped behind a group of people waiting for the cars to finish whizzing by to trudge across the street. His jaw tightened, and he wouldn’t look at you.
“I’m fine,” you assured him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged you off. “Yunho?” The cars stopped. The bodies moved. You scurried along beside him, keeping up with the long strides of his legs. “Yunho,” you groaned playfully, elbowing him a couple times. It wasn’t until you were at the next block that he opened his mouth.
“That’s how it feels when Hongjoong speaks to you the way he does,” he said, turning toward you. “And I’ve only experienced it in person maybe twice? But, even when I have to hear about it, or whenever you talk about him, that’s how it feels.”
Glancing away from him, to the traffic, the unique people around you, you go numb for a moment hearing his name. Tilting your head, you asked, “Being degraded in the middle of a store by a woman who hasn’t gotten laid in years?”
He shot you a look. “What do you think Hongjoong does?”
“But, he gets laid all the time.”
Yunho drug his hands through his hair, arching his back in a stretch with an obnoxious whine. “Oh my god, Shug, nevermind, you’ll never get it.”
Pedestrian traffic moved, pushing you both along the current. Store doors swung open with chimes, music played underneath the awnings of eateries and restaurants with outdoor seating, delicious smells wafted through the cultured air.
“Hang on,” you groaned, reaching for the sleeve of his shirt, “I want to get it. I don’t see what you see, I’m sorry, okay?”
He, again, shrugged you off of him. “It’s really going to take you getting together with him, getting cheated on, heartbroken, and disposed of, to realize it.”
You grabbed onto him again, your hands pulling at his shoulders. He paid attention for you, his eyes on alert, scanning the crowds, the streets, it’s what he always did. Never once did you have to worry while you were out with him, he became your brain, your thoughts, your safety. Even now, while in the middle of some sort of argument, he pulled you out of the way of deranged tourists who think they have the right of way.
“I’m trying, okay?” Begging him to slow down, to look at you, to take a break, to understand you, you said, “I want to see what you see.”
His glare hardened. The crowd dissolved some. Turning into you, he smoothed his hands over your shoulders and pushed you up against the corner wall of a vacant store front. Leaning into you, his forehead millimeters from yours, he softened his eyes, his words not matching the tone he spoke in.
“If you wanted to see what I see, you’d try a little harder,” he nearly whispered. Flickering his eyes between both of yours, letting them flicker over your face, he smirked. “If you really cared that bad, to understand, to listen to me, to us, then we wouldn’t be doing this little experiment, would we?” His gaze glazed over your lips. His smirk deepened. You were holding your breath.
“Fake dating,” he mumbled with a Broadway worthy roll of his eyes. Chills ran down your spine as one of his hands slid up your neck, his palm cupping your chin, his fingertips brushing your hair. “To get his attention, to make him jealous, to play his game. Since when do you care about fitting in with people, Shug? Becoming one of them?”
You barely shook your head, whispering, “I don’t.”
Yunho narrowed his eyes. “Then, why are we doing this?”
“Because…”
“Because,” he repeated, mimicking the slight whine in your tone. “Use your words, you’re a big girl.” His thumb danced over your cheekbone, his words made your knees buckle. “I love to listen to you talk, it might be my favorite thing in the world. Tell me, why are we going to do this? Act like a couple, like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, like we’re in love, like we share the deepest, most intimate parts of ourselves with one another at three in the morning entangled in a mess of sweaty sheets.”
You weren’t holding your breath, you couldn’t breathe. The depth of his eyes made it impossible to look away, impossible to pretend like his words dripping with sweet melted sugar weren't affecting you. He was close, so close, his body heat hotter than the sun that procrastinated setting.
“You look pretty today,” he whispered. “You always do. When I got to your apartment, and I watched you put this lipstick on, I just,” he shook his head, “Couldn’t not think about… it.”
Gulping, your voice shook as you whispered, “About what?”
He broke out into another smirk, his perfect teeth peeking through his heart shaped lips. “No,” he mumbled, a quiet laugh coming out of him, one that rumbled in his chest so deeply you could feel the bass, “I don’t wanna sound like him.”
“Say it,” you whispered, fast, and he bit his lip.
“Yeah?” Questioning you with a raise of a brow, he stood up straighter, chin cocking back.
You gazed up at him through your lashes, and you swore this newfound persona of his faltered. “Please.”
His other hand slid up the other side of your neck. He tipped your chin back, both of his thumbs on your cheeks, his fingers in your hair. Shared air filtered between you, he was that close. Eyes on your lips, on the shade of lipstick he watched you layer on, he whispered. “It’s filthy.”
“What did you think about, Yunho?” Your eyes fluttered shut for a split second, and he sucked in a breath.
Taking one thumb to your bottom lip, he tugged at it gently before pressing the pad to both of your lips, smirking as your lips seemed to instinctively kiss it. “Thought about how pretty they’d look wrapped around the tip of my…”
Your jaw fell open, your lips parting with a stifled sigh. Pressing your thighs together, his eyes widened some. It took him three seconds to move, out of your space, many steps from the wall.
Letting a laugh loose, he swiped the thumb covered in your lipstick over his lips and winked at you. “Bet San or Jongho wouldn’t do that, huh?”
Catching your breath, utterly blindsided, you situated your clothes that felt like he had ripped them off of you and thrown them back on even though he hadn’t touched them, and you pushed off of the wall. Trying to laugh, feeling as though you’d been doused with a bucket of ice water, you took a deep breath and shook your head. “No, they wouldn’t,” you forced your laughter, “Good one. That’s believable, how’d I do?”
Yunho rubbed a hand over his bare middle, his shirt lifting to show off his toned stomach. Bobbing his head, his eyes unreadable, he shrugged. “Don’t think you’re winning an Oscar any time soon. Your impression of Yeosang’s sugar mommy was way better.”
Smacking your lips, you laughed for real and rolled your eyes. “Not fair,” you muttered.
“You’re gonna have to try a little harder if you want us to be taken seriously,” he teased with a sarcastic huff, holding out his elbow for you to hook yours in.
Swallowing, hard, your heart finally beating steadily, you rubbed your lips together, your lipstick that he looked at, again, and said, “Guess we’ll have to practice some more.”
The clock ticked on the wall, the halls silent enough the only sound to be heard were the hands counting down to five o’clock. Standing at a counter, waiting for the receptionist on your floor to return with several files Seonghwa needed to finish a sale with one of his loyal clients of many years, you had your elbow propped up on the edge and your chin sitting on your fist.
It was the morning after your failed shopping date with Yunho, last night ending with stacked jokes on the way to San’s apartment, where you met Jongho there and spent the night shoveling take out into your mouths and playing guess that artist with Yunho until you all grew tired enough and fell asleep on the sofa’s mumbling about what new tattoos you all should get.
Snoozing on Yunho’s shoulder, you’d be lying if you said what he’d done to you didn’t stick with you. Pushing you up against a wall like you had done to him, except instead of mimicking a neighbor's hookup, he spoke real words to you. Words that sounded true. Words that felt true. Words you think… you wanted to be true. You’ve never heard him speak that way, his voice low and gravely, the things he said, dirty and hot.
Thinking back to the flings he’s had here and there, your mind wandered to the possibilities of what he said to them, how he treated them, an entire side of him you never once thought to ever explore. He turned you on, your body reacted to him, you wanted him to keep going, to say more, to maybe even do more than just touch his thumb to your lips like he wished it really was the tip of his…
“Hey, Shug.” A chill ran down your spine, your skin erupting in a blazing fire. Jolting upright, slapping your hand to the counter top, you whirled around and met Hongjoong’s smile, a stack of papers in his hand. He occupied the space beside you, stepping into your field of energy, placing the stack right next to your hand.
“Please don’t call me that,” you said with the release of a breath.
Hongjoong leaned against the desk and crossed one foot over the other. Glancing around the stranded lobby, he smiled before he pointed his eyes at you. “Find a date to the gala yet?”
Okay, straight to the point, damn. Time to lock in. Your stomach sank.
“Yes,” you squeaked, voice high pitched and nervous.
He perked a brow, his eyes drawing your body and the outfit you had thrown together this morning after running home from San’s with a half hour to spare. You were almost late this morning, and your oversized button down and wrinkled slacks let everyone know.
The corners of his lips perked up. “Wild night?”
“No,” you pushed through your lips.
Hongjoong met your eyes and laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. Look at you. That your boyfriend's shirt?” Scoffing, you looked down at yourself, and he laughed again. It was in fact Yunho’s shirt, one he didn’t use anymore, a white button down that would fit his chest snugly. It hung off of you, but this wasn’t the first time you had worn it.
“This is mine,” you stated with a point of your finger to your belly.
Hongjoong furrowed his brows, but his smile remained. “You sure you didn’t pick it up off his floor this morning?”
“No, Joong, it’s mine.”
“Coulda sworn he spent the night putting you through the mattress, at least from what I saw,” he snickered, averting his eyes to behind the desk. “Smooth talker, huh?”
Your blood ran cold. “What?”
Hongjoong laughed. “You let him talk dirty to you? I know you like a filthy mouth.”
Eyes bugging, you laughed with him, nervously, and knitted your hands together. “I-I-I don’t know what you’re… what you’re talking about, what are you…”
“I saw you,” he said, plainly, giving you a look. “On the corner of 7th, he had you pinned to the wall, his hands on you, talking all quiet.” He popped his brows and swung his hand about as he spoke. “I’ve never seen you look the way you did, all doe eyed, like he held your consciousness in his hands, so submissive–”
“Shut up,” you snapped.
He raised a brow, his lazy smile wicked. “Tell me again how the shirt isn’t his, how you weren’t letting him defile you last night, go ahead.”
“I didn’t, it’s not–”
He kept going. “Thought you’d let him take you right there on the street corner, I mean, damn, how long have you been in love with this guy, I would’ve thought you had something for me if I didn’t catch you two like that, does he know what a flirt you can be?” Leaning toward you, he popped his lips as he mumbled, “A brat?”
“Oh my god,” you muttered, pressing your front to the desk, knitting your fingers in your hair, staring at the linoleum. “Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.” Willing the receptionist back in whispers, Hongjoong heard, and fucking laughed.
“He probably gets off on it, right? Knowing you’ve got a little game going with me, he probably loves to hear all about it so he can fuck it out of you. Claim you.”
“Hongjoong, shut up. Leave me alone.”
He took a step closer to you, dipping his chin down. “No, I want you to be able to run home to have the fuck of your life after you tell him about this. Let him know that when I saw you over here all alone in his shirt, I envisioned what it’d be like to rip it off of you and spread you open on Ms. Kim’s desk, and how I wouldn’t care if she came back and caught us.”
Pressing your hands to your face, shaking your head, you sucked air in through your lips, and for the first time, you wished Yunho were here to stop him.
“Matter of fact, Wooyoung likes to watch,” he smirked, “He’d love a show. Would probably get a raise,” his fingers touched your shoulder, gently, but with purpose, piercing through the fabric of your shirt, “Just gotta make sure he can see your tits, so he can–”
“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa’s voice echoed off the ceiling, booming through the empty space. Clenching your jaw, tears welling up in your eyes, you clawed at your scalp. He tore his hand off of you, moving faster than you’ve ever witnessed. “What am I hearing?”
A sigh came out of him as he took a step away from you, his hands folding on the desk. “Please, she likes it.”
Seonghwa scoffed. “I guarantee you, she does not. Y/n?”
Peeling your hands away from your face, you pushed your hair back and turned to look at him. With a face full of sorrow, he waved a hand toward him, coercing you closer. “Go into my office and wait for me there. We’ll file a report together, but I’d like to personally hand his ass to him face to face.”
Only able to give him a nod, you wrapped your arms around yourself and hurried down the hall, straight into Seonghwa’s office, though you longed to linger and listen to what your boss had to say.
you: It worked..... He's pissed off or something..
yun: What happened.
you: I get what you guys mean now.. How he talks..
yun: Call me. Now.
you: I’ll tell you later….. Do you have to see Jag????? You haven’t mentioned him
yun: He hasn’t needed me.. I’m yours tonight.
Outside of a store with gowns on mannequins in the windows, you and Yunho stood elbow to elbow against the glass, appreciating the bustle of the people on this side of a neighborhood you longed to spend more time in. Similar to your own, this one had more structure to its freedom, like the people here knew exactly what they wanted and what they brought to table. It filled you with a sort of peace, clarity, like your dreams were right in front of you, and you could snatch them without remorse.
“Don’t say I told you so,” you muttered, and Yunho hummed.
“Never,” he said flatly, eyes scanning the heads that passed by. “I’m sorry that happened. He’s a dick.”
Looking up at him, you pinched your brows. “That’s all?”
He glanced back in shock. “Well, I can’t exactly go and kick his ass can I? If I do, you’ll lock me up and force me to marry you and have several kids, live a suburban life, I dunno.”
Laughing, throwing your head back, you gasped, “What!?”
Yunho held up his hands, his wide eyed expression growing tenfold. “Are those not your conditions for me putting my hands on him? I pushed him, so we have to date, what do you think you’ll make me do if I beat him up?”
“Sign a prenup,” you giggled, shoving him with your elbow. His obnoxious nod and the unintelligible sound he made answered for him. “I’m sorry,” you sighed, leaning your head against his arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t do the dating thing, maybe you just come with me to the gala as my bodyguard.”
“It makes me sad that you even have to think that way,” he mumbled.
Glancing up at him, your cheek squished on his bare arm, he looked down and smiled. “Seonghwa will be there, you don’t even have to come if you don’t want to, I don’t wanna subject you to hanging around these kinds of guys for hours on end.”
Squinting, he said, “I’d rather be with you to save you from having to hang around those guys for hours on end. I’m coming to the gala whether you like it or not, Shug.”
“Shug,” a woman’s voice parroted, one a little rough, a little grungey. “You really do call her that.” Yunho broke out into a grin, tossing his head back bashfully, trying hard as hell to negate all accusations as you pushed off the window to greet his friend.
Stunning didn’t cut it. Ki, her name as sharp as she was, but not as simple. Covered in tattoos, doused in silver jewelry and piercings, her hair styled like she’d had it professionally done, you couldn’t help but let your jaw drop. Another girl stood with her, as close to her as you stood to Yunho, looking nothing like Ki. A little more indie, maybe bohemian, whereas Ki bled straight rock ‘n roll.
Her smile smacked you in the face, perfect and dazzling. Holding out her hand amidst Yunho’s rebuttals, she introduced herself. “You’re exactly like he described,” she shook her head, giving you a onceover, “I’m Ki, this is Riley,” she said giving a nod to her friend who smiled and gave you a wave of her fingers. “Hope it’s okay you deal with both of us, you seem to fit right in between our vibe, I figured we could both give you a hand.” Her eyes flickered up at Yunho. “He’s not gonna know what he’s doing. You need girlfriends.”
Giggling, you looked up at him and he shrugged shamefully.
“You’re lucky he called,” Ki breathed, taking your wrist in her hand and Riley’s in the other. Giving Yunho a glare, she muttered, “You’re lucky Jag has let you have so much time off.”
“Time off?” you asked, bouncing back and forth between them. “You said he hasn’t needed you,” you said to Yunho, whose eyes widened.
Ki pursed her lips, her saccharine smile enough to woo you, you’re not sure how Yunho hasn’t been woo’ed yet. He said something back to her, with his eyes, an implication he didn’t want to speak further, a white flag of sorts. You aren’t sure how much time they spent together at Republic, though her name has come up plenty of times– Comparing the two of you.
“Let’s go, Shug,” Ki joked, tugging you and Riley along, into the store, leaving Yunho to trudge behind. “I’ll take the left side, Ri you take the right, Miss Sugar can take the middle.”
Yunho let the door swing shut behind him. “What about me? Do I get a say?”
Riley gave him a small smile. “If the boyfriend shopping thing is universal, I suggest you sit this one out.”
Ki seemed to know what she was talking about with the way she laughed and nudged her shoulder, her bright smile and confident laugh bouncing around the racks of dresses. “He’s not her boyfriend, but still, sit this one out,” she said to both of them before the group broke into four.
With a sheepish shrug, Riley pulled her lips together and turned on her heels. Ki tossed her hair off of the shoulder of her lace tank and bolted for a black dress on a mannequin in the window. Yunho, he smiled at you when you turned to him, and waved you away to follow the girls.
“She’s cool,” you whispered, flickering your eyes over to Ki.
Yunho narrowed his eyes and smiled wider, whispering, “I knew you’d say that.” Smiling back at him, for too long, feeling your insides fill with warmth, a sort of comfort knowing he’d do something like this for you, he glanced at both of the girls on either side of the store and shooed you away.
You took to Riley first, who was already looking your way with her hands on a dress. Painting a smile onto your lips, you approached her in her oversized vintage Screen Actors Guild tee and clasped your hands together. Before you had the chance to open your mouth, she cut you off.
“This one’s gorgeous,” she mumbled, holding the emerald dress up in front of you, pressing it to your chest like she’s known you for ages. “I think this really goes with your skintone, but I’m not loving the straps, I think you should– Wait, how are you doing your hair?” Her eyes narrowed, studying you, drawing all over the bare skin you exposed today. “You’re fun, aren’t you? How many tattoo’s do you have?”
“I got a few when I’d been drinking honestly, my friends know this guy who does them underground, yanno, so I have to have at least–”
“So cool,” she said without letting you finish, “I love tattoo’s, but I have to keep them hidden.”
“How come?” you asked, watching as she hung up the emerald dress and pulled out a few others, giving you glances over her shoulder.
“Broadway,” she said with utter nonchalance. “But, my boyfriend and I, we both have a matching one on our– Oh my god,” she sighed, turning toward you, grabbing your wrists, “I’m so sorry, by the way, for implying that Yunho’s your boyfriend.”
Giggling, you shook your head. “Don’t worry about it, I know how it looks, it’s really–”
“I’m sorry, though,” she said with a pout, “I have chronic foot in mouth disease, it’s severe, just ask Ki, or don’t, I don’t need this getting worse. I’m not good at this. I have a lot of guy friends.”
Shifting your hands around, grabbing onto hers that held onto you, you comforted her with a smile and shook your head. “So do I, I understand.”
“Hey, Glucose!” Ki shouted from across the store, waving her hand in the air, her bracelets jingling.
Yunho picked his head up from where he rifled through suit jackets, almost shrieking within a laugh, “Glucose!”
Riley let go of you and gave you a gentle push on your back. By the time you made it to Ki she had already sent Yunho back into his silenced role, giving you the tiniest of smiles as you were subdued to more dresses being held up in front of you. Shooting him a wink, one he made a face of disgust at, you giggled, and Ki paused.
“He’s something, huh?” she asked, tearing her eyes from yours when you looked at her. The black dress she held had lace on the bodice, like her tank, and it was tight fitted, all the way to the bottom. “You might not be able to move in this, but I like black for you, what do you think?”
“I love black, sure.”
Pulling at the fabric, her eyes on the dress she held up, she muttered, “I meant Yunho.” Ki met your eyes with a glimmer in hers. “I got the story, y/n. He actually wouldn’t shut up. Whenever I see him at work, I get updates about you, instead of himself. When he asked me to come here he sounded so… worried. I thought, how can this girl have this boy who’s like chronically relaxed in this much of a fucking tizzy?”
“Oh,” you breathed, half following. She hung up the tight dress and pulled out another, one dark blue and Cinderella-esque. You both crunched your noses before she could even bring it in front of you. “How about that one?” Pointing to a black dress with long sleeves, she listened and held it up.
Tilting her head to the side, her striking eyes drinking in your form, she continued quietly, “Hope it’s okay I brought Riley, I didn’t want to be third wheel. Plus, I haven’t spent time with her in a bit. I like this one– Yunho!” He scurried over to her side, accepting the dress she tossed him. “Trying this one on,” she said and waved him off, “Shoo.”
Flashing you a smile, his face telling you he was just happy to be here, he returned to where he came from.
“You spend a lot of time at work, right?” Following her, like a shadow, you eyed her tattooed fingers as they grazed over satins and velvets before snatching one. “Yunho says you’re like… Really important.”
Her lips perked up. Holding up a velvet grey a-line, it didn’t make it two inches in front of you before she swapped it for a strapless black satin floor length thing. “I guess I am. He’s sweet,” she took a breath, “But, yeah, I spend a lot of time at work, I travel a shit ton, and Ri lives here in the city. I do too, but…”
“But?” you questioned, and she shrugged it off.
“A story for another time,” she smiled.
“Uh, Riley told me she has a boyfriend, are you, uh, seeing anyone?”
She gave you a look over her shoulder. “Why, interested?”
Bushing, you pushed a breath through your lips and stepped in a tiny circle. “You’re gorgeous, but no,” you laughed, “I’m into someone else.” She glanced at Yunho, and you rolled your eyes. “No, he’s… just a friend.”
“Does he know that?” she asked, flicking through the dresses.
“Yes,” you said definitively, brows going awry.
Ki nodded, slowly, pulling out a black gown she didn’t bother to hold up in front of you. “Yunho!” Like clockwork, he appeared, with several more dresses in tow.
“Who gave you these?” Ki asked.
Yunho blinked. “Riley.”
Taking in the dresses of various colors and lengths, Ki mumbled, “Damn thespian.”
“We need options!” Riley shouted across the store.
“She heard you,” you laughed, and Ki smirked.
“Quiet isn’t my specialty.” She tossed the dress over Yunho’s arms, and as he disappeared she asked, “Who are we into, Miss Sugar? If it’s not that hunk of alt sweetness the girlies eat up at the label.”
The girlies. Turning to find where he disappeared to, you found him at Riley’s side, the girl shorter than you, craning her neck back to look up at him. Her smile, soft, but her giggle, loud. Ki followed your line of sight and scoffed.
“He’s too tall for her, trust me,” she muttered, lower this time, “Plus, she’s like, locked in with her man. Trust me.”
“Is she?” you asked within a whisper.
Ki gave you a look, raising a brow. “Quiet isn’t her specialty. They’re crazy theatre kids, they’re… gross. One time I saw them–”
“And what about you?”
She rolled her eyes, enormously long. The breath she let out was just as long. “Don’t worry about me. You don’t wanna hear what it’s like being caught between two guys, one perfect for you, who knows everything about you, your secrets, your shadows, but then the other is capable of satiating a hunger you didn’t know you had.”
“What happened? After… the… satiating. I assume he wasn’t good for you?”
Ki held up a dress and pursed her lips. Shifting from the dress to your face, she released a breath and shrugged. “I was still hungry.” This dress she held onto herself. “Listen, he didn’t put me up to this, but I know about this other guy you’re into. Take it from me, as someone who’s been involved with a colleague. You have this fucking amazing guy right here,” she said, gesturing behind her toward Yunho who trailed behind Riley like a puppy. You almost spoke, but she cut you off. “I know, you’re friends. But, let him be an example. Of the types of guys you should be looking for.”
“Damn,” you uttered, lowering your chin with a snicker.
Ki furrowed her brows. “What?”
Giving her a look, you shook your head. “He didn’t update you about what happened today, I guess. You don’t have to give me the speech, I’m not Hongjoong’s biggest fan anymore. I know it’s been his obsession to rid me of him, I’m sorry he pulled you into this, but I’m good. Thanks for coming to help me, but I don’t need a pep talk.”
She tried to stop you, but you pushed past her, towards the fitting rooms. Holding a hand in the air to signal Yunho, she pointed at the back of you and shrugged. “I dunno what I did, that’s all you.”
Ignoring the worker who asked you if you needed any help, you stepped into a fitting room empty handed and let the door swing shut, pressing your back against the wall. Tears brimming your eyes, you took a shaky breath and released it all at once.
Everything cycled through your head, memories flashing all at once, from Hongjoong’s almost invitation to the gala, to the night Yunho pushed him, to yesterday when Yunho had you on the corner questioning everything you thought you knew about your relationship.
Why were you questioning everything you thought you knew about your relationship? You never have before, this wasn’t normal. He was Yunho, your best friend Yunho.
Comfort is all that it is. Familiarity.
You’ve just perhaps reached a point in your friendship where you care too deeply, because you know so much, because you’ve spent all this time with him, and now that it’s at a point where the lines seem to be starting to blur because you’re going to have to pretend to date him, it’s confusing.
That’s what it is. You couldn’t think that again if you tried. You wouldn’t even be able to say those words out loud. Did it make sense? You shouldn’t be spiraling about this, you should be spiraling about the fact that Hongjoong made some serious threats to you today, if you could even call them threats. You didn’t want to call it what it was, but Seonghwa sure did, and he had no shame in doing so.
Work tomorrow should be a blast, if he’s even there. The gala is right around the corner, would he even be allowed to attend after this? Groaning through a cry, you tipped your chin back and shook your head. Of course he’d still be allowed to attend, these men got away with everything. He’d be able to do what he said he’d do and he wouldn’t–
“Shug?” Three gentle taps to the fitting room door.
“I need a minute,” you steadied your voice as best as you could.
“I have your dresses,” he said softly. “Wanna try them on while you take your minute?”
Reaching for the door handle, you pulled it open and met his eyes, taking the pile from him. “Thanks,” you sniffled.
He frowned. “You okay?”
“Do I look okay?”
“No,” he whispered. “What happened?”
Hardening your glare, you mumbled, “Go talk to Riley.”
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“Or Ki, maybe that’s better,” you huffed, “She seems to know so much already, go tell her some more.”
You threw the door shut, but he caught it. “Hang on, what are you talking about?”
“Leave me alone,” you said, hanging the dresses up. Pushing on the door to push him out, it was silly of you to forget he was much, much stronger than you. Bumping the handle as he fumbled his way in, there was an audible click as the door slammed shut and his back pressed to it. The already small room grew smaller. Two bodies and a stack of at least thirteen dresses in one tiny New York space, one of those bodies over six feet tall. You couldn’t turn around without bumping into him. “I have to try these on, get out of here,” you muttered.
His jaw tensed. Staring at you for all of three seconds, he took a deep breath and spun around, facing the door, away from you.
“Yunho–”
“Someone’s gotta zipper you.”
Sighing, losing this fight, you said, “Don’t turn around.”
“You already know I wouldn’t do that.”
Even this felt weird, and it shouldn’t. You’ve changed in front of him before, you’ve been half naked and drunk in front of each other, you’ve seen him in his boxers, he’s seen you in a bathing suit, this shouldn’t be so vulnerable, so… intimate.
Ki implied, several times, that Yunho, quite possibly, maybe, cared about you too much. Maybe in a sense that you haven’t been able to pick up on until now. Pulling your shirt over your head, you tossed it over his shoulder, smiling at the inaudible laugh he heaved. Even though yesterday on the street, where he said some things you never imagined would ever leave his lips, when he pulled away, he acted as though it was for the gala. That you guys were practicing. Come to find out Hongjoong had seen you. Hongjoong had seen you.
Slipping out of your shorts, kicking off your shoes, you tossed the denim over his other shoulder. “Yunho?”
“Yeah?”
You took a blue dress off a hanger and stepped into it. “Yesterday,” you started, shimmying the tight fabric over your hips, slinging the spaghetti straps over your shoulders, “Did you see Hongjoong?”
His head tilted to the side, reluctantly asking, “When?”
“Zip me?”
He turned, and his eyes softened at the sight of you in the mirror. The bodice hugged your chest, blue satin cascading down your form to the floor so that you could so wear those silver heels with this. The fabric was bound over your middle, in three ripples slipping over your right hip and around the back like a waterfall.
“Wow,” he breathed before snapping out of it, tearing his eyes off of your curves and onto the zipper at the middle of your back. Sliding it up, careful to not let his fingers graze your skin, he stepped back against the door and waited for your consensus.
Gliding your hands over the satin, over the chest, you pouted your lips and shook your head. “I like this,” you said, taking your hands to your hips. Yunho’s eyes followed. “But, I don’t like this,” you said, grabbing fistfuls of your tits. Yunho’s eyes followed.
“I do,” he whispered without thinking. Meeting his glare in the mirror, shock evident on both of your faces, you let out a laugh, and he let out a groan. “Oh my god?” Rolling his eyes at himself, he vigorously shook his head and reached for the zipper, freeing you before he spun around and banged his head against the door. He snatched your clothes off of his shoulders and hung them over the door, huffing to himself.
“It’s okay,” you said, sliding the dress off, opting for a black one Ki had set aside. “Practice, right?”
Yunho hung his head, shaking it like he had. “That wasn’t cool, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you whispered, stepping into the lace.
“You look pretty today,” he whispered. “You always do. When I got to your apartment, and I watched you put this lipstick on, I just,” he shook his head, “Couldn’t not think about… it.”
Sliding it up your body, this one strapless, you held it tight to your chest and felt along your back that the zipper laid right over the curve of your ass. Glancing behind you in the mirror at his broad shoulders, wider than you, you took a second to admire how much larger than you he actually was. Gentle giant.
Ki met your eyes with a glimmer in hers. “I got the story, y/n. He actually wouldn’t shut up. Whenever I see him at work, I get updates about you, instead of himself. When he asked me to come here he sounded so… worried. I thought, how can this girl have this boy who’s like chronically relaxed in this much of a fucking tizzy?”
Except when it came to you.
“I do not want him to abduct me,” you spat. “Yunho pushed him.”
The boys gasped, both turning to Yunho at once. San smiled, Jongho tilted his head, disappointed.
Yunho held up both hands, feigning innocence. Fluttering his eyes shut, his long lashes splaying over his cheekbones, he said calmly, “He said some fucked up shit, okay? He got in my face, I was drunk, I couldn’t not do it. Mr. Big Dick, I don’t care who you are, you’re in my face, you’re talking shit to my girl, I’m gonna do something.”
“Yunho,” you whispered, and he turned, his cheeks growing pink. “Zip me?”
Eyeing you in the mirror, how the lace clung to you, contouring your curves where the satin accentuated your form. Laying on top of you like it was a part of you, it hung from your thighs to the floor, the fabric free for you to move about, to dance, to walk comfortably. The chest, corset like, heartshaped and detailed with lace, it held you perfectly, every part of you. He couldn’t help himself. He stared.
You watched him have to manually tell himself to stop, to focus on what you asked him to do, but when he saw where the zipper laid, he lost it again. Eyes blinking a million times, he took a step closer to you, careful to not stand on the puddle the lace left around your feet. He blushed with color, his cheeks to his ears, as pink as can be, his hands acting just the same.
A little nervous, if you had to describe it. His fingers brushed over your skin, the small of your back, and you shuddered, goosebumps erupting over your skin. “Sorry,” he whispered, pulling back abruptly, not looking up at you in the glass.
“S’okay,” you whispered with a gentle nod. “Your fingers are cold.”
He shook his head once, squinting at the dress. “I-I think I have to… pull it up from the inside. I can get Ki–”
“No,” you sighed, stopping him from stepping away from you. “You do it,” you said, your gazes eating one another up. You forced through your lips, “Practice, right?”
His miniscule shift in expression made your heart swell. The slight tweak of his brows, the plumping of his lips, the flutter of his lashes, all too tiny to be made out to be something, but you knew him.
Standing closer to you, your back nearly pressed to his front, he took in a breath and held it, taking the zipper between his fingers. Using his other hand to pinch the bottom, he slowly pulled up, his middle knuckle gliding up your spine, the act so gentle, so improbably erotic that you cursed yourself for how your breath hitched in your throat and the bottom of your belly clenched. It didn’t help that he stood close enough that the warm air that slipped through his parted lips grazed over your skin, your bare shoulders, your bare back. Radiating heat, his own breath uneven, once the zipper reached its peak, he paused.
Neither of you moved. He gazed down at the dress, and you blazed a fire in his eyes through the mirror he refused to look at you through.
“Coulda sworn he spent the night putting you through the mattress, at least from what I saw,” Hongjoong snickered, averting his eyes to behind the desk.
You wondered if he could feel it. The tension disgustingly thick you could cut it with a knife. His large, strong hands, what would they feel like if he slid them down your hips in this lace? His lips, parted and dousing your skin in goosebumps with the hot air he exuded, what would it feel like if he dropped a bit lower and pressed them to your skin, the valley of your neck, the expanse of your exposed chest? Heat swelled in your belly, dropping lower, your thighs aching to squeeze together, but you wouldn’t. Not now. Now you were aware.
“Yunho,” you whispered desperately.
“I did see him,” he uttered quietly, finally meeting your gaze in the mirror. You wanted to melt to the floor at the sight of how lust had overcome him and he actively fought back. “I did what I did so you wouldn’t see him. I’m not proud of it. Especially now with what he did to you.”
“Not proud of it, what do you…”
He sighed, standing up straight, keeping his eyes on yours. “I didn’t want to do what I did,” he shrugged. “You were already getting upset with me, I knew that if you saw him it would push you over the edge, so I had to distract you, and nothing I would normally do would work. So, I made something up.”
Dropping your hands to your side, you gaped and spun around. “Made something up?”
Huffing, he screwed his brows up. “You thought what I said was real?”
Taken aback, you scoffed and rolled your eyes. “Uh, of course not, why the hell would you say something like that to me?”
Narrowing his eyes, he bobbed his head and poked his tongue in his cheek. “Right,” he muttered after a few seconds. “Right.”
Spinning around, almost bumping you with his elbow, he turned the doorknob and yanked. It didn’t budge. Trying again, he yanked. He yanked, again. The walls shook.
“How do I unlock this,” he mumbled, messing with the knob every way he could think of.
Sighing, you wedged yourself around him and tried to pull his hands off the gold, but he swatted at you. “Let me help,” you grumbled, “I don’t want you in here anymore.”
“I don’t want to be in here anymore,” he countered, tugging at your hands.
“Good, I want you to leave.”
“I want to leave.”
You threw the mindless bickers at one another for what felt like forever, until it got to the point of tears. Yours.
“You’ve been no help, I can’t believe San and Jongho came up with this, this is so stupid!”
“Stupid?” Yunho pressed a hand to his chest. “You said it yourself, I’m the one you want to do this with! Ki!” He banged a fist on the door. “This wasn’t supposed to turn into this, Shug, we were just supposed to go to the stupid gala.”
“Don’t call me that,” you huffed, reaching behind you for the zipper of your dress to free yourself. “You’re done calling me that.”
Groaning, he swatted at your hands. “Let me do it, you’ll rip it.”
“No,” you shouted, swinging your body away from him, tugging at the lace, “I got it. I’ll do it alone, like I’ll do the gala alone!”
“You’re not doing the gala alone,” he said, in a fistfight with your fingers. Let… go!”
“Hands off of me, Yunho.”
“You’re going to tear it, you like this one, this is it, don’t tear it!”
Fighting back, clawing at the fabric, you finally kicked a foot back against his knees and sent him stumbling backward, but the space was too tiny so he fell into you, and before he could catch himself, you were twisted sideways, and the lace tore down your back in one long, loud rip. Hands trapped behind you where your back pressed to the wall, you gasped and froze. Yunho hung over you, both of his hands pressed to the wall above you, his body hovering on top of you.
“Fuck,” you whispered.
“Why the fuck would you kick me?”
Glaring up at him, your noses almost touching, you sneered, “Why the fuck would you keep trying when I told you to leave?”
“I can’t leave, the door’s locked!”
“Fuck this,” you said, reaching up for handfuls of his shirt. Pushing off of the wall, taking him with you, your dress slipped down as you pressed him to the opposite wall. “You are going to climb out of here, either under or over that door, I don’t care, just get–” The door swung open.
“Whoa!” Ki shouted, eyes wide, pulling the door shut in a hurry.
“No!” You and Yunho both shouted, and her face went crazy.
“I don’t wanna watch!”
Yunho glanced down at what this looked like, the way you gripped him and how your dress fell off your body. You had him pushed up a wall for fucks sake. Not to mention, if you had tried anything else with lace he’d find himself in a very awkward predicament. At least he could hide what it was for now.
“I’m done,” he said, reaching for your hands, making you release him. With one more look, he shook his head, and he left, not before murmuring to Ki, “Stay out here, that door locks from the inside, help her out.”
As soon as the door shut you sunk to the floor and let the tears spill.
Sipping your drink, the bubbles dancing over your tongue, you laid your head back on the cushion of the sofa you sat in front of. Jongho laid over a lounge chair, a beer can in his hand hanging off the edge, his legs over one armrest, his head over the other. Faint music played in the background, something off of his phone. You didn’t dare ask who made the playlist.
“It ripped,” you said with a flick of your hand, “It ripped right down the back, and I paid for it, because I ripped it, even though the woman says she’s not sure if she’ll be able to fix it.”
Jongho turned his head to give you a pout. “Damn, I’m sorry.”
“It’s whatever, I guess,” you took a swig of your drink, “I’m not meant to be at this stupid thing anyway. I need to just call Yunho, tell him it’s off, and then let Seonghwa know I won’t be going.”
“Nooo,” he sang, shifting to lay on his side, tucking his knees into his massive chest. You frowned and he copied you. “I don’t want to go without you.”
“You’ll have San,” you muttered with a shrug, “You won’t miss me.”
“Yes, I will,” he whispered. Sharing a look with him, one that said a trillion things about leaving a friend behind at a work event where they’d need you because you get it, he said, “San won’t get my jokes.”
A smile graced your lips. “He’ll learn.”
“You can’t just break it off with Yunho and come without him?”
“There’s nothing to break off,” you said, voice growing stern, “We are friends, that is it. I don’t want to go to the gala, not anymore, not when I know Hongjoong will be there… And Wooyoung. I’m done with men.”
He sighed. “I get it.”
Screwing your face up, you shifted to your knees. “I mean, you should’ve seen his face, acting like I’m the one who messed this up, when he’s the one who said that shit to me. He’s the one who made me believe him, I totally thought that what he said was real. It felt real.”
Jongho marinated in silence, the gentle nods of his head encouraging you to go on.
“What do you take it as? ‘Cause I took that all as real,” you huffed, not giving him time to answer you. “You don’t say stuff like that, not to a friend. Especially not a guy friend to a girl friend, because that’s… that’s just…”
Crinkling his can in his hand, he shifted his lips to the side in thought. Eyes pointing from his beer, to you, he offered, “He made you feel something.”
“Yes,” you hissed without a second thought, “And that’s messed up.”
“Is it?”
Shooting him daggers, you shouted, “Yes!”
Jongho didn’t move. He didn’t even react. He simply asked, “Why?”
“I don’t… I don’t know,” you whispered, sitting back against the couch, planting a hand to your forehead. You downed the rest of your drink, your third of the night, and sat the empty can on his coffee table.
“Did he make you feel like Hongjoong makes you feel?” Jongho asked.
Rubbing your fingers over your bare eyes, your bare face, you shook your head. “No,” you answered honestly.
“How’d he make you feel?”
Giving him a look, he laughed.
“Tell me,” he teased, “I won’t judge.”
Taking a long, deep breath, you folded your arms over your front, your cozy hoodie, and released the air with a heavy sigh, one gravely and rough, a groan of sorts. Looking away from him, whether out of embarrassment or bashfulness, you lifted your shoulders and teetered your head side to side. “I wanted him to keep going,” you said, shifting your eyes over to him to see if he reacted. He didn’t. “I wanted… to know what else he would say. I wanted him to finish his sentence, and tell me what he really wanted.”
“That’s not bad at all,” he said quietly, finishing his beer.
The music changed into a softer song, one from the nineties. You recognized it, Yunho’s played it before, a one hit wonder gone rogue, never heard from again. You thought about him and how his brain worked, how passionate he felt about music, the joy it brought him, how it changed his mood in a snap, the way he’s devoted so much of his life to the art. No limits, that’s what he’d say music made him feel, immortal, everlasting, whole.
The songs he would send you in the morning when he knew you had a long day ahead of you, or when he knew the day would be a hard day, they always worked. As if he could feel what you were feeling, the tunes he prescribed cured you, in every which way. He cared. Deeply. San and Jongho didn’t get the songs. You did. And you haven’t gotten one in over a week.
Shifting onto all fours you crawled over to Jongho and wiggled his phone out of his pocket. Swiping open to his music, ignoring the dirty message from San on his home screen, you typed a title into the search bar, and you tapped on it. Turning the volume up, the song crashed through the speakers, bright and excited and invigorating, like Yunho himself burst through the door and lit up the room. The first verse led you into a story, a love song in disguise, one unlike any other, hidden behind a facade of futuristic melodies. And then the chorus hit, and your heart swelled.
‘I’ll stop the world and melt with you… You’ve seen the difference, and it’s getting better all the time… There’s nothing you and I won’t do…’
Haunted by memories, becoming a cage for them to flutter about in, you curled around your knees you tucked into your chest and buried your face in your arms.
All of the nights he’s walked you home from Dante’s, all of the nights he’s stayed, falling asleep either on your couch or in your bed on top of the covers still in your clothes from the bar. The days he’d swing by the office to drop off a new album find he thought you’d like, or bring you a coffee, or offer to take you to lunch, or to grab you something on his way to the label. This entire week, how he’s blown off work, or called out, or told Jag he’s not coming in, so that he can take you around the city and shop for a god damn company gala he agreed to fake date you at just to make your work crush jealous.
The way he looked at you the very first time you stepped into the record store, in a distressed denim jacket over top a short black dress that hugged your thighs, one that matched the boots on your feet– Boots you’ve since retired because they cannot handle the lengths you have to walk through the city. His eyes, they lit up. Half slumped over the counter with his chin in his hands watching the tourists flit about the rows of records just to not buy anything, when he saw you, he knew his luck had changed.
It was when he used to load his lobes with earrings, one of the first things you noticed, how he didn’t care how insane he may look to others. After picking up The Runaways Queens of Noise cassette, you slid it across the counter, shoved your hands in your pockets, and told him, “You’re cool.”
His slender knobby fingers grabbed the tape. Unable to take his eyes off of you, the style of your makeup, the grown out bright pink color at the tips of your hair, how confident you were in how you smiled at him. He stuttered, a lot, scanning the tape, typing something into the register, mumbling his thanks, and how he thought you looked pretty cool too… You laughed at him, you can remember laughing at him. With him. The sweetest, kindest, cutest New Yorker you’ve run into since your move.
Just before you stepped out onto the street, he called after you, “We’ve got new stuff coming in this weekend,” he gulped as you spun to smile at him, “We’re the only store that gets the good stuff, the real stuff, so… If you’re interested.” Any chance to see that face again.
“I’ll be here,” you’d smiled.
He’d given you a nod, some sort of relief washing over him. “Cool.”
“Cool.”
Leaping off of Jongho’s floor, tossing his phone onto his chest where he laid, you ran your hands through your hair and hurried for your shoes at the door. He sprung off the couch as you bustled about.
“What are you doing?”
Shaking your head, really fast, you slipped into your sandals and waved him away. “I have to go,” you sniffled. “I’ll call you later. Thanks for drinks.” Leaning into him to press a kiss to his cheek, you left him dumbfounded in his doorway.
“I’ll walk you, it’s late,” he shouted down his hallway.
Turning over your shoulder, you tried to smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Springing down three flights of stairs, you wiped your sleeves over your cheeks to dry them, and stepped out onto the street. Past nine o’clock, the New York nightlife bled onto the gravel, the stretches of concrete, balancing on curbs, weaving through cars, a favorite pastime of yours. And Yunho’s. Raw dogging the walk, no music, no phone checking, no one to talk to, you held your focus forward, your pace just as pointed, focused, brisk.
Cancel it all. The thought circled like a vulture in the hot summer sun. The gala, the fake dating, the crush on Hongjoong– Cancel it all. Get rid of it. None of this would happen, everything would go back to normal, and you wouldn’t be overthinking your feelings for Yunho. You already haven’t talked to him in three days, the dressing room incident having happened over seventy two hours ago. His hands touching you like you were the most delicate thing to exist. The way your bodies both reached for one another. How he told you everything he said wasn’t real.
“Not real my ass,” you muttered to yourself, stopping at a corner.
You crossed before the light turned, the tourists around you wide eyed and curious that a Do Not Cross didn’t stop you. They followed you, and you knew what they felt within them, the first time you darted across a street with the possibility of traffic incoming, little to nothing compared to that feeling. Doing everything for the first time in the city, the freedom, the anonymity, no limits, as if you were immortal, everlasting, whole. New York was your music.
‘The future’s open wide…’
Yunho was your music.
Summer air whipped through your hair, breezed over your skin, a type of fresh laced with a grunge you could taste, grit, determination, the opportunity to restart day after day, to become someone new, to step into who you were meant to be. Even alone on the street, strangers passed by, most you didn’t mind, they lived the life you envied, the life you came here to pursue, you had no fear. Somewhere he was here.
Yunho, a summer night on 32nd street, barreling up and down the sidewalks mouthing off, daring one another to go up to the karaoke bars, to flirt with the bartenders for free drinks, to climb the scaffolding and scream from the top of your lungs, just to fall into one another in fits of laughter before plopping down on a curb on the corner of 33rd and 5th Avenue to admire the Empire State Building. Dozing off on his shoulder as the liquor and rumble of the streets sung you to sleep. Having wandered too far from home, faced with an hour's walk back to your apartment… He tucked you under his arm, kept you awake by making you guess the songs he would sing, and he got you both on the subway and home before you realized you had to be up for work in three hours.
Faced with dirty looks from others as you pushed through a crowded street corner, you eyed the lights, the crosswalk, and the moment the lights changed and the cars stopped, you ran. Even after you hit the curb, you kept running, skipping sideways through groups of girls in tiny party dresses, rounding men with trash cans by the curbs, dodging doors that swung open onto the street. You ran until his building came into view.
Sucking down air like it was your job, you stepped into the vestibule and pressed 323. Pressing a hand over your heart that pounded, you waited. He didn’t answer.
“C’mon,” you gasped, pressing it again. It buzzed. You waited. He didn’t answer.
“Fuck,” you cursed, pulling your phone out. Swiping to his number, you tapped it, pressing your phone to your ear. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon… Pick up.”
“Your call has been forwarded to an automated–”
“Fuck!”
Leaning into the keypad, you pressed 323 eight times, quickly, before giving up with a groan. Kicking the wall, you staggered backward and sunk against the wall, staring at his apartment number like you’d be able to open it with your eyes. You tried his phone again, but he didn’t answer.
He should be home by now, he never stayed at the label this late. Unless he was making up for all the time he lost dealing with you, he never worked past eight, and usually got back by eight thirty. He could be with San, if you weren’t all out together, those two sometimes went out on their own, but it was Sunday.
About to tap his number again, or maybe Jongho, the inside door to the building pushed open, a woman in a knee length dress with curled hair holding it open for you. “Oh, here you go,” she said sweetly, her deep purple colored lips twisting into a smile. “I’ve seen you before.”
“Thank you,” you breathed, taking the door from her hands. Making sure it closed, you glared up the stairs and shook your head. “Six,” you spat. Go.
By floor three you were already winded. By floor five you propelled yourself up with your hands, slapping the concrete of the next step like it was your bitch. By floor six, you had to stop at the top and catch your breath. Several years in the city and the stairs were still your kryptonite.
He better fucking be here.
Trudging down the hallway of concrete floor and old brown walls, you stopped in front of 323 and held up a fist, freezing before you could pound on it.
What were you going to say? Would you apologize? Would he apologize? Neither of you had anything to apologize for, this was… dumb. Did you think you would show up at his door and tell him… that you don’t know what you’re feeling? That you’re confused, that you think you might like him, that your feelings may be deeper than you thought, that you screwed up six years ago and friendzoned him and he was too sweet to act further? To take it further? Even though the way he pressed his thumb to your lips, the way he had his hands in your hair, your thoughts on the backburner, and his heart in your hands, your knees trembling–
“Shug?”
Your heart sunk to your knees, your stomach leapt up into your throat.
Whirling around, fist still in the air, you released a sigh. “Yunho.”
Wearing sweats, an unlikely outfit for him to be out and about in, accessoryless with a baseball cap on his head, he carried a garment bag folded in half and another bag slung over his shoulder, his leather bag. “What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping in front of you to unlock his door.
Scrambling back to give him some space, you gaped, a fish out of water. “I-I was… I tried calling you, but I…”
“I left my phone here,” he muttered, pushing the door open. Looking at you over his shoulder, his face unreadable, he asked, “You coming in?”
Stepping over the threshold, following him onto the hardwood of his kitchen, you folded your hands over your belly and bit down on your tongue before blabbing, “I’m here to apologize.”
Setting the bags down on the kitchen table he and San share, he creased his forehead and moved to hang up his hat on the handle of a kitchen cabinet. Popping the fridge open, he eyed the shelves. “Apologize for what?”
“For…” You took a breath and spun in a little circle, almost catching your ankles together. “For–”
Facing him, he waited patiently, holding out a water bottle for you to take. Reaching for it tentatively, he shoved it into your palm. “You smell like alcohol.”
“I was at Jongho’s,” you muttered, all emotion leaving your face. He grabbed the back of his hoodie and pulled it over his head, his t-shirt lifting underneath, flashing you his middle. His toned, golden skinned middle. Averting your gaze, you faced away from him and sipped from the water.
Dressed down, entirely bare aside from the cotton that hung off of him, your apparent new attraction grew tenfold. His shirt was huge, his sweats were huge, but they were tight. They were tight in the–
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Snapping your eyes to his, you widened yours and nodded. “Yes,” you breathed, then screwed your eyes shut, “I mean, no, no, I’m not.”
“How did you get here?” He moved around his kitchen, searching for snacks in the cabinet. He was going to try to feed you. Hurrying to his side, you closed the doors he opened, and he gave you a crazed look.
“I ran,” you said.
He froze. Hands in the air hovering in front of a handle, he laughed aloud once, then turned to press his backside to the counters. “You ran,” he parroted, crossing his arms over his chest. His biceps rippled under the loose sleeves. The veins on his forearms, they ran through his elbow to his fingertips. His fingers, they… “Shug.”
“Yeah,” you sighed breathlessly, fluttering your lashes as you looked up at him.
His brown eyes narrowed. “What is up?” Whether your movements were liquor fueled or entirely not your own, you reached for his arms, smoothing your hands over his skin. Face faltering, his eyes shot open as you stepped in front of him, your knees parting around his where they stuck out. “You’re drunk,” he said.
“I’m really not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Then catch up,” you whispered, pressing your fingertips into his skin.
“What are you here for?”
You glanced at the fridge. “Have a drink first.”
Groaning, getting nowhere with you, he gently moved you out of the way and scoured his fridge for a beer while you rifled through the cabinet over the sink and pulled down a bottle of vodka.
“Oh no,” he snickered, “I don’t think so. Put it back.”
Giving him a small smile, you acquired two shot glasses from their resting place. Placing the bottle and the glasses on the counter with a rattle of the glass, you poured out two and knocked one back. “You tell the truth when you’re drinking,” you cringed, nudging his shot closer to him.
The confusion that lived in his eyes since he came up the stairs somewhat subsided, but was still present. Downing half of his beer at once, typical male, he reached for the shotglass with his other hand and shook his head before taking it. Smacking it to the counter top with a groan and a gasp, he said, “I’m gonna hate you tomorrow morning.”
“Maybe,” you said, small and quiet.
“What is going on?” He finished his beer and crunched the can in one hand, throwing it into the kitchen sink with a clang. Pouring two more shots, you held up the glass for him to clink his with yours, and you took them at the same time. “Fuck,” he sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Coughing once, you managed, “We’re not going to the gala.”
Eyes shooting open, he cocked his head aside and he poured two more shots. “You’re not serious, we’re good, so what, we argued, we’ve done that before, we’ll–”
“Not like that,” you said, and he frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Clinking your glasses, you both took your third shot and exclaimed aloud. Swallowing thickly, you pointed at him, leaning over the counter he stood on the opposite of. “We’ve never argued… like that.”
Yunho shrugged, pointing his eyes at the glasses. “Whatever.”
Slamming a hand to the counter, you laughed. “That’s all you have to say? Whatever? You’re agreeing with me.”
“Am not,” he spat, giving you a crazed look. “You were bugging out over what happened with that fuckass asshole, and you decided to take it all out on me!”
Scoffing, laughing, maybe both at once, you sprung up and held out your hands. “Would you like me to tell you I wasn’t even thinking about him at all?”
Yunho sneered, “Bullshit, you’re always thinking about him. Him and that god awful attitude, cocky son of a bitch–”
“I was thinking about you,” you shouted, pouring two more shots.
Yunho pushed off the counter and gripped his chin, pulling at his lips. Parading around the kitchen with one hand on his hip. “He’s horrible, he’s horrible, and the shit that he says, and the way he says it, like it’s okay. He talks to all women like that, not just you, but it’s worse because it is you, and I–”
“Yunho,” you raised your voice, moving around the counter to grab onto his arms again, shaking him. “Did you hear me?”
Shaking his head, still lost in his thoughts, he tensed his jaw. “I didn’t, I’m so angry, he pisses me the fuck off.”
“Don’t let him,” you said softly, dragging your hands over his biceps, his forearms, his hands. “He’s not worth it.”
His ragged sigh washed over you. “He’s not, but fuck, he really gets under your skin, how did you put up with him for so long, I just…”
“I don’t know,” you mumbled, answering him between his rambles, “But, I’m done. I’m over it.” Your fingers tangled with his briefly, his distracted mind subconsciously grabbing onto them, letting you do whatever it is you wanted to do to him in this moment.
“He needs to be fired, he needs to be reported and fired…”
“Seonghwa’s taking care of it, I don’t think he’ll get fired.” Sliding your hands from his arms to his middle, you step closer to him and drug them under his shirt, your fingertips finally grazing his middle, his core, his toned belly. He didn’t even realize, he just let you.
“Even if he doesn’t, there needs to be something done with the CEO’s or something, shit, I don’t even know what they’re even called, I don’t know how this shit works, I just know it’s fucked up, and you’ve been subjected to it for so long…”
Placing your palms over his belly, your breath hitching in your chest as you gazed up at him while you felt him, how his chest rose and fell with every heavy breath, how his abs clenched with every bite of a word, your blood ran red hot. His lips, moving a mile a minute, you don’t remember when you stopped listening, you wanted to listen, but all you could think about was how they felt, what they’d feel like on yours, wrapped around your…
“Shug.” His voice was quiet.
Looking up at him, how close the two of you had gotten, how he had backed up against the kitchen cabinets, how you were pressing yourself to him. Your hands got greedy, you were gripping him with a vengeance, feeling him up from his belly to his chest, your fingers were peeking out of the neck of his shirt. “Yunho,” you whispered, shameless.
Blinking heavily in the dim light of his kitchen, he dropped his chin, your noses millimeters apart. “Did you say… You’re over it?”
Both hands slid over his chest and up to his shoulders, pressing your thumbs into the muscles. Nibbling at your bottom lip, you took a breath in time with him and nodded, slowly, whispering, “I did.”
A curse pushed through his lips, one you couldn’t make out in the slur of the liquor. “What are you thinking about right now?”
You dropped your hands lower, your fingertips grazing his nipples on purpose before you gripped his belly. Proud of how he hissed and flinched, you smiled. “You,” you said, blinking up at him. “What you said to me, and how you said it… How it made me feel.”
Breathless, he sighed, “How did it make you feel?”
“Like,” you gulped, using all liquid courage to make these words work, “Like, I wanted… Wanted you to…”
“Fuck,” he whispered, then seemed to remember what he had done, what he said, what he made you feel, what he so obviously realized that he made you feel. Taking his hands to your chin, thumbs pressing into your cheeks, he tipped your head back and lowered his. Eyes burning into yours, his voice rumbled so low you could feel him in your core. “Words. Big girl, remember?”
“Take me,” you whispered, and he held back a smirk. “Take me, show me, do it to me, touch me, fuck me.” His lips parted with a sigh, his brows pinching in the center. “Do what he can’t, what he’ll never get the chance to do, love me.”
His eyes fluttered shut, his vodka laced breath grew uneven. “Hang on.. W-Wait…”
“Yunho,” you whined, and his eyes shot open. “I don’t care about what you’re gonna tell me, about how this s’gonna ruin something, it’s not gonna happen. I hate knowing there’s girls looking at you.”
“Girls looking at me,” he said an inside thought out loud.
“Ki told me,” you grumbled, sliding your hands around his back, leaning on his chest, “The girlies at the label love you.”
He squinted. “What girlies?”
“I dunno,” you said, loud, making him jump, “Maybe it’s Ki and Riley, I dunno, Yunho, do you hear me? I’m over this Hongjoong thing, I just told you to fuck me, and you’re standing here talking to me–”
His strong hands tipped you further back, his frame caging you in against his chest. Tilting his head, he curled his lip with a curse before pressing his lips to yours in a kiss burning hot, a mess of teeth, a mess of tongues, nothing perfect, just a total hot, wet mess. Gasping for air whenever your lips parted, you took your hands out of his shirt and threw them around his neck, lifting your knees to climb onto him. Grunting through clenched teeth as he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled you higher, he groaned as your fingers knitted through his hair, giving him the gentlest tug.
“You can pull harder than that,” he muttered, and you smiled within the kiss.
“Jeong Yunho,” you teased, head tilting as his lips trailed down the side of your neck. He took two steps forward and sat you down on the counter beside the vodka. Tugging again, harder, he groaned, a sound trapped within his chest. “This s’gon be fun,” you breathed.
Tongue lobbing out to lick stripes under your jaw, he nipped the skin of your neck and hummed, the noise vibrating through you. “Wha’s that,” he slurred, his hands gripping the curve of your waist, shamelessly sliding over your ass to squeeze.
“Figuring out what you like… What we like… Together.”
Connecting his lips with yours, he hummed here, smushing your noses together as he mumbled, “Let me do it.”
“Hm,” you hummed back, dipping your tongue out to swipe over his lips. Nipping at it with his teeth, his heavy eyes drank in your lips, already swollen and pink.
“Let me do it,” he whispered, knees buckling as he tried to kiss you. Holding him by his hair, Yunho entirely leaned over you, his eyes drunk on you, his body drunk on the liquor, he licked his lips and shook his head. “You won’t have to do a thing,” his lower register struck through you, you needed your sweats off, now. “You won’t have to move, you won’t have to think.” Your lips parted and your eyes softened, and he smirked. “Let me do it.”
“Shit,” you hushed, grabbing onto his shirt, yanking it over his head. “Please.” He did the same with your hoodie, pulling it off of you, pleased to find nothing beneath it. He didn’t miss a second. Kissing down your neck, his tongue teasing you in all the right places, he slid his hands down your thighs and pressed them open. Afraid that you soaked through the cotton, your suspicions became true when he grinned up at you. Pulling your legs closed, he forced them back open.
“Don’t,” he whispered, kissing up the valley between your tits, wrapping his lip around your nipple, sucking at it harshly. The first moan fell from your lips, and he nearly crumbled. Fingers digging into your thighs, he muttered, “So fucking perfect.”
Tugging at his hair, the strands a complete tangle now that you’ve mussed them up, your head dropped back with another cry as he kissed the other, using his fingers to tease the perky bud he left a slick mess. “Yunho–”
“God, so perfect,” he groaned, grabbing handfuls of your tits as he stood up to press an open mouthed kiss to your lips, tongues in a tangle, whines intertwining. “Wanna play with you forever.”
“Please, please–”
“Please, what?” Against your lips, he snickered, quietly, proud of what he’s done to you already.
“Touch me,” you whispered, sucking in a gasp as he slid his hands higher on your thighs, up to the curve of your hips, into the dips.
His smile against your lips made your breath shake. “Can I?”
“Yunho,” you whined, trying to grind onto him, but he stood an inch too far.
Glancing between you, he huffed a laugh. “Did I really work you up like this?”
Pulling at his hair, tugging him closer, your noses touched as you muttered, “I wanted you to dick me down on 7th Avenue, asshole.”
“Damn,” he pulled his brows together, “Really?” Rolling your eyes, he snickered. “There’s my girl.” You clenched around nothing, your jaw dropping open with a gasp. He dipped his thumbs over your clothed, wet, center. “Oh, that’s what you like, huh?” Writhing as his thumbs pressed into you, your moan made him pout. “Oh, babe,” he cooed, dragging them up and down, slowly, on purpose. “Feel good?”
Your fingers loosened in his hair. Limbs growing gooey, you smiled something ditzy and let your eyes close. “So good,” you whispered.
His lips ghosted your cheek, his nose pressing there instead. Rocking with you, he said, “I’m barely touching you. My girl’s needy, huh? Kept you waiting so long.”
“Why did you?” Breath irregular, you peeked at him and whined as he grazed over your sweet spot. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Touching the tip of his nose to yours, he gave you a gentle kiss, one that lingered, and whispered, “I was scared.”
“Don’t be,” you shook your head, feeling his thumbs still. The look in his eyes, one you’ve never seen before, one he’s kept hidden for too long, and you his mirror.
He took a hand to your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I still am.”
“Let me prove this to you,” you whispered, “That this is real.” Squishing his cheeks in your hands, you kissed him and he laughed. “Let me do what you said you want me to do, let me–”
“No,” he said quickly, standing up straight, still taller than you even with you sitting on the countertop. “You have nothing to prove, nothing you owe, no task to fulfill. I had guy brain, and you don’t deserve guy brain.” Drinking in every word, you bobbed your head. “You really want me?”
Whispering, you smiled, “Since I met you.”
“Since you… Fuck, Shug,” he tried to push away from you, but you pulled him back in, engulfing his lips in a kiss, grabbing onto his shoulders, climbing on top of him. Clinging to his front, the feel of him holding you, carrying you, so secure, you wanted him to fall to the floor and let you defile him as you pleased, but he didn’t stay in the kitchen. Lips locked, he bumped into the skinny walls of the apartment as he stumbled into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.
The idea that San could come home at any minute didn’t come to either of you, you left your shirts on the kitchen floor.
Splaying you onto his mattress, climbing over you, he gripped the waist of your sweats and pulled them off, doing the same with his own, wasting little to no time. Mouths working overtime, stifled moans swapped with the spit, he cradled the back of your knees and pushed your thighs against your chest. Parting from you, lips smacking, you caught your breath as he sat back and gazed down at you spread open for him. Shaking his head, taking in how your chest heaved, how your hair was thrown so sexily, so messy, how you glistened for him, all for him.
He did this to you, made you a panting, sweaty, whiney mess. You were in his bed, naked in his bed, he kissed you, he touched you, he was about to… Fuck. Looking between you, at how he sucked down hungry air, how he gazed at your body in disbelief, how your legs were spread, how his heavy, leaking cock would not be able to fit inside of you…
“Yunho,” you whispered, or gasped, it sounded the same.
He gulped and gave you a shake of his head. “Trust me?”
“You’re so big,” you said without a second thought, and he held in his smile. “What the fuck, you… You’ve just been hiding this?”
“Would’ve let you see it if you asked me nicely,” he teased before his eyes narrowed slightly and he focused on your expression. “Trust me?”
Letting your head fall back on the mattress, you whispered, “Always.”
Bending in half, keeping his knees under your legs, he settled on top of you, soothing your racing heart with a soft kiss to your chest before he trailed up your neck to kiss your lips. His fingers smoothed down your belly and slipped between your legs, the first real feel of him touching you, teasing your clit, twisting his fingers in long, gentle circles to work you up, though it felt like he did this for his own enjoyment.
Smiling as he felt your lips part and your arms wrap around his back, he pressed gentle kisses to your cheeks, groaning with you as you moaned for him with little to no regard for the neighbors. Vulnerable, sensitive, intimate, he thinks he could live right here forever and devote the rest of his life to bringing you pleasure. He grew harder, if that were possible, he thinks he’ll finish untouched, until you finally beg.
“Wanna feel you, wan’ you inside,” you pushed out through gusts of breath, “Please, Yunho, need you, need you.”
“Sound so pretty,” he mumbled through kisses to your skin, “Gotta help me, baby, okay?”
Your whine echoed through his room as you cried, “Okay.” Brows twisting, body burning, you arched off his bed as he slid two long, slender, curved fingers inside of you.
“Damn, Shug,” he said through his teeth, scissoring his fingers as he slid them out of you before he pushed them back in. “Tight little thing, you gonna take all of me?”
“Yes,” you cried, melting into his touch, the slip of his fingers.
“Don’t be an overachiever,” he cooed, nudging your nose with his, the tips of your lips brushing together.
Jaw clenching, you stilled your breath, choked back a moan as he pressed his fingers up, finding that spot with ease, and managed to say, “I could go fuck Hongjoong instead.”
Yunho saw red. You broke out into a grin, biting down on your bottom lip. Pulling his fingers out of you, he grabbed both of your wrists and pinned them over your head. Connecting his hips with yours, his cock slipping through your arousal, over your clit, he laughed as you whined, and he held you tighter, your legs, your body, folded in half.
“You’d think I’d see this coming,” he groveled, pressing his nose to your cheek. Angling his hips so his tip caught your entrance, he bared his teeth and spat, “My girl’s a brat.” The pressure between your hips grew as he pushed himself into you, inch by inch, slowly, lips parting as you sucked him in, both of you. “You want him?” His voice shook, his stomach tensed, his grip on your wrists grew even tighter.
Through a breath, you cried, “Yunho,” back arching into his chest, arms and legs writhing in ecstasy, the shock subsiding leaving you completely and utterly cockdrunk.
“Moanin’ my name, but telling me y’want him,” he snapped, testing the waters with a slow drag of his hips. Using one hand to hold both your wrists, he took the other between your legs, playing with you. “Who knew my girl was so messy, huh? You feel this?” The tip of his middle finger swirled over your clit, your body trembling. “So wet,” he whispered, grazing his lips over the shell of your ear, “Let me right in, baby, you don’t want him. You’re just a needy little cockslut who’ll say anything to get what she wants, huh?”
Pleasure shot through your middle. “H’my god,” you moaned as he moved again, each gentle thrust of his hips rendering you thoughtless. “Your mouth.”
“My mouth?” He thrust again, harder this time. You nodded and parted your lips to speak, but he slid his finger in, the one he touched you with, spreading your own sweetness over your tongue. “Talk about yours.” Lips wrapping around the digit, you sucked as he pushed it towards the back of your throat, seeing stars as he pushed into you, harder, getting faster as he felt you relax further.
“Saying his name,” he snapped, pulling his finger out with a pop to your dismay. You whined and he shook his head. “Bad girls don’t get what they want, do you hear yourself?” Both of his hands held onto your wrists again. Shifting over you, pressing down on your hands, propping himself up on his knees, lifting your hips in the debauched act, he smirked. “You’re mine.”
Insatiable, starved, entirely feral, he pistoled into you, your foreheads pressed together, your lips bumping with every other moan, every other smack of his hips against yours.
“You’re mine,” he growled again, catching your bottom lip between his teeth, his breath rough and ragged. Enthralled with how you writhed, how you cried out his name, how no other word seemed to come to mind, he smiled wickedly, and you clenched around him. “Squeezin’ me already, you like to hear that? That you’re mine?”
“Yes,” you whispered, your lungs filling with air that didn’t seem to release, “Say it, say it.”
He let go of your hands and groaned, sliding them beneath your body, holding onto you. Burying his face in your neck, he latched his teeth to your skin as he rutted into you and moaned, “Mine. No one else can fucking touch you,” he pushed himself up to his elbows to kiss you messily, “I do have a claim on you, fuck anyone else who tries. You belong to me.”
Hands clasping around his back, your nails dug into his skin, scrambled pink lines drawing over the expanse of his golden skin. Your body, gleaming with a sheen that matched his, clung to him. So full, so complete, you didn’t want him to let go. You’d spend eternity getting rocked senseless by Jeong Yunho.
The press of his lips to your skin, the clench of your belly as he pushed himself inside you to the hilt, his hands clinging to you like you were the last strain of sanity in the world–
“I love you,” you whispered, feeling your throat tighten. Tears welled in your eyes as he picked up his head in shock, his eyes wide, his hips slowing.
Mid-breath with parted lips, he brought his hands to your cheeks and held you.
“God, don’t stop,” you whined, half laughing as your tears spilled, “Keep going.”
Yunho, heart thundering in his chest, breath racking through his lungs, he shook his head and drug his thumbs under your eyes to wipe them clean. It took him eight seconds, but he whispered, “I love you too.”
Gazing up at him, trembling in ecstasy and through tears, you grabbed his cheeks and pulled him down to kiss him, hard and soft, all at once. Within it he groaned and grabbed onto you, wrapping himself around you, hitting that pace from before, hard and soft, all at once.
Minutes passed, several sweaty, disgusting, erotic minutes of skin on skin, becoming a part of one another. His bed had shifted, it banged into the wall, the frames of old records already shaking from the noise alone. You were too wrapped up in one another to notice, to care, to give a shit. From mewls, to moans, to giggles, to filthy words, neither of you wanted this to end, but with an ending came a promise of again.
High pitched and entirely deranged, you cried out for him, your vision searing white hot, your body doused in him, clenching around his cock, shaking in his hold, giving him the most vulnerable part of you, allowing him to drive you here, to hold you through it, to talk you through it. His swift mumbles of, “Good girl, oh fuck… Feels so good, I know, did so good… I’m right here, right here– Fuck, where do you want it?”
“Inside,” you whispered, voice broken, only able to hold onto him, your nose pressed to his cheek. “Inside.”
The creak beneath you was obscene as he sped up, focused on his own high, spiraling you into overstim. Head going dizzy as he took you, and used you for what he wanted, what he needed, you moaned with him as he spilled into you, his teeth pressing into your shoulder as he came.
Everything went still, aside from the rise and fall of your chests. Everything went quiet, aside from the gentle noises slipping through your lips.
Lifting his head, his lids heavy, his lips swollen, he gazed down at your fucked out eyes and flushed cheeks and sighed. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered, pushing hair from your face, planting a kiss to your cheek. Blinking up at him, you could only manage a small smile. “Was this your plan? When I found you at my door?”
Shaking your head, you moved at a snail's pace, taking your hands to his cheeks, your body exhausted and trembling. “No,” you whispered, smoothing your thumbs under his lashes, “Just wanted the truth.”
Yunho pursed his lips, his brows curious under his messy hair. “The truth?”
“Yeah,” you smiled, “You do love me.”
“I have since I met you,” he confessed, dragging the backs of his fingers along the edge of your jaw.
“I think I have, too,” you whispered. “I was just…”
Yunho shut his eyes for a second. “Scared.”
“Yeah, scared.”
He started to smile. “Are you still?”
“Not with you,” you whispered, “Never with you. Why do you think I had the balls to say it?”
Laughing, he shifted over you and your bodies parted. Admiring how your lips popped open at the feel, he smiled and pressed a kiss to your bottom lip. “I love you,” he said quietly, like someone would hear him, someone like you.
Cheeks going pink, you smiled. “I love you too.”
“Come shower with me,” he whispered against your dewy skin.
“You might have to carry me, you’re a wild animal.”
His smile pierced through your heart and stirred your belly, swimming in the leftover pleasure he’d brought you to mere minutes ago. “Anything for you, Shug.”
Crawling off of you, he helped you up and wrapped an arm around your back. Pulling open his door a crack, he peered out into the shared space and listened.
Swatting at his chest, you giggled, “You really think he came home?”
Shrugging, he shot you a sarcastic look, “Wouldn’t be able to hear him if he did, you’re really loud.”
“Yunho,” you gasped, bumping him with your hip.
“Look’s like your strength is back,” he teased, “Guess you can walk to the bathroom alone.” His grin grew as he slid his arm off of you, laughing as you grabbed onto him and clung to his side.
“Don’t be a jerk.”
Smoothing a hand over your hair, he hushed you and shook his head, “I’m sorry, I’m kidding, I’d never. C’mon.”
Taking you out toward the kitchen, the bathroom on San’s side of the apartment, you tiptoed over the hardwood, and you both paused.
Your hoodie and his shirt, they were folded neatly and placed on the counter beside the bottle of vodka that had been capped, the shot glasses arranged nicely next to it.
“Uh, we didn’t do that, did we?” he asked, sharing a just as confused look with you.
Thinning your lips, you felt your cheeks flush of all color as you looked up at him. “Nope.”
“Ah, shit,” he grumbled, “Where’s my phone?”
Glancing around, letting yourself slip away from him, you searched for yours as well. Finding it on the other counter, again placed nicely, surprised he didn’t also plug it into a charger for you, you swiped it open and drafted a text to Seonghwa, one you sent with an apology for the late hour.
Yunho groaned from behind you, swiping his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back. “Well,” he trailed off, stepping to your side, showing you his screen and his text from San.
UR BROTHER: jongho and i are going to dante’s, glad you idiots worked this shit out IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME… meet us here when you’re done, i want details, jongho doesn’t, please help me torture him… sounds like your doing a good job though!!!
Your shoulders rose to eat your ears.
Yunho bent his knees and leaned into you, popping a kiss to your cheek. “Loud.”
“Stop!” Whining, you shoved him, and he staggered back with a laugh.
“It’s hot,” he shrugged, reaching for you to pull you into the bathroom, “I like it that way. We gonna go get a drink?”
Leaning against the doorframe, watching him turn the hot water on, you admired his bare body and smirked. “If we’re sure that San’ll go home with Jongho.”
Whipping himself around, he took one stride toward you and looped his arms around your neck, pulling you into him. “He always goes home with Jongho, and you’re coming back here with me.”
Biting down on your bottom lip, you smized. “You serious?”
He curled his lip and dropped his chin down to kiss you rough, whispering, “Deadly. Now get in here and let me see if I can make you cum in five minutes.”
“Yunho,” you laughed, having blushed more in your time with him this evening than ever in your life. He whisked you beneath the hot water and pushed you up against the wall, kissing you.
Pulling his lips away, he pressed his forehead to yours and took a deep breath. “I don’t wanna go to the gala.” A smile pulled at the corners of your lips, growing until you almost doubled over in laughter. “Whaaat,” he whined, laughing with you, the sound contagious.
Gripping his cheeks you shook him a bit. “Don’t worry about that, we’re not going. I just told Seonghwa.”
“Oh,” he sighed, relieved, “Okay, good, that’s okay?”
“More than okay,” you rolled your eyes, “I didn’t wanna go either.”
Pulling his lips to the side, he said, “I got your dress fixed.” Taking your wide eyes for an answer, he added, “I went back to the store to get it, San knows someone really good at this kind of stuff.”
“Who is she?”
“He. A drag queen in Greenwich.”
Huffing through a laugh, you shook your head. “You know sometimes they prefer it if you call them she.”
Yunho furrowed his brows. “His name was Brian.”
Tilting your head, you squinted. “Huh… Why are they all named Brian?”
“Don’t know…” His voice trailed off, leaving you both in thought until he dropped down to his knees and spread your thighs apart with his chin. Laughing at how you shrieked, he wiggled his way between them and kissed the inside of your hips.
Your fingers tangled with his hair. Laying your head on the wall, you laughed breathlessly, “Five minutes.”
He smirked and poked out his tongue. “Starting now.”
you do not have permission to copy or translate my works without my consent.
Jongho has spent sixteen years learning control. In the ring, in his emotions, in the quiet way he loves. Y/N has always been his constant. The coach’s daughter, his oldest friend, the one person he would never risk losing. But some fights can’t be won with discipline alone. especially when the one person you’ve always protected suddenly starts looking at you differently.
The bell above the gym door rang when it opened. A thin metallic sound that seemed far too small for a place that looked this big.
Jongho stepped inside reluctantly, his sneakers squeaking faintly against the worn floor. The air smelled strange. Thick. Like sweat soaked into old wood and leather. Something sharp lingered beneath it, reminding him of the antiseptic wipes the school nurse used when someone scraped their knee.
He didn’t like it.
He tightened his grip on his mother’s hand.
“Mom,” he muttered, tugging slightly. “Can we go home now?”
His mother squeezed back, but she didn’t stop walking.
“Let’s just try it, Jongho. One day. If you hate it, we can talk about it later.”
Later.
Everyone kept saying later these days.
Later when the paperwork was done.
Later when things were quieter.
Later when they were both “feeling better.”
He hated that phrase almost as much as he hated the silence in their apartment now.
Two months ago it had been loud. His father had laughed easily, the sound filling every corner of their home. Now even the television felt too loud when it was on, so most evenings they sat without it, eating in a quiet that pressed against Jongho’s ears until he wanted to scream.
At school it was worse.
Kids whispered.
Teachers spoke too gently.
And when one boy had asked if his dad was “really dead,” something inside Jongho had snapped so fast he didn’t even remember deciding to move.
He only remembered the heat in his chest.
The way his fists had hurt afterward.
The principal’s office.
His mother’s tired eyes.
So now he was here.
At boxing.
As if hitting things on purpose was supposed to fix whatever was broken inside him.
He scowled at the floor.
Stupid.
Everything was stupid.
The rhythmic thump of gloves hitting a heavy bag echoed through the gym, each strike vibrating faintly under his feet. He glanced toward the sound despite himself.
A tall man moved around the bag with surprising lightness, his fists snapping forward in quick bursts before pulling back to guard his face. The bag swung, chains creaking overhead.
The man noticed them and lowered his hands.
“Mrs. Choi?” he called, voice warm.
Jongho’s mother nodded.
“This is my son.”
The man approached, wiping his hands on a towel draped over his shoulder. Up close, his presence felt steady rather than intimidating, his eyes creasing kindly when he smiled.
“You must be Jongho.”
Jongho said nothing.
He looked away deliberately.
The man didn’t seem bothered.
“I’m Jiun Park,” he said. “You can call me Coach or Jiun.”
Jongho kicked lightly at a scuff mark on the floor.
“I don’t want to be here.”
His mother inhaled quietly beside him, but the coach simply crouched so they were eye level.
“Most people don’t want to be here on their first day,” he replied calmly. “That’s alright.”
Jongho risked a glance at him, suspicious.
“You don’t have to like it today,” the coach continued. “Just try.”
Try.
Another word he was tired of.
His mother rested a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll be right over there,” she said softly, pointing toward a bench along the wall. “You’re safe.”
Safe.
He didn’t feel safe anywhere anymore.
But before he could protest again, the coach gently guided him toward a stack of equipment.
“Let’s get you some wraps.”
The fabric felt rough between Jongho’s fingers as the coach demonstrated how to wind it around his knuckles.
“Not too tight,” he instructed. “We protect our hands here. They matter.”
Jongho wondered briefly why anyone would care about protecting something meant for hitting.
Still, he copied the movements.
The gym hummed quietly around them. A radio played somewhere in the back, low enough that the music blended into the rhythm of breathing and movement.
When the gloves were finally secured over his hands, they felt enormous.
Heavy.
The coach led him to a smaller punching bag.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Show me how you hit.”
Jongho hesitated.
Then he thought about the boy at school.
About the whispers.
About the empty chair at their kitchen table.
Heat surged through him so quickly his eyes burned.
He swung.
The bag jerked.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each strike harder than the last until the chains rattled loudly overhead.
Something wild clawed up his throat.
A sound escaped him, half shout, half breath.
He hit the bag as if it could feel what he felt.
As if it could hurt back.
“Jongho.”
The coach’s voice cut through the storm.
Gentle, but firm.
“Slow down.”
Jongho ignored him and punched again, fury buzzing through his arms.
A hand landed lightly on his shoulder.
“Stop.”
The word wasn’t loud, yet it carried weight.
Jongho froze.
His chest heaved.
The coach held his gaze steadily.
“Take a breath.”
“I am breathing,” Jongho snapped.
“I know. But you are not calming.”
That only made him angrier.
“I don’t need to calm down!”
The coach studied him for a moment that felt longer than it probably was.
Then he nodded toward a cooler in the corner.
“Go drink some water.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“That’s alright,” the coach said. “Go anyway.”
Jongho glared, but something in the man’s expression, Quiet certainty perhaps, made arguing feel pointless.
He yanked off the gloves, letting them drop harder than necessary, and stomped toward the cooler.
On the way, he kicked lightly at a stray piece of padding.
It skidded across the floor.
He kicked another.
If he had to be here, at least he could make it obvious he didn’t like it.
“You know,” a high voice piped up suddenly, “that stuff didn’t do anything to you.”
Jongho spun around.
A girl sat inside the boxing ring, leaning comfortably against the ropes as they dipped slightly under her weight. She bounced once or twice, the canvas humming faintly beneath her sneakers.
He hadn’t noticed her before.
Her hair was pulled back messily, and she held a juice box between both hands.
She looked… completely unafraid of him.
Which was annoying.
“What?” he muttered.
“You kicked it,” she said matter-of-factly. “But it’s just foam.”
He frowned.
“So?”
She tilted her head.
“Why are you mad?”
“I’m not.”
“You look mad.”
“I said I’m not!”
She shrugged, unfazed.
“Okay.”
He grabbed a paper cup and filled it too quickly, water sloshing over the rim.
When he turned back, she was still watching him.
He scowled.
“What are you looking at?”
“You.”
He wished she wouldn’t.
“Why are you so pouty?” she asked.
“I’m not telling you and I am not pouty.”
She hummed thoughtfully, then slid off the ring with surprising agility for someone so small.
Up close, he noticed she was shorter than him by quite a bit.
“You’re new,” she said.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are. I know everyone.”
He crossed his arms.
“Well, I don’t know you.”
“I’m Y/N,” she announced proudly.
He didn’t offer his name.
She didn’t seem to mind.
For a moment, she just studied him with unsettling seriousness.
Then she said quietly, “You know my mom died, too when I was little.I know how you feel.”
The words landed softly.
Jongho blinked.
He hadn’t expected that.
“I was smaller than you,” she continued. “So I don’t remember everything. But I remember my dad being really sad.”
Jongho shifted.
Something inside his chest twisted.
“How do you know about my dad?” he demanded.
She pointed across the gym.
“I heard your mom talking to my dad.”
The coach.
Oh.
He felt strangely exposed.
“But it’s okay,” she added quickly. “You can be mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him at all.
“When my mom died, I got really mad at my crayons,” she confessed. “I broke the red one in half.”
He stared.
“That’s stupid.”
“It was my favorite red,” she said defensively.
Silence settled between them.
Not uncomfortable exactly.
Just quiet.
After a moment, she nudged a second cup toward him.
“You should drink more. Coach says being angry makes you tired faster.”
He took a reluctant sip.
The water was cold enough to sting his teeth.
“If you come more,” she went on casually, “we can share my favorite snack.”
He glanced at her.
“What snack?”
Her face brightened.
“The popsicles that crack when you bend them,” she said, miming the motion enthusiastically. “Then you get two! One for me and one for you.”
He imagined it despite himself.
The sharp snap.
Sticky sweetness.
Summer.
Before everything changed.
“…I guess that’s okay,” he muttered.
She smiled like he’d agreed to something very important.
“You punch really hard,” she added.
He looked away.
“I know.”
“But you should try not to look so scary,” she said thoughtfully. “People might think you don’t want friends.”
“I don’t want friends here.”
She considered that.
“I think you do,” she said finally.
He didn’t answer.
Across the gym, the coach called his name.
Jongho glanced back once.
When he turned again, Y/N was already climbing into the ring, bouncing lightly on the ropes as if she’d always belonged there.
Something unfamiliar tugged faintly at the tight knot inside his chest.
Not happiness.
Not yet.
But maybe…
Something less heavy.
He picked up the gloves again.
This time, when he hit the bag, the anger was still there.
Just not quite as loud.
And without realizing it, he glanced once toward the ring.
She waved immediately.
He rolled his eyes.
But he didn’t feel quite as alone anymore.
Morning light spilled through the high windows of the gym, cutting bright rectangles across the worn canvas. Dust drifted lazily in the beams, disturbed only when someone moved fast enough to stir the air.
Jongho moved very fast.
The heavy bag shuddered violently under the force of his hook, chains groaning as the leather swung sideways. He pivoted smoothly on the ball of his foot, shoulders rotating, hips following through exactly the way Coach Park had drilled into him thousands of times.
Nothing about his movement was wasted.
Every breath controlled.
Every strike deliberate.
Sixteen years had carved precision into his bones.
“Again,” Coach Park called.
Jongho didn’t answer. He rarely did during training. Words burned energy, and energy was better spent elsewhere.
He slipped an imaginary punch, countered with a sharp cross, then drove forward with a combination that made the bag jump hard enough to creak in protest.
Sweat ran down his temple. He ignored it.
“Faster recovery,” the coach instructed calmly.
Jongho adjusted immediately.
It had been years since anyone needed to correct his form more than once.
On the far wall hung framed photographs from past tournaments. Medals glinted faintly behind glass. One of them showed Jongho on a podium, expression composed even as a gold medal rested against his chest.
Another captured the exact second his glove connected with an opponent’s jaw, the man folding under the impact.
Respect had come quietly at first.
Then all at once.
Now his name carried weight in boxing circles. Commentators described him with words like relentless, disciplined, frightening. Opponents studied footage of him with tight shoulders.
But inside this gym, none of that mattered.
Here, he was still just a student.
And a boy.
“Last round,” Coach Park said.
Jongho nodded once.
He stepped back, rolled his shoulders, and let the world narrow until it contained only the rhythm of his breathing and the target in front of him.
Then he moved.
The combination came sharp and fast, gloves snapping against leather with clean, echoing cracks. His footwork skimmed across the floor, light despite his size. When the bag swung toward him, he met it with a perfectly timed uppercut that sent it arcing back again.
Power without chaos.
Control without hesitation.
Sixteen years ago he had hit because he was angry.
Now he hit because he chose to.
“Time.”
The word cut cleanly through the air.
Jongho let the bag settle before stepping away. His chest rose and fell steadily as he peeled off his gloves.
A towel sailed through the air toward him.
He caught it without looking.
“Try not to scare the amateurs,” a familiar voice called lazily. “One of them looked like he was considering a career change.”
Jongho wiped his face, already knowing where the voice came from.
The ring.
Some things never changed.
He glanced up.
And there she was.
Y/N sat perched on the middle rope, one leg hooked casually as she balanced there with effortless familiarity. Her hair fell in a long, dark curtain down her back, shifting when she tilted her head to look at him.
For a brief second, the noise of the gym seemed to soften.
It still happened sometimes. That strange pause in his awareness whenever he really looked at her.
He told himself it was just habit.
Sixteen years of habit.
“You’re distracting them,” he replied evenly.
She gasped softly.
“Me? Distracting? I’m deeply supportive.”
“You were laughing.”
“It was affectionate laughter.”
He snorted quietly, dragging the towel across the back of his neck.
She had grown into her features gradually, the way dawn unfolds rather than arrives. Somewhere between childhood and now, the girl who bounced on ring ropes with a juice box had become someone people noticed the moment she entered a room.
Strangers looked twice.
Some didn’t bother pretending not to stare.
Jongho noticed.
He always noticed.
It was an instinct he never examined too closely.
She hopped down from the ropes, landing lightly before settling cross-legged on the canvas. Her smartphone rested in her hands, thumbs moving quickly across the screen.
A small smile touched her mouth.
Something sharp flickered low in Jongho’s chest.
He looked away first.
Coach Park approached, handing him a bottle of water.
“Your left hook is heavier,” the coach observed.
“I adjusted my stance.”
“I saw.”
Praise from Coach Park was never loud, but it carried more weight than applause.
“You’re ready,” the older man added.
For the upcoming international tournament. He didn’t need to specify.
Jongho inclined his head slightly.
Across the ring, Y/N lifted her gaze briefly.
“Does this mean we have to watch you on television again while dad pretends not to be emotional?”
Coach Park sighed. “I am not emotional.”
“You cried last time.”
“I had dust in my eye.”
She grinned.
Jongho found himself smiling before he could stop it.
It came easier around her. Always had.
Coach Park shook his head and walked off toward another group of fighters.
Silence settled comfortably between Jongho and Y/N, filled only by the muted thuds of training nearby.
He leaned his forearms on the ring apron.
She was still typing.
The faint crease between his brows appeared without permission.
“You’re going to sprain your thumbs,” he said.
She didn’t look up.
“It’s called texting.”
“I know what it’s called.”
“Then why do you sound seventy years old?”
He ignored that.
“…Him?” he asked, the word neutral enough that no one else would have thought twice about it.
She hummed.
“Maybe.”
The crease deepened.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
It absolutely did not matter who she met for coffee or dinner or late movies.
He focused on unwinding the hand wraps instead.
“What was wrong with the last one?” he asked casually.
“He chewed too loudly.”
“That seems survivable.”
“You would think,” she said solemnly.
He almost smiled again.
She finally glanced up, catching him looking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You’re being weird.”
“You’re always weird.”
She leaned closer, squinting at his face.
“Do I have something on me?”
“Yes.”
Her hand flew to her cheek instantly.
“What? Where?”
He let the pause stretch just long enough.
“Desperation,” he said.
She stared at him.
Then she smacked his arm.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You asked.”
“I hate you.”
“You don’t.”
She huffed, dropping her phone beside her.
For a moment, neither spoke.
He studied her openly now that she wasn’t looking. The easy confidence in her posture. The brightness in her eyes. The faint flush in her cheeks from laughing.
Sixteen years.
He remembered a small girl offering him half a popsicle like it was a binding contract.
He remembered broken crayons and fearless honesty.
Somewhere along the way, without permission, affection had deepened into something far more dangerous.
Love had not arrived dramatically.
It had accumulated quietly.
Training session after training session. Shared jokes. Late-night conversations on the gym steps. The way she never treated him like the medals mattered.
He had realized it slowly.
Accepted it even slower.
Shown it never.
Because he refused to risk the one constant in his life.
Because loving her complicated everything.
She picked up her phone again, expression softening as she read something new.
That sharp sensation returned.
He wrapped the fabric tighter than necessary around his wrist.
“You don’t like him,” she said suddenly, not looking up.
“I don’t know him.”
“You don’t have to. I can tell.”
He didn’t deny it.
She smiled faintly.
“You’re very transparent for someone who thinks he’s mysterious.”
“I have never tried to be mysterious.”
“Sure.”
He exhaled through his nose.
“Does he treat you well?”
Her gaze lifted then, surprised by the question.
“Yeah,” she said. “he is nice...mostly.”
Mostly.
The word irritated him more than it should have.
Nice was flimsy.
Nice didn’t mean dependable.
Didn’t mean steady.
Didn’t mean he would stay when things got hard.
But those thoughts were not his to voice.
So he only nodded once.
She tilted her head, studying him now.
“You’re doing that face again.”
“What face?”
“The older brother face.”
He almost choked on the water he’d just swallowed.
“I do not have an older brother face.”
“You do. Very protective. Very judgey.”
“I am not judging.”
“You absolutely are.”
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
She beamed like she’d won something.
For a moment, the years folded in on themselves. It felt absurdly similar to standing by the cooler with paper cups, trading stubborn looks.
Except now she looked like this.
And he was no longer a boy who mistook anger for strength.
“Are you coming to dinner Sunday?” she asked.
“If Coach invites me.”
“He always invites you.”
He shrugged.
Truthfully, this gym had long ago blurred into something more than a training space.
It was home.
Coach Park returned then, calling his name for another drill.
Jongho pushed off the ring.
“Don’t terrorize anyone while I’m gone,” Y/N called after him.
“No promises.”
As he stepped back onto the mat, he felt her gaze linger briefly before her attention dropped once more to the glowing screen.
He told himself it didn’t bother him.
That he had learned discipline too well to be unsettled by something so small.
Still, when the bell rang to start the next round, his focus sharpened with a familiar, controlled intensity.
Across the gym, she laughed softly at something in her messages.
Jongho drove his glove into the bag.
Power.
Precision.
Control.
The same three things he had built his life on.
And the one thing he had never allowed himself to reach for sat only a few feet away, swinging her legs lightly against the ropes, completely unaware that the only fight he had never figured out how to win was the quiet one inside his chest.
The restaurant was loud in the comforting way only a Korean barbecue place could be.
Voices layered over one another, laughter bouncing off tiled walls while thin trails of smoke curled toward the ceiling from dozens of tabletop grills. The sharp scent of sizzling pork belly hung heavy in the air, mixed with garlic and sesame oil.
Jongho stepped inside and was immediately greeted by a chorus.
“Jongho-ya!”
One of the ajummas behind the counter waved a pair of metal tongs at him like a victory flag.
“You didn’t tell us you had another match last month!” she scolded. “We saw it on television!”
He dipped into a polite bow, already feeling the familiar heat of embarrassment creep up his neck.
“It wasn’t a big match.”
She snorted loudly.
“Gold medal is not big?”
From somewhere behind her, another auntie leaned out of the kitchen.
“You look thinner. Are you eating properly? Sit. I’ll bring extra meat.”
Before he could protest, she vanished again.
A hand clapped onto his shoulder.
“You are a celebrity,” Wooyoung announced dramatically as he pushed past him into the restaurant.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are,” San added. “Last time we came here someone asked for your autograph.”
“That was one person.”
“An ajumma,” Mingi corrected. “Which is worse. Auntie fame spreads faster than the internet.”
They were already laughing as they slid into their usual booth, a corner table large enough to contain the chaos that inevitably followed when the eight of them gathered.
Seonghwa was lining up the chopsticks with unnecessary precision.
Yunho immediately started flipping through the menu like it might contain secrets.
Yeosang sat quietly, observing with faint amusement.
Hongjoong barely looked up from his phone.
Jongho exhaled.
Familiar.
Easy.
It had taken years to find friendships like this. The kind where silence wasn’t awkward and teasing never cut too deep.
An auntie appeared instantly with trays of meat.
“For our boxer,” she said proudly, setting an extra portion near Jongho.
Wooyoung leaned forward.
“Do you see this preferential treatment? I am wounded.”
“You are loud,” the auntie replied bluntly before walking away.
San burst out laughing.
“You should try winning medals.”
“I win arguments,” Wooyoung shot back.
“No,” Yeosang said calmly. “You just keep talking until people surrender.”
The grill hissed as strips of pork hit the hot surface.
For a few minutes, conversation dissolved into the comfortable rhythm of cooking, flipping, and eating.
Then Mingi leaned back, studying Jongho with exaggerated suspicion.
“So.”
Jongho didn’t like that tone.
“So?” he repeated cautiously.
“You didn’t tell her today? That you actually love her since what? 11 years?”
He froze halfway through reaching for lettuce.
Around the table, heads lifted in unison.
Traitors.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Wooyoung gasped.
“He’s pretending again.”
San grinned.
“You get this soft face whenever her name comes up.”
“I do not have a soft face.”
“You absolutely do,” Yunho said cheerfully. “It’s disturbing.”
Jongho focused very hard on wrapping meat in lettuce.
“I have known her since we were children.”
“Which makes it worse,” Hongjoong muttered.
“Sixteen years,” Wooyoung added. “Sixteen years of yearning.”
“I am not yearning.”
Seonghwa tilted his head.
“You glare at every man she dates.”
“That is because they are questionable.”
“Questionable or just not you?” Yeosang asked mildly.
Jongho stabbed a piece of garlic with unnecessary force.
San leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
“Serious question. Are you ever leaving the friendzone?”
Silence fell.
Jongho set his chopsticks down carefully.
“I would never do that to Coach.”
The teasing softened slightly at his tone.
It wasn’t fear that kept him still.
It was respect.
Loyalty.
Coach Park had given him structure when his world fell apart. Had shaped the anger in his chest into something disciplined instead of destructive.
Crossing that line without certainty felt… wrong.
“What if the coach wouldn’t mind?” Yunho asked gently.
Jongho shook his head once.
“That is not a risk I will take.”
Wooyoung groaned.
“You are the most emotionally repressed man I have ever met.”
“I am disciplined.”
“You are in love,” San corrected.
Heat crept into Jongho’s ears.
Before he could respond, the bell above the restaurant door chimed again.
Wooyoung glanced over lazily.
Then he straightened.
“Well,” he said slowly, “speak of the devil.”
Jongho followed his gaze.
And everything inside him went very, very still.
Y/N stepped inside, brushing her hair back from her shoulders as she looked around the restaurant. The warm lighting caught in the long strands, making them gleam softly.
She looked effortless.
Beautiful.
Like she always did.
Beside her stood a man Jongho recognized immediately.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Annoyingly handsome.
The type who knew it, too.
His jaw was tight, eyes sharp as he said something low to her that Jongho couldn’t hear over the noise of the restaurant.
But the tension was obvious.
Y/N sighed.
Even from across the room, Jongho saw the small crease form between her brows.
“She has a type,” Wooyoung murmured.
“Unfortunately,” Hongjoong agreed.
The man ran a hand through his hair, agitation clear in the abrupt motion.
Y/N responded, her voice calmer, but there was a firmness to her posture now.
They were arguing.
Mingi winced.
“Arguing on a date? Bold strategy.”
Jongho’s fingers curled slightly against the table.
He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing evenly until Yeosang nudged a glass of water toward him.
“Relax,” Yeosang said quietly.
“I am relaxed.”
“You are denting the table.”
Jongho forced his hand to loosen.
Across the restaurant, the man gestured sharply toward the door as if suggesting they leave.
Y/N didn’t move.
Instead, she said something that made him pause.
The man exhaled harshly, dragging a hand down his face.
Wooyoung leaned closer to the group.
“He looks like the kind of guy who sends paragraphs during arguments.”
“The worst kind,” San agreed solemnly.
Jongho didn’t laugh.
His attention tracked every subtle shift in her expression.
The slight lift of her chin.
The patience thinning at the edges.
She was handling it.
She always handled things.
Still…
Something restless stirred in his chest.
As if some deeply buried instinct had woken.
After another tense exchange, the man finally noticed their table.
His gaze flicked over the group.
Paused on Jongho.
Recognition sparked.
Of course it did.
Boxing wasn’t as niche as people assumed.
The man’s expression tightened further.
Interesting.
Y/N followed his line of sight.
When she saw them, her face brightened instantly.
She lifted a hand in an easy wave.
Jongho felt it like a physical thing.
That simple gesture.
Familiar.
Uncomplicated.
The man said something again, quieter this time.
She shook her head.
Then, without hesitation, she stepped toward their table.
Alone.
The man lingered near the entrance, clearly unhappy.
Wooyoung whispered, delighted, “Oh, I love drama.”
“Behave,” Seonghwa warned.
Y/N stopped beside Jongho, smiling down at them.
“Fancy seeing all of you here.”
“You say that every time,” Yunho said.
“Because you’re always here.”
Her gaze slid to Jongho briefly.
Warm.
Automatic.
Dangerous.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
Just one syllable, but it carried sixteen years of history.
She nodded toward the door.
“Sorry in advance if he storms in dramatically.”
Wooyoung perked up.
“Will there be shouting?”
“Wooyoung,” several voices groaned.
Jongho met her eyes quietly.
“Are you alright?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Her expression softened.
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s just intense… so yeah.”
Jongho glanced toward the man again.
Intense was one word for it.
Asshole was another.
She noticed the look.
“You’re doing the face,” she sighed.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
A hint of laughter touched her mouth.
For a moment, the tension eased.
Then the man called her name sharply from across the restaurant.
Impatience clear.
She rolled her eyes almost imperceptibly.
“I should go before he combusts.”
Wooyoung leaned forward.
“If you need us to trip him on the way out, just say the word.”
She laughed.
Jongho didn’t.
She hesitated half a second longer, gaze lingering on him.
Then she turned back.
As she walked away, something unfamiliar pressed against his ribs.
Not quite anger.
Not quite jealousy.
Something heavier.
San nudged him.
“You hate him already.”
“I do not hate people I have never met.”
“You are glaring,” Yeosang observed.
Jongho exhaled slowly.
Across the restaurant, the man’s hand landed on the small of her back, guiding her toward their table.
Jongho looked away immediately.
The grill hissed loudly.
Smoke curled upward.
Control.
Precision.
Discipline.
He reached for his glass.
And wondered, not for the first time, how he had mastered every fight placed in front of him…
Except the one where he had to sit still and watch her walk toward someone else.
The evening air had cooled by the time Y/N stepped out of the taxi, but the warmth from inside the restaurant spilled onto the sidewalk every time the door opened. Laughter drifted out, mixed with the unmistakable smell of grilled meat.
Normally, she loved places like this.
Tonight, the tension beside her dulled everything.
“Do you always talk about him like that?”
She didn’t need to ask who he meant.
Kang Jisuk shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, jaw tight as they approached the entrance.
“I barely talked about him,” she replied, already tired.
“You smiled.”
She blinked.
“I smile at a lot of things, Jisuk.”
“Not like that.”
She stopped walking and turned toward him fully.
Jisuk was handsome in the polished, magazine-ad kind of way. Tall, well-dressed, sharp features that people trusted too quickly. When they had first met, his confidence had felt reassuring.
Now it just felt loud.
“He’s my friend,” she said evenly. “I’ve known him since I was seven.”
“That doesn’t make it less weird.”
“What is weird about it?”
“He’s a man.”
She let out a slow breath through her nose.
“And I’m not allowed to have male friends?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re implying it.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line.
“You talk about him like he’s…” He gestured vaguely. “Important.”
The irritation that had been simmering all evening flared hotter.
“He is important. He’s family.”
Jisuk scoffed softly.
“You don’t look at family like that.”
She stared at him.
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
But before he could answer, the restaurant door opened again and a group brushed past them, forcing the conversation to pause.
“Let’s just go inside,” she muttered.
She didn’t want to start a fight on the sidewalk.
Not again.
Inside, the familiar noise wrapped around her like a blanket. For a brief moment, she relaxed.
Then she saw Jongho.
And the rest of the table.
Her mood lifted instinctively, the way it always did around people who knew her before life became complicated.
She hadn’t even thought before walking over.
Only later, when she returned to Jisuk and saw his expression, did she realize how it must have looked.
He stood stiffly beside their table, shoulders squared, irritation practically radiating from him.
“You left me there,” he said under his breath as she sat down.
“You were not abandoned in the wilderness,” she replied dryly. “You were standing near the door for thirty seconds.”
“You made me look like an idiot.”
She picked up her chopsticks.
“If you looked like one, that wasn’t my doing.”
His eyes flashed.
For a moment she thought he might snap again, but then something shifted. His posture loosened. A practiced smile slid back into place.
Charm.
Jisuk was very good at charm.
He poured her a drink.
“Long week,” he said smoothly. “Let’s not ruin dinner.”
There it was. The version of him most people saw.
Easy. Attractive. Controlled.
She allowed some of her tension to drain away.
Maybe she had overreacted earlier.
Maybe he just needed reassurance.
He reached across the table, brushing his thumb lightly over her wrist.
“You look incredible tonight,” he murmured.
She had chosen a fitted black top and heeled boots, nothing outrageous, but the intensity of his gaze made her suddenly aware of it.
“Thank you.”
His mouth curved.
“Stay over tonight.”
The invitation was casual, familiar. They had crossed that line weeks ago. Physical closeness had always been the easiest part of whatever this was.
Under different circumstances, she might have considered it.
But she shook her head.
“I can’t. I already have plans.”
The shift was immediate.
Subtle, but unmistakable.
“With who?”
“My best friend. We’re doing a girls night.”
He leaned back slowly.
“Girls night.”
“Yes.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her outfit, then lifted again.
“You’re meeting Jongho again, aren’t you?”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“Are you serious right now?”
“You were practically glowing when you saw him.”
“That is called being happy to see a friend.”
“A friend who looks like that.”
Her patience snapped.
“Say what you actually mean, Jisuk.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“You can’t tell me you don’t notice the way other men look at you when you go out dressed like…” He gestured toward her. “…that.”
Something cold slid into her stomach.
“Like what?”
“Like a bitch who wants attention.”
For a second, she wondered if she had misheard him.
The noise of the restaurant faded into a dull roar.
Slowly, she set her chopsticks down.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
The words were quieter now, edged with something uglier than jealousy.
Control.
Heat rushed to her face.
She pushed her chair back and stood.
“If you actually think that way about me,” she said, voice shaking with fury, “we’re done.”
His brows shot upward.
“You’re breaking up with me? Here?”
“Yes.”
She grabbed her bag.
“I’m not having this conversation in public.”
He followed immediately as she strode toward the exit.
The cool night air hit her skin, but it didn’t calm the wildfire burning in her chest.
Behind her, the door slammed open.
“Are you kidding me?” Jisuk demanded, grabbing her wrist.
His fingers tightened painfully as he yanked her back toward him.
The force stole her breath.
“Let go,” she snapped.
“Do you actually think you’re better than everyone?” he shot back. “Walking away like that?”
She let out a humorless laugh.
“Better than someone who calls his girlfriend a bitch? Yes. The bar is not exactly high.”
His grip tightened further.
“Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” she said sharply. “You’ll insult me again? Congratulations, you’re very intimidating.”
The sound cracked through the air before she fully registered the movement.
For a heartbeat, the world tilted.
Her cheek burned.
The sting spread slowly, shock numbing everything else.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Street noise carried on around them, indifferent.
Jisuk stared at her, chest heaving, as if even he hadn’t expected his hand to move.
Y/N blinked once.
Twice.
Her thoughts scattered, struggling to catch up with what had just happened.
And for the first time that evening, the anger disappeared, replaced by something far colder.
Something stunned.
Something very, very clear.
The sting spread slowly across her cheek.
At first it felt distant, almost unreal, like her body hadn’t decided yet whether to register the pain. The night sounds blurred together. Passing cars. Voices drifting from the restaurant. The faint metallic rattle of the door opening and closing behind them.
Y/N didn’t move.
She just stared at Jisuk.
His chest rose and fell sharply, eyes bright with something ugly and unrestrained.
For a fraction of a second, she saw it clearly.
Not irritation.
Not jealousy.
Possession.
The shape of his hand still seemed imprinted against her skin.
She tasted iron faintly where her teeth had caught the inside of her lip.
He looked as stunned as she felt.
As if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done either.
Good, she thought distantly.
He should be.
Her fingers curled slowly around the strap of her bag. Words gathered somewhere behind her ribs, sharp and ready to cut.
The motion was so sudden her brain lagged behind it.
But before she could speak, Jisuk’s body jerked violently sideways.
A fist collided with his jaw with a sickening crack.
The sound echoed down the narrow street.
Jisuk stumbled, barely catching himself before another punch drove into his ribs.
Y/N’s breath left her in a silent gasp.
For one disorienting second, all she could see was movement. Two bodies colliding. The violent rhythm of impact.
Then the streetlight caught the familiar broad shoulders.
The controlled power.
The unmistakable stance.
Jongho.
Shock froze her in place.
She had never seen him like this.
Not in the gym.
Not in a ring.
Not anywhere.
There was nothing disciplined about the way he moved now.
No measured restraint.
Only fury.
Pure, terrifying fury.
Jisuk recovered fast, spitting blood onto the pavement before lunging forward with a snarl. His fist caught Jongho across the cheek, snapping his head sideways.
The sound made her flinch.
“Stop!” she heard herself cry, but her voice felt small against the chaos.
They barely seemed to hear her.
Another blow.
Another.
The dull thud of fists striking flesh was nothing like the controlled sounds of training she’d grown up around.
This was messy.
Ugly.
Real.
“Jongho!”
Her voice cracked.
He froze.
It wasn’t hesitation exactly.
It was recognition.
The moment he heard her.
His shoulders stilled, breath ragged as he turned slightly toward her.
And that was all the opening Jisuk needed.
His fist slammed into Jongho’s jaw.
Y/N screamed.
Before she could move, another figure surged forward.
San.
She recognized him instantly, even in the blur.
He grabbed Jisuk from behind, arms locking around his chest as the man thrashed violently.
“Enough!” San barked, voice sharp with authority she had never heard from him before.
“Let me go!” Jisuk snarled, struggling.
“Not happening.”
Jongho swayed slightly but stayed upright.
Her heart lurched painfully at the sight of the blood gathering at the corner of his mouth.
She ran to him.
“Jongho—”
Up close, the damage looked worse.
His cheek was already darkening.
A thin cut split his lip.
She reached for his arm without thinking.
“Are you hurt?”
He didn’t answer.
His gaze was locked on her face.
On her cheek.
Something inside his expression shifted.
The fury didn’t disappear.
It deepened.
Behind them, Jisuk gave a wet, humorless laugh.
Blood stained his teeth when he grinned.
“I should’ve listened to my friends,” he spat. “They told me not to date a girl this arrogant.”
Y/N went very still.
“And this stupid,” he continued. “Running around like she owns the world.”
San tightened his hold.
“Careful,” he warned quietly.
But Jisuk wasn’t finished.
“Who whores around with every guy that gives her attention.”
The word landed like a slap all over again.
For half a heartbeat, silence fell.
Then another voice cut through it.
Cold.
Precise.
Seonghwa.
“You should stop talking now,” he said calmly as he stepped forward, eyes sharp enough to draw blood without lifting a hand.
It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
Even Jisuk faltered slightly under that gaze.
Y/N inhaled slowly.
Then she tilted her head.
A smile touched her mouth.
Not warm.
Not kind.
Sharp enough to slice.
“You know,” she said lightly, “I used to think your biggest flaw was your personality.”
Jisuk blinked.
“But it turns out it’s actually your imagination,” she continued. “Must be exhausting being this delusional.”
His face flushed dark.
“Go to hell.”
“Oh no,” she replied sweetly. “If you’re there, I’ll pass.”
San gave a short, approving huff.
“Walk away,” he told Jisuk, voice dropping lower. “Now.”
For a moment it looked like Jisuk might resist again.
Then he yanked himself free, straightening his jacket with shaking hands.
His glare swept over all of them before landing on Y/N one last time.
“You’re not worth this.”
She smiled wider.
“Yet here you are. Bleeding for free.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
Humiliation.
Rage.
But whatever he saw around him convinced him not to push further.
He turned sharply and stalked off into the night.
The tension lingered even after his footsteps faded.
Only then did Y/N realize her hands were trembling.
She turned back immediately.
“Sit,” she told Jongho, guiding him toward the low curb before he could argue.
He allowed it.
Which scared her more than if he’d resisted.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It is not nothing.”
She crouched in front of him, rummaging through her bag until she found tissues.
When she pressed one gently to his lip, his breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
He didn’t react to the apology.
Didn’t seem to hear it.
His eyes hadn’t left her face.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said quietly. “What were you thinking?”
His jaw tightened.
“He hit you.”
“That doesn’t mean you get into a street fight!”
“I would do it again.”
The certainty in his voice stole the rest of her lecture.
She looked up.
Really looked.
And something inside her shifted.
She had always known Jongho was strong.
Reliable.
Steady in a way the world rarely was.
But this…
This was different.
There was nothing detached about the way he watched her now.
No distance.
No careful neutrality.
Only something raw.
Something fiercely protective.
Before she could process it, his hand lifted.
Warm fingers brushed her jaw.
Then his palm cradled her cheek with startling gentleness.
The contrast to the earlier violence made her chest tighten painfully.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
His voice was low.
Careful.
As if the question itself were fragile.
The simple touch unraveled something in her.
For the first time that night, the shock cracked.
Emotion surged up too fast to name.
“I…” Her voice faltered. “I think so.”
His thumb hovered near the reddened skin but didn’t press.
Didn’t risk hurting her further.
The restraint in that small gesture made her throat burn.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
Her brows knit together.
“For what?”
“I should have been faster.”
The words hit harder than the slap.
Air seemed to leave her lungs all at once.
Faster.
As if protecting her were not even a question.
As if it were simply understood.
She stared at him.
Really stared.
And suddenly she wasn’t seeing the boy who shared popsicles with her on the ring ropes.
Nor just the disciplined boxer everyone admired.
She saw the man who had crossed a street without hesitation.
Who had stepped between her and harm.
Who was now holding her face like she was something breakable and precious all at once.
Her heartbeat stumbled.
Something unfamiliar unfolded quietly in her chest.
Not dramatic.
Not overwhelming.
But undeniable.
Different.
Jongho seemed to realize he was still touching her at the same moment she did.
His hand dropped slowly.
The space between them felt charged afterward.
Behind them, Wooyoung muttered something about ice while Yunho jogged back toward the restaurant.
San hovered nearby, watchful.
But the world had narrowed.
Just for a second.
Just to this.
“You’re staring,” Jongho said softly.
“So are you.”
He didn’t deny it.
She swallowed.
“You look worse than me.”
“I doubt that.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped her.
It trembled on the way out.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
He always noticed.
And for the first time in sixteen years, Y/N wondered how she had never seen him before.
That he tried to treat you as just his best friends little sister.
That he tried not to see when you snuck glances at him from across the dinner table when he came over.
That he tried to shew the thoughts of you away when they came late at night.
That he tried not to stare at you when you came out with them on their last night out.
But he couldn't lie to save his life, and unfortunately he didn't even think about trying.
The moment he met you he was stuck on you, seeing you as he came over to Wooyoungs for dinner the first time. He was young then, he thought the feeling would go away with time.
But he saw how you looked at him the same way.
As you both got older it just got worse, turning into him desperately trying to hide his interest when Wooyoung mentioned anything that had to do with you.
Everyone just thought Yeosang really liked Wooyoungs family, which technically wasn't wrong. He did love his family and how you all were together. He just also happened to really like seeing how you were... all the time.
Neither of you were surprised when it all came to a head.
All of them gathered in Wooyoung, Hongjoong, and Jongho's dorm as they got ready to go out. Yeosang was content with his pregame seltzer, leaning against the entrance to the hallway as he watched Yunho and Mingi debate over what to drink next. Wooyoung hummed as he left the bathroom, going to his room before groaning loudly.
Yeosang turned, following the sound with San on his heels.
"Y/nnn," Wooyoung whined as he pulled on his closet door. Your make up was spread across his dresser, the clothes you were wearing when you came scattered over his bed. Yeosang felt his back straighten, the can in his hand denting slightly in his grip as he tried to focus on his friend.
"Give me a minute!" your muffled voice came from the other side of the door Wooyoung was now kicking lightly.
He blocked out the thought that was immediately brought to the forefront of his mind. If this was his dorm. If your clothes were scattered in the same manner but over his bed, and you definitely weren't blocked from his view with a closet door.
He took a steadying breath, San sending him a glance as he stepped into the room.
"Is she stuck?" he asked, walking up to the door behind Wooyoung.
"No I'm not!" you called again, loud shuffling following. "I'm changing and he's impatient!"
"But my shoes are in there," he whined again. He stumbled as the door opened abruptly. Yeosang couldn't see you still, but he could feel you looking at Wooyoung with the look you always gave him when he was acting like a child.
"You need to work on your patience," he saw your hand ruffle his hair. "No one would believe you're older than me if they heard you whine," you laughed.
Wooyoung pushed your hands away, turning his head to make a face at you as he side stepped you into the closet. San laughed, patting Wooyoung's back as he leaned down.
"She's right you know." He laughed as Wooyoung swatted at him and grabbed his shoes.
Yeosang said nothing
He felt like all the air in the room had suddenly vanished.
When Wooyoung moved out of the way you pulled your hair over your shoulder, raking your fingers through it and looking in the body mirror across the room. You let out a hum of satisfaction at San's agreement with you, leaning down to grab the pair of heels at the end of the bed.
You weren't in something he’d expected you would be in for a night out, or at least something he assumed someone your age would normally where.
A shirt that fell of the shoulder with flowing sleeves, a necklace sitting gently on your collar bone, your heels fitting snuggly under boot cut jeans. He could see the stars you had drawn on the hip as you adjusted your heel.
Finally you looked up, a loose strand of hair falling over your face as you met his eyes.
You gave him a smile, something hiding behind it he knew all too well. It was the same thing hiding behind his own smile as he nodded at you.
You looked away, riffling through your make up bag on the dresser. Yeosang let out a breath, eyes scanning the room for anything that wasn't the gentle dip in your back as you leaned on the dresser and looked into the mirror above it. You dabbed at your lips, eyes catching his in the mirror again for a moment before Wooyoung's arm draped over him.
"If you're gunna crush your can do it over the sink dude!" He pulled him out complaining, Yeosang finally noticing how he had half crushed the can in his hand. The seltzer was spilling into the top when he finally relaxed his hand.
"Y/n hurry up! Were leaving soon!" Wooyoung called as Yeosang sent one more look back at his bedroom door. You hummed an acknowledgement as he heard you walking around again.
He bit the inside of his cheek, taking a sharp breath before downing the rest of the can. Wooyoung looked at him wide eyes, Mingi laughing as they reentered the kitchen.
"What's gotten into you?"
"It's a pregame isn't it?" Yoesang muttered, grabbing another can.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
Yeah so maybe this wasn't the best idea.
After getting to the club and a couple too many shots you were desperate to dance, finally getting out from Wooyoungs over bearing stare.
You happily went to the floor against his protests when he pushed Yeosang towards you.
“She’s not gunna listen to me that it’s to crowded over there, can you talk some sense into her? She listens to you,” Wooyoung begged. Yeosang hesitated at first, relenting quickly when he almost lost sight of you. He jogged to catch up to you, grabbing your wrist.
You whipped around, expecting your brother to be dragging you back.
Instead you were pleasantly surprised to meet Yeosangs worried face.
“Come back please, there’s to many people,” he raised his voice over the music and you still barely heard him.
“Oh come on it’s not that bad,” you smiled and tugged him into the crowd.
It was long before you realized your mistake.
You did your best not to push into him more than you already were, someone pushing you impossibly closer from behind. They had overloaded the club tonight, the air stuffy with body heat and smoke. The smell of alcohol radiated from the people around you as you fought to find a small open spot in the crowd, any way to escape where you were now.
Yeosang was sufficating even from across the room, but him being this close to you... so close that you could feel his heart beat and his unsteady breathes...
You were driving yourself crazy as you tried to ignore it.
Yeosang wasn't fairing any better, only joining you to try and keep you from getting crushed. Now he might as well be the one crushing you as the crowd pushed you both closer than you thought possible.
Finally you looked up at him, a pleading look in your eyes as the lights danced of your skin. Yeosang felt his heart pick up, his breathing hitch. You glanced down at his chest, music blaring in your ears and buzz filling your head from one too many shots.
You don't know when you got so close to that dark corner in the back of the room. You don't know when you decided you couldn't take the lack of distance, you don't even know when you made the decision in your head that tonight would be it.
Tonight would be when you both threw out whatever stupid idea of respect for each other out the window.
Yeosang's hand drifted up your side, sending shivers from where his fingers grazed. He felt you gasp, eyes wide as your gaze stayed on his face.
Slowly he worked up to your jaw, moving back until he covered the back of your neck. Another push from the crowd and you were against the wall, Yeosang's free arm resting against it by your head.
You could smell the lemon and tequila on his breath. His pupils were blown as they looked at you, looking over your face for any sign of disapproval.
You felt your face flush, sobering in seconds at the look he was giving you.
You could see his resolve crumbling by the second as the music swelled, his face holding a storm of emotions that you were sure mirrored your own.
You felt your chest rising and falling faster, his eyes falling from your own to your lips.
"Yeo..." you didn't say it loud enough to be heard over the music or crowd as they now sang along with the DJ. He watched your lips move and felt something snap.
The last who knows how many years of ignoring and fighting how he felt when he saw you rushed into him at once. Every time you had walked passed him and grazed your arm with his. Every time he sat a little too close.
Every time you both looked at each other at the same time, looks charged with something neither of you could let surface.
All of it was thrown out in seconds.
Your hands grabbed at his collar just as his tilted your head up. His lips crashed onto yours, desperation and need practically pouring out of him the moment he got to you.
It wasn't what you thought it would feel like. You always thought if this ever did happen it would be slow, maybe in a quite living room with something sweet leading up to it. You never thought that it would be so... heated.
Both of your couldn't get enough of the other, your hands tangling in his hair as he cupped the back of your neck and waist. He pulled you full against him, your back arching against the wall as you felt his neck vibrate with noises you couldn't hear.
His teeth grazed your bottom lip and you gasped, his eyes fluttering slightly to see your surprised reactions. He smiled against you, nipping at your lip before swallowing whatever noise you tried to make.
You molded to his kiss perfectly, as if you were made for him. He was sure you were as you let go of his head and wrapped your arms around his neck. He straightened, pulling you with him and backing you flat against the wall. His hands fell down your sides, grabbing under your thighs as you wrapped your legs at his hips.
No one even blinked in your direction, shadows falling over the corner you two took up and the music so loud it almost covered the sound of your heart thudding in your chest.
Almost.
You could still hear it rushing in your ears as he lifted you, the cool wall hitting your lower back making you jump.
You felt him smile again at the reaction, feeling the hum he let out rather than hearing it. You separated for a moment, finally opening your eyes to see him. Low light bounced off his back, making him look like he was glowing.
If it wasn't for the look in his eyes you would have said he looked like an angel. But that look... oh god.
It was like he was ready to devore you in one bite.
You cupped his jaw and dove back into him, feeling the rush of air he let out as your lips met again.
He squeezed your thighs, pushing into you as if it would ground him at least a little. He felt like he was flying, every movement you made sending shocks down his spine.
You barely remember him putting you back to the floor.
You hardly even glanced at your brother when Yeosang muttered some excuse to take you home, how he passed as normal completely beyond you.
You barely remember him pulling you out the door and calling a cab.
You don't remember how you even got through the door to your apartment with his hands roaming all over you.
But you remember every touch, every burning kiss he left on you that night, every sound he let out like music to your ears.
Yeosang doesn't think he would ever forget a moment, a mix of pure bliss that he was finally on you and throwing every concern about who's sister you were out the window.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
"Mmm," Yeosang smiled before he was even fully awake at the sound. You turned under his arm, tucking your face into his chest. He felt you take a deep breath, curling further into him.
He tucked his arm under your waist, rolling you on your back and him on top of you. You let out a whine, fidgeting under him as he tucked himself into the crook of your neck.
"Yeo~" you freed your arms and wrapped them around him, patting at him like that would get him off you. "I can't breath."
"Yes you can," his tired voice came muffled from your neck, vibrating against your skin. "You like this don't lie."
You sighed, finally giving up and relaxing under him. You could feel him smile against you as you did.
You took a breath, recalling what happened in the last 24 hours and letting out a laugh at yourself. What were you gunna do now.
"It’ll be fine," Yeosang read your mind as he propped himself up on his arms, caging you in as he stared down at you. His hair was an absolute mess, sticking up every which way, his chest littered with red and purple marks.
"It's creepy when you read me like that," you mutter, turning away from him before you started something again. He laughed, coming down to put a light kiss to your cheek.
"Been doing it for years, I can't just stop now," he hummed against your cheek. You smiled, looking back to him as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He let you drag him back down, arms wrapping around your waist. You laughed as he pinched your side, not ready to get out of bed and face reality.
And completely missing the sound of your phone—lost on the floor somewhere in your clothes— vibrating with Wooyoung's name on the screen.
°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡ ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ °‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡
To be continued
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