Summary: when seungcheol can’t keep his mouth off you
Warnings! 18+ mdni, smut, oral fixation focus (kissing, biting, oral sex f receiving, face-sitting, throat fixation), dom!cheol, dirty talk, praise, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, creampie mention, aftercare, skip if not your vibe!
hello fellow carats~ 🍒💋 I’ve been thinking about s.coups having an oral fixation where he just needs to taste, mark, and devour you. Reblog/comment! I do write for other groups or specific members/idols so don’t be scared to ask! I hope you all enjoy ♡
It starts innocent enough—Seungcheol’s always been affectionate, but you notice the fixation early. The way his lips linger on yours during “quick” goodbye kisses, turning them into deep, tongue-heavy makeouts where he sucks on your bottom lip until it’s swollen and shiny.
He loves your neck too—nuzzling into it during hugs, breath hot against your skin, then grazing his teeth lightly before biting down just enough to leave faint marks. “Mine,” he murmurs possessively, licking over the spot to soothe it, his leader instincts kicking in to claim and protect.
Movie nights? Forget the screen. He’s pulling you into his lap, hands on your hips, mouth attaching to your collarbone—sucking marks while his fingers dig in. “Can’t focus when your looking like that,” he groans, voice low and commanding, like he’s directing the scene.
But the real obsession shows in bed. He starts slow, kissing down your body, lips soft on your breasts, tongue circling your nipples until they’re hard peaks, sucking them into his mouth with rhythmic pulls that make you arch and whimper.
Lowerin himself down your body, he spreads your thighs with strong hands, eyes dark and hungry as he stares at your core. “Fuck, look at this pretty pussy. All for me.” His oral fixation hits peak— he flattens his tongue for one long lick, savoring your taste with a deep groan like it’s the best thing he’s ever had.
He doesn’t rush. He alternates between slow, teasing laps at your entrance—dipping his tongue inside to fuck you shallowly—and fast flicks over your clit, building you up until your legs shake. “Taste so sweet, baby, could eat you forever,” he pants against you, lips glossy with your slick.
Biting comes into play—gentle nips on your inner thighs, marking territory, then sucking the sensitive skin until you’re squirming. “Stay still,” he orders firmly, his commanding side emerging as he pins your hips down, not letting you escape his mouth.
When you beg, he ups his efforts. Sucks your clit hard while two thick fingers curl inside you, stroking that spot relentlessly. His tongue swirls in tight circles—precise, intense—like he’s composing a beat with every lick, driving you wild.
Overstimulation is his specialty. After your first orgasm crashes over you—body convulsing, crying his name—he doesn’t stop. Laps at you softer but steady, drinking every drop, whispering praises. “Good girl… give daddy another one. You can do it.”
He pulls you up for face-sitting sometimes—strong arms locking around your thighs, guiding you to grind on his tongue. “Ride my face, sweetheart—use me.” His nose bumps your clit as his tongue thrusts deep, vibrations from his moans pushing you to the edge again.
And his throat fixation slips in. After eating you out, he kisses you deep—letting you taste yourself on his tongue—then trails bites down your neck, sucking at your pulse point until you gasp. “Feel that? How hard you make me? But i’m not done yet baby.”
Multiple rounds. He edges you with his mouth—pulling back when you’re close, blowing cool air on your clit to make you whine—then dives back in, sucking harder until tears stream down your face from the overwhelming pleasure.
His fixation extends post-orgasm. Even after you come (twice, three times), he keeps going lightly—kissing your oversensitive folds, licking lazily like he can’t bear to stop. “One more? You’ll do it for daddy won’t you?” His eyes twistingly question, but his grip says you will.
When he finally fucks you, the sensations he gives you from using his mouth doesn’t end. He bites your shoulder as he thrusts deep, or just pulls out to move back down your body for quick licks mid-round, mixing your tastes before slamming back in. “Fuck—your little pussy’s heaven,” he growls, coming hard inside with a final lick on your lip.
He definitely uses aftercare to tie you both back down to the present. He cleans you with soft kisses—gentle laps if you’re too sensitive—then cuddles you close, lips brushing your forehead. “You were perfect, baby… you know I love every taste of you.” His protective arms wrap tight, whispering sweet nothings until you drift off.
A/N: requested - I would like to thank you all 3 nonies who wanted a jealous! Jeonghan, it gives me an excuse to make him a little rougher, and unhinged, hehe
Synopsis: Jeonghan gets jealous, and he makes it clear who you belong to.
Warnings: mdni 18+, jealous! Jeonghan, possessive! Jeonghan, dirty talk, man handling, dumbification, name calling, kind of public???, choking, fingering, multiple orgasms, jeonghan is big, I swear jeonghan isn't mad at you, he just f*cks you like it, swearing, drooling, squirting, cream pie, etc.
wc: 2.6k
The bathroom is lit by a red glow, causing the small bathroom to be cast in a darker light, an aura of moodiness that seems to aid in Jeonghan’s firm grip on your forearm.
He practically dragged you into the public bathroom of this fancy hotel ballroom, with steam rolling off of him. His jaw was set, his eyes sharp as he guided you away from your boss.
You both were attending your annual work party, and normally, everything would go smoothly. Everything would be perfect. With you both dressed up, mingling with your co-workers, and taking advantage of the open bar your company paid for.
But Jeonghan had his limits. He knew what he was signing up for when he fell in love with you. You turned heads, whether you were aware of it or not; you are gorgeous. And he knew you only had eyes for him. It usually kept his emotions in check; it honestly amused him when men or women thought they had a chance with you. He would watch from across the room when they’d shoot their shot, and he took great enjoyment when their faces would fall as you told them you were taken.
But sometimes, it was rare, there would be one person. Just one, who wouldn’t take the hint. They would continue to flirt, trailing their eyes down your body in appreciation as you politely spoke to them, always seeing the best in people - you really were Jeonghan’s angel. And because of that, you were too nice to realise that would make hard-headed individuals think they could pursue you like you weren’t Jeonghan’s.
But don’t worry, Jeonghan knew how he could change that.
And it’s what he was doing as he shoved you into the bathroom, making sure no one was already inside as he closed the door behind him, locking it shut. “Baby, what’re we doin-” Your words cut off in a gasp as Jeonghan takes the two strides it’s needed to cut the distance between you two. He’s wasting no time in licking his three fingers wet in one hand and using his other hand to bend you over the sink.
“Be good for me and spread those pretty legs,” He grunts, knocking his foot against yours and getting you exactly how he wants you. He easily bunches the dress up to your hips, pulling your panties to the side and smacking your clit with his saliva-coated fingers.
The spank has your entire body jolting, your jaw slacking open as you yelp in surprise. “Jeonghan!” Your eyes are wide in shock as you stare at him through the mirror before you. Your hands grip the bathroom counter, mind spinning as he repeats the action with a sneer.
“Why can’t people understand?” He hisses, and your face flushes as a wave of arousal splashes onto his hands as he rubs your clit meanly. Your body responds to his, and your thighs twitch as you arch prettily for him. “You’re mine.” Your sweet slick coats his fingers, and your head dips as he works your bundle of nerves with short, circled rubs as his other hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you at his mercy.
“What’re you talk- oh fuck, fuh-fuck!” Your words slur, stumbling from your lips as he uses the fingers he played against your clit to slip inside your wet hole. His digits are lean but long, stretching your gummy walls as he enters you roughly. The feeling of him stuffing you makes your eyes flutter, your ass jutting out for him more as your chest presses closer to the cold bathroom countertop. “Hannie!”
“You’re mine. This pussy’s mine. Your body is mine, and your pretty little head is mine.” Each word is accompanied by a thrust of his fingers, a deep curl of his fingertips rubbing the sweet spots he knows are there, and your stomach is fluttering as he growls in frustration in the end. “Don’t people know your pretty pussy is moulded to the shape of my cock? Do you think they just don’t know it’s me who gets you blushing like this?” His eyes are dark, swirling with chaos as he stares you down through the mirror. His fingers got your pussy singing with the music that plays lowly in the background, and he’s smirking condescendingly. “Do I have to mark you so they can get it through their thick skulls? Fuck you full of my cum so they can see it drip down your legs, and they can finally take the hint?”
His words only make your mind melt, a shiver running down your spine as you think about it. Your walls slurp his digits filthily, your arousal splashing and coating his hand down to his wrist as he opens you up. “Please, please-” you feel delirious, the heat warming your body as the small bathroom echoes with the lewd squelches of your pussy happily slurping his fingers.
Jeonghan’s laugh is bewildered and amused, his hand twisting, stretching you as his thumb strokes your clit. “Mm, you like that, huh? Want me to fuck you, dumb - show people how much you love me, my cock, that it’s all me who gets you this wet.” Your hand presses into the mirror, streaking the glass as your hips smack into the countertop. Each deep thrust of Jeonghan’s fingers winds the knot in your stomach tighter, and your whine is high-pitched as you squeeze your eyes closed.
“M’gonna cum, Hannie- m’gonna cum!” You’re crying out, and Jeonghan smirks, not letting up on his rough thrusts, making sure to smack into your sweet spot over and over again.
“Yeah, you gonna cum for me? Make a mess all over my hand and scream my name so everyone on the other side of the door knows who got you creaming this hard?” Jeonghan’s biceps flex, his wrist pumping his digits deeper until your eyes cross. He watches through the mirror as you seize, crying out his name as your orgasm takes over.
Your thighs try to clamp together, but he’s quick to move one of his legs in between and keep you spread open. His eyes watch with a glimmer in them as your pussy convulses around his fingers, your slick gushing onto his hand as you ride his digits through your climax.
Your thighs tremble, and your pretty, puffy clit gets rubbed at each peak to prolong the orgasm. “That’s it, soak my fingers, Pretty.” The squelches of your pussy only make you feel ten times hotter, your blush darkening as he praises you. “Always so pretty when you’re like this, head empty, just letting me make you feel good.”
Nothing prepares you for when Jeonghan moves his hand from your back and wraps it in your hair, pulling your head up as he slips his fingers from your sopping pussy. “Keep those pretty legs open for me, okay? Need you to keep being good for me and take this cock.”
Your drooling cunt throbs in anticipation, and you do as Jeonghan says, your legs quivering as you present your pussy for him. He makes quick work of lowering his black slacks low enough to get his aching cock free. The fingers he used to stuff you are still slicked with your sweet honey, and he uses your arousal to pump his cock with his fist. “Please, Hannie, want you inside - mm, want you so badly.” You sniffle, your eyes watery as he guides the fat tip of his cock through your puffy folds. You're already pushing your hips back to try to get him inside, and yelp when he smacks your ass.
His hand connects with your ass hard enough to leave a handprint. Jeonghan sees it bloom, a contrast to your skin, and he’s quick to smack his hand against your ass again. “Look at you, one little orgasm, and you’re begging for my cock.” He taunts, tapping the bulbous tip of his cock against your glittering clit. The stimulation has you preening, your back arching like a cat as he teases you. “So needy-”
Before you can even try and defend yourself, Jeonghan is feeding you the first few inches of his cock into your sopping pussy. Even with a fresh orgasm, your pussy still has to stretch to accommodate his size. His hips push forward slowly, taking his time to split you open, forcing you to feel every inch slip past the first gummy rings of your wet channel.
You can feel every curve and ridge of the veins that run down his shaft. They snag over areas inside you that you didn’t know existed. It’s a pleasure that tilts your mouth open wider, your head dropping only for Jeonghan to click his tongue on his teeth in a tut. His hand wraps in your hair, pulling your head up to watch him through the mirror as his other hand holds onto your hip. “No, no, don’t go hiding - watch yourself, Pretty. Watch how you take everything I give you.”
Your mouth gapes, inches from the mirror, your breath fogging little pants against the glass as you watch. You watch Jeonghan’s eyes hood, his tongue rolling along his lips, his teeth gritting as his eyes take in the pretty sight of your cunt stretching around his girth. He watches his cock disappear farther into your pussy and holds himself back from slamming the rest of the way in.
You felt so heavy with him sliding inside you. And your tongue feels glued to the roof of your mouth as you slur your words. “Ah- O-oh, Hannie, you’re in so d-deep.” You hiccup and shudder as he finally bottoms out inside you. His rotund tip smooches against your cervix, a few globs of his pre-cum spilling and filling your gummy walls and practically making your pupils dilate into hearts.
You could cum again just like this. Your slobbering cunt constricts and releases around Jeonghan’s length rapidly, and if Jeonghan reaches around to rub your clit you will cum. Oh fuck, oh fuck, you’re drooling. You can feel your saliva build at the corner of your mouth, and it slips down your lips when Jeonghan lets go of your hair to wrap all five of his long fingers around your throat, arching your back as he rolls his hips with a few shallow thrusts.
His cock swirls inside you, rearranging your guts, digging into your womb from how deep you feel him, and it’s got you releasing the nastiest noises from the back of your throat. You’re so cockdrunk you don’t have the opportunity to warn Jeonghan when you suddenly cum for the second time. Your pussy sucks on his cock while you soak his length with your syrupy slick. Your mouth drops open in a mewl that has Jeonghan cursing, his cock jerking inside your gummy walls as you climax. “Taking me so well, Pretty - making a big mess, huh? Such a slutty pussy getting all slippery wet for me.”
Tears well up in your eyes, and Jeonghan pulls you back onto his cock, picking up the pace of his thrusts as he fucks you through your orgasm. You’re sobbing at this point, your slick sploshing and dripping down your thighs as he fucks you deep and rough. “It’s too much! I-I can’t- oh, oh!” Your eyes cross, and Jeonghan squeezes your throat to keep you from running away from his cock. His eyes flicker to his left, your phone glowing with a current phone call. He reads the contact name, the reason Jeonghan had dragged you into this bathroom. And he knows that the person on the other end is still listening, hearing everything as he ruins you so thoroughly.
“Yes, yes, you can, Baby.” Jeonghan grunts, and his hips pound into your ass, the noise of skin smacking into skin resonating with the filthy squelches of your cunt. Jeonghan grabs your arm, folding it behind your back as he continues to rut into your sopping pussy. The hand around your throat holds you at Jeonghan’s mercy, and your body betrays you as a familiar heat burns in your lower stomach.
“Jeonghan, ah- ah-” Your mind short-circuits, your eyes gloss over, and Jeonghan’s body fucks you into the bathroom counter until you’re throbbing around his length again. His cock abuses your G-spot like it’s a bullseye and he’s an arrow. The bulbous tip smears pre-cum against your spongey walls heavily with each rut of his hips.
“You gonna cum again?” He lets go of your neck to bring your other arm behind your back, using one hand to keep both of your arms restrained as he slams into you again and again. “Gonna give me one more, jus’ one more, Pretty. Let me see that face you make when you cream on my cock. Show me how good you feel.”
Your moans become more throaty, your stomach sucking in as he pushes you closer to the edge. It builds, bigger and bigger than your previous ones, and you sob as you feel his cock reach deeper inside you.
When Jeonghan wraps an arm around your waist to pinch your clit, you scream. It’s the loudest you’ve ever been, and your entire body shakes as you cum heavily. The orgasm is so powerful this time, you squirt, spraying your arousal onto his hand and the floor with a cry that has Jeonghan’s thrusts stuttering. Your pussy grips his cock so tightly that it’s difficult for him to move and triggers his own orgasm.
“Oh fuck, there we go,” He undulates his hips, grinding his cock as deep as he can as it swells and floods your cunt with his hot, sticky cum. He paints your pussy white, fucking his cum inside you as you take everything he gives with broken whimpers.
And when your head drops, he lets go of your arms, watching them fall limply to your sides as he discreetly ends the call. He makes sure the contact name “My Boss” disappears from your phone screen before he slips his softening cock from your cunt. His cum mixes with yours as it seeps from your puffy folds, dripping down your thighs as Jeonghan helps put your panties back in place and pulls your dress back down.
It actually takes a few moments before you can properly move, and the ringing in your ears subsides. Your brain is all mushy, your makeup a mess that Jeonghan does his best to fix as you lean heavily into him. It’s definitely time to take you home, but Jeonghan isn’t entirely done.
When you’re as presentable as he can get you after pulling three orgasms from you, he brings you back into the party seamlessly. He presses a kiss to the side of your head, enjoying the way your eyes are still glossy like your lips. “Let's say good-bye and then go home, okay?” You make a cute little noise with a nod of your head and let Jeonghan escort you.
Jeonghan sees him before you do. He stands tall, surrounded by people. Jeonghan can see a soft flush on his cheeks that could be mistaken for alcohol, but Jeonghan’s lips pull up into a smirk, knowing better. His dark hair falls to the sides and just touches the top of his ears as he catches Jeonghan and you coming closer.
“Just stopping by,” Jeonghan hums, staring at your boss evenly. He pulls you closer as he says your name, and your boss looks over to your flushed face and hazy eyes as Jeonghan continues to speak. “Feeling a little under the weather, so we’re going to head home.”
Jeonghan is already pulling you away before your boss can respond, but you look over your shoulder to give him one last shy smile, “Thanks for having us. The company party was great, Seungcheol, Sir.”
A/N: I may have had too much fun writing this - hehe okay it's like 4am I prolly made mistakes, but I am sleepy and will figure it out later
As always, comments, kudos, and interaction are appreciated!
synopsis: You need a study break? Mingyu will give you one.
requested: a Mingyu Scenario where he and the reader are in the dorm in bed, and she gets incredibly horny and they have sex, but have to keep quiet so the others won't notice
warnings: mdni, 18+, boyfriend! Mingyu, roommate! Seungcheol, roommate! Vernon, roommate! Jihoon, reader stress bakes, fingering, semi-public, descriptions of prone bone, teasing, Mingyu wasn't born yesterday, unprotected, dirty talk, taunting??, mouth covering, gotta be quiet, etc.
wc: 2.5k+
[BE VERY AWARE, SMUT BELOW THE 'KEEP READING' TAG]
It’s getting warmer. The winter months are shedding their cold air, and the sun stays in the sky longer, warming up Mingyu’s room with a soft heat that makes you want to do nothing.
And that’s what you were currently doing.
You’re sprawled out on Mingyu’s bed, one sock-covered foot hanging off the edge while your other leg hooks over his as you watch the ceiling fan spin round and round, slowly.
You were tempted to doom scroll on your phone, an earned treat after hours of scrutinizing your laptop filled with all of your notes you highlighted for your upcoming exam. If you went any longer, though, your chapter would be entirely highlighted pink, and your eyes would be rolled to the back of your head permanently.
So, to prevent that, you decided to take a break. You left your laptop open on Mingyu’s desk and pouted the entire way to your boyfriend, who let you use his room for a quiet study place as moral support.
Mingyu had been lying on his back, holding a book in one hand as his other hand rested behind his head, the image of relaxation, and he was absolutely ridiculous.
And by absolutely ridiculous, you meant mouth-watering handsome.
Mingyu was tall and broad, with muscles that were created by all the sports he played growing up as a kid and dedicated hours in the gym as an adult. He was a big boy, tall enough that his feet hung over the edge of the full mattress he lay on, and big enough to have you daydream about him in class when you were bored out of your mind.
He was also the second sweetest person you’ve ever met. (Dokyeom would always beat him in the first-place spot, but you'd never admit that to your boyfriend.)
And that’s why it was more than easy to roll into bed with him. Your boyfriend didn’t even flinch as you took up the rest of the space in his small bed; if anything, he welcomed it. You huffed and dramatically puffed while flopping half your body over his, and he just flipped to the next page of his book, happy to lie next to you.
It was very sweet, wholesome even, the type of mood that fell upon both of you. It would usually end up with you taking a nap, squishing your boyfriend between you and the wall, but your brain wouldn’t shut up enough to do that.
Your eyes flickered from the sunlight streaming through the blinds to the ceiling fan circling the air in the room. You avoided your laptop sitting on the desk and instead focused on listening as your ears perked up when you heard Mingyu’s roommates through the thin walls.
Mingyu has three roommates: Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Vernon. They had been his roommates since the beginning of the year and practically best friends five minutes after meeting. They were always going to the mess hall, pulling all-nighters, and all but one was a daily gym rat, much like your boyfriend. He honestly hit the roommate lottery compared to others, and you weren’t surprised that they all became close friends in response.
You could find at least one roommate always hanging out with another in their free time, and when you came over to Mingyu’s to study, you weren’t surprised that Vernon and Seungcheol were in the living room, intensely watching the latest football game. They had barely given you a wave when you gave them a greeting, while Mingyu followed inside after you, and it was Vernon who kept his eyes glued to the TV like a zombie when he begged you to make him snacks later when you would ultimately quit studying.
The boys knew you well by now, and they knew you'd hit your limit on studying soon enough. (They would take anything you stressed baked in their kitchen and were betting on it, actually.) But before you could agree, Mingyu was already steering you in the direction of his room, tossing over his shoulder a quick, “No. She has a test soon; she needs to focus.”
You sigh and slide your sock-covered foot down Mingyu’s shin as you think back on the cookies you could be baking right now. You would eat them with Vernon and contemplate the best-case scenario of how you could imprint all the information in the world in your brain without staring at a blue screen.
Was there a reason for any of this? What were you but a small ant on a giant rock that spins through the galaxy?
Okay, maybe you were going too deep- but that confirmed you planned not to open your laptop for the rest of the evening. Clearly, your brain was mush, but you needed something that would distract your boyfriend from giving you his famous pleading round eyes to try to convince you to keep studying. He truly was your biggest cheerleader, but your brain would surely melt if you continued to think any more than you already did today.
And that’s when you have an idea.
You move slowly, not looking at Mingyu as you slide your hand across his torso, feeling his soft stomach over his shirt until you reach the end of it. Your fingers slip down and skate across his warm skin, feeling his breath hitch as you toy with the top of his sweatpants.
You listen to the way his throat clears, his body tensing partially as he shifts under you. “What’re you doing?” He's not mean or rude, just curious with the way he speaks to you, because now you’re mapping out the elastic of the waistband of his sweatpants, and it makes Mingyu hold back a shiver.
“M’touching you.”
Duh.
Your fingertips wiggle at his boxer shorts, and you can see his cock twitch at the idea of your hand moving more south, but you don’t. You stay at the elastic band, playing with his boxer shorts like his roommates weren't twenty feet away, barely separated by a thin wall.
“Do you want me to stop?” You ask and have to bite your lip from smiling at how fast he shakes his head.
“No! I- fuck,” his cock is getting harder, and your fingers are now trapped between the elastic band of his boxers and his pelvis. Your fingernails scratch lightly, a horizontal line that makes him suck in air through clenched teeth before he groans quietly, “Please.”
You aren’t sure if this plea for mercy is because he wants you to stop or continue, but the desperation laced in his tone sends a flutter low in your stomach, and your smile is growing as you teasingly ask him. “Please, what? What do you want?”
The book is forgotten the moment Mingyu rolls to his side and forces you to do the same. Your eyes flicker to his bedroom door, it's open, and you can hear Seungcheol grumbling to Vernon on the game playing on the television, but all that disappears when Mingyu’s warm hand slides over your upper thigh.
He hooks your leg back over his, his chest pressing into your back as he huffs against your ear. “Your roommates-“ you mumble, and Mingyu places a warm kiss on the nape of your neck. At the same time, his hand slides down your sweatpants, finding your panties already wet for him.
“Gotta be quiet then,” he murmurs, and your eyes close as he finds your clit over your damp panties. His lips brush the shell of your ear as he circles the little nub, his hips flush against your ass, reminding you he’s hard and wanting just like you are wet and ready. “Be good for me, Baby. Let me feel you-“
He kisses your neck slowly, just like how his fingers rub your clit, building you up in little time that it makes you grit your teeth, your hips rolling back against him. With each jolt of pleasure, he creates a little whimper that is pulled from you like you can't help yourself. Your head tilts back onto his shoulder, your mouth parting as the familiar knot in your stomach twists.
When he slides your panties to the side to sink two fingers into your wet heat, his other arm wraps around you, pulling you back until you’re half draped over his chest. He spreads your legs with his, his palm covering your mouth as his other hand works between your legs in earnest. It makes your eyes roll, your groan muffled as he stuffs you with his thick fingers.
“Need you to cum, need you nice n’ wet f’me.” He whispers the words in your ear as he curls his fingers deep inside you. His fingertips graze your gummy walls until he strokes the soft, spongy spot inside you that makes you thrash. Then you feel him grin against your ear, focusing on it like his roommates couldn't walk by any minute. “That’s it, let me feel how good it feels when I play with you.”
When you cum, his hand still covers your mouth, and your eyes roll back as your internal walls pulse around his digits. He keeps pumping them, in and out, over and over again until you’re shivering, and the squelch of your pretty pussy can be heard over the pounding of your heartbeat rushing in your ears.
You barely recover from your first orgasm before you’re finding yourself on your stomach. Your head is at the foot of the bed, angled to look at the open door as Mingyu pulls your sweatpants and panties down to your knees. His body drapes over yours, caging you between him and the mattress as he cups your chin, pulling your head up as his warm chest covers your back entirely. You can feel the fat head of his cock drag along your wet slit as your eyes begin to gloss over.
“You did so well for me." His legs straddle yours, and he’s so big you feel yourself clench in anticipation, a molten warmth beginning to form in your lower stomach again as he guides his cock to your sopping entrance. “You can give me one more, right? But you gotta keep quiet- you don’t want them to hear you, right? Don’t want them to know how well you take me, right?”
Mingyu isn’t dumb, and you are unable to see the way his teeth flash in the smile he displays. His eyes flicker from the open door to your laptop and then back down at you. You're so cute, wanting a little break, needing your brain to turn off for a little while.
But no worries, he's got you. His pupils dilate as he feeds you the first few inches of his cock, watching the way your pretty pussy stretches to take him in.
Your moan is drowned out by his hand covering your mouth again, and the fact that the TV cheered loudly. Huh, we must have scored. But you can't dwell on that, not when Mingyu's bullying his cock deeper into your drooling cunt, his words low and soft in your ear. "That’s it, open up for me.“
He makes you feel every inch of his cock, slowly. He makes you feel how the veins that run down his shaft drag through your velvety walls and makes your toes curl in response, a whine pushed from the back of your throat as he keeps your pretty mouth covered by his palm. His other hand clutches the edge of the bed right beside your head, his knees bracketing yours, keeping your legs closed and your pussy snug around his cock.
Both of your eyes roll when he bottoms out. His hips are pressed against your soft ass, and every time your walls flutter around him, his cock twitches deep inside. "You're fucking perfect."
You barely register what Mingyu is saying before he's moving his hips back, watching the way your pussy clings to his cock, trying to keep him from leaving. Another muffled whimper comes from you as your arousal seeps and coats Mingyu's dick with a creamy mess, and then Mingyu pushes back in. He stuffs you full, it feels like you can feel him in your stomach, and it's like he knows your eyes threaten to close because he's pulling your head back up with a soft grunt.
"Don't close your eyes, you gotta make sure no one walks by- or do you want them to hear you?" The question doesn't get answered when his hand moves from your mouth to your throat, holding you in place as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. The mushroom tip of his cock smacks into your soft cervix with a mean accuracy, jumbling all of your thoughts and making it hard to speak. But Mingyu already knows; he can feel it with the way you squeeze around him, soaking him with another wave of your slick. "Yeah, I think you want them to see. See how good you are for me, how well you take my cock."
Your pussy throbs wantonly while your teeth bite your bottom lip to hold in any screams of agreement. He feels so good, you know you're going to cum soon, and Mingyu knows it too. He angles his hips, and the next time he pushes forward, the tip of his cock is rubbing your G-spot until you're forgetting how to breathe. You gasp, and Mingyu groans under his breath, keeping the same pace that makes you squeeze him tighter and tighter.
"Mingyu-" You can barely slur out his name, stars bursting down your spine and down to the tips of your toes as you try to warn him. Your stomach tenses, your vision whitens, and Mingyu's grip on your throat tightens just enough to make your jaw slacken.
You cum with a silent scream. Your eyes rolling back as your drooling cunt gushes hot and wet all over Mingyu's cock. And the feeling of it makes Mingyu suck in a shaky breath, feeling you tremble underneath him, your walls sucking him deeper, trying to milk his cock as he fucks you through it.
He praises you the entire time, mumbling about how good you are for him. How well you did. How your pretty pussy is meant for him. And by the time you come down from your high, your body feels like jello - you can only give him little noises in agreement as he chases after his release with low groans in your ear.
And it's only a few minutes after Mingyu slipped from you, moving to his side as you blink up at him with glossy eyes, that Vernon and Seungcheol are cheering from the living room, reminding you that you weren't entirely alone. Mingyu instinctively covers you with his body when Vernon calls out your name in excitement, but thankfully, he doesn't appear in the door. Instead, he just yells from the living room, "Are you done studying yet? Can you take a break? I want cookies!"
warnings: mdni, 18+, pwp, dub/con, brief somno, dom! Seungcheol, dirty talk, praise, after care, oral (f rec), toys, multiple orgasms, ass play, anal, a hint of forced orgasm, Seungcheol makes a mess out of you, begging, Cheol is big in all my fics wdym, etc.
wc: 2.5k+
[BE VERY AWARE, SMUT BELOW THE 'KEEP READING' TAG]
Seungcheol keeps his promise to taste you only hours after he has you fall asleep with a toy inside you. He softly spreads your puffy, wet folds open with his thumbs and gets an intimate view of your pretty pussy, already finding it glistening wet.
Your pussy is drooling, slicked with the cum he spilled inside you hours ago, the gooey wads of his seed mixing with the remnants of the orgasms he had pulled out of you with ease.
He had made you cum on his fingers and his cock while he stuffed your pretty ass with his favorite red plug. And fuck, it was hot seeing you stretched to your limits. By the time the toy was stuffed in your ass, you were gushing wet, and taking everything he gave like he knew you would.
It always turned him on seeing you be filled in both holes, letting him fuck you into the bed as you creamed around his cock with a squeal.
You took him so well, and you were so good for him, letting him push you to your limits until you were crying, keeping your ass plugged when he finally gave you a break, cuddling you close as he praised you.
But now, he wants more.
His eyes slide up, going from your cute, sloppy pussy, dragging up to your perfect tits, and finally resting on your gorgeous face. Your eyes are closed, your lips parted as you slept. You didn't know he was in between your plush thighs, keeping them apart with his broad shoulders as he gave your pretty pussy a good inspection.
He bets if he sank one finger in, you'd take him with no resistance, your cunt happily sucking his finger in, always a greedy little thing.
And he'd see if it was true soon enough, but first things first, he needs to have a taste.
He keeps you open, his mouth warm over your wet cunt as he flattens his tongue in between your syrupy wet folds, dragging his wet muscle up until the tip of his tongue flicks your sensitive clit. Then he groans. The sound deep from his chest as his eyes roll back. He can taste the mixture of his cum and yours sizzle across his taste buds, and he needs more.
He's lying on his stomach, face buried between your thighs, and his cock swells from the taste of you. You taste intoxicating, and it makes his tongue dive deeper, lapping up more of your sweet slick, and his slightly salty cum like it was dessert.
His arms wrap under your thighs, spreading them wider, opening that pretty pussy more as he laps at your sweet cunt. His hips move on their own accord, his cock seeking the friction he gets from grinding against the bed as he sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth with a low moan.
The whole time, he watches you. Taking in the way your eyebrows furrow in your sleep, your mouth dropping more as little noises begin to slip past your lips from his actions.
Your pussy gets wetter, your arousal coming in waves, and dripping like honey on his tongue. He's addicted. His tongue curls into your fluttering hole, and your gummy walls pulse as his nose rubs against your clit. He could do this for hours. And he has before, slobbering on your cunt until you were fighting to get him off of you.
He usually wouldn't stop till you were covering him with your slick. He wanted to make your pussy a mess, gushing with arousal and his spit as you begged for his cock, delirious.
The memory of it makes him groan again, his big hands pulling you more onto his face without realizing you were waking up, his tongue swirling your pretty nub like it was candy.
And you come to when you feel the knot in your stomach twist, a moan ripping from your throat as you feel Seungcheol lean up. Your eyes met his, and you feel his tongue flick over your clit faster, his hand keeping your thigh up and over his shoulder as his other hand reached for the plug that was still stuffed in your ass.
He pushes on the toy, and your eyes roll back, a cry warbling from your open mouth as you cum suddenly. He grinds the fat plug deeper, rubbing the blunt head of the toy in a sweet spot inside you to fuck you through it, and his tongue licks you clean as you fall apart hard.
He sucks and slurps loudly, lewd wet noises resonating in the room as he makes out with your quivering pussy with fervor. Your sweet syrup coats his tongue, cheeks, and jaw as your thighs twitch from the stimulation and your hips roll across his face in pleasure.
When he pulls away, he gives you a dazzling smile, his face shiny with your arousal as he rasps out, "Good girl, you did so well for me."
You barely have time to recover, to respond to him, as your breath comes up in short pants. He easily flips you onto your stomach, making you arch your ass up, displaying the toy to his hungry eyes as your legs tremble in the aftershocks.
"Now that you're awake, let me see-" Seungcheol's hands slide up to your ass, pulling your cheeks apart to see the way your pussy winks at him as you clench around the toy wantonly. "Yeah, that's right. You're fucking perfect."
You don't see the grin he has, but you heard it when he gave you the praise, his knees spreading your legs open wider as he places a hand on your hip, keeping you in place.
"I think your ass can take me now, don't you?" He doesn't expect an answer, especially not when he grabs the end of the plug, tugging it out a few inches before stuffing it back in. The movement makes you whimper, your face shoved into the pillows as he plays with you, smirking. "You want me to take this out? Replace it with my cock? Want me to fill up both of your holes with my cum?"
Seungcheol says this like his words don't leave your mind reeling, your pussy clenching around nothing pathetically as he fucks you with the toy, nice and slow. Your fingers curl into his pillow, your noises only increasing in volume as he reaches down to press his fat thumb onto your puffy clit.
He flicks the little nub between your swollen folds while grinding the toy deeper, making your eyes roll back as he watches your ass transfixed. "I bet you could cum just like this, huh? With me playing with your pussy and ass, I don't even have to give you my cock-"
"No!" Your gasp is paired with your hips pushing back, taking the toy back in while having him apply more pressure on your clit. You're already sniffling, close to cumming as you speak up. "Want you, want your cock, please."
Seungcheol smirks, having you just how he wanted you, and pinches your clit while he swirls the toy inside your ass. In a flash of white-hot warmth, he's pulled your second orgasm from you, taking you by surprise again. Your eyes roll back, and your pussy spasms around nothing as you cum with a squeal.
"That's it, make a mess, and I'll give you what you need."
He strokes hearts into your throbbing clit, prolonging your orgasm until you're dripping onto his hand as he gently eases the toy from your ass.
"You're doing so well f'me. Just need one more from you, Baby. You can give me one more, right?"
Your head feels fuzzy in the best way, your legs shaking to keep your ass up as you whimper. You feel yourself nod, and Seungcheol grabs one of your hands, placing it behind your back as he intertwines your fingers with his.
The toy gets discarded onto the edge of the bed while his free hand, covered with your last orgasm, strokes his heavy cock. "I'll make you feel so good, just keep your legs open for me. I'll do all the work."
You couldn't move even if you wanted to. He's got one of your arms pinned behind your back, your fingers intertwined, while your other hand clutches the bedsheets. Your spread wide open for him, slicked with your arousal and sweat, and Seungcheol could cum just from the sight of you.
His hand pumps his shaft, spreading your sweet slick along his length, mixing it with his precum as he notches the tip on your smaller hole. "S'good f'me. S'good." He murmurs and slowly presses forward, pushing past your first gummy ring, stuffing you full again.
You're hot and tight even with the prep, and it makes Seungcheol groan as your ass squeezes around his cock. And you're no better than him, you can feel every mouth-watering inch of him slide in, rubbing against nerve endings you didn't even know you had until he was splitting you open on his cock with one long thrust.
The whole time, he holds your hand in his, using it as leverage to lean his weight into his hips. He wants you to feel him hours later, to remember how it feels when it's him versus a silicone toy. He's so warm, pulsing with need and big. There was no comparing.
You don't know who curses first. If it's you or him when his pelvis hits your ass, bottoming out and leaving you dumb.
Seungcheol stops, letting your ass adjust to him. You're squeezing the life out of him; he might cum too soon if he doesn't focus. "You feel me deep inside, Baby? Your ass is just as greedy as your pretty pussy - heh - she keeps sucking me in deeper. You feel good, huh? Just like being filled, don’t you?"
Your eyes squeeze shut at the same time you clutch his fingers that keep your arm pinned behind your back, and nod your head with a dark blush.
But that's not what Seungcheol wanted.
He leans more of his weight onto you, grabbing your other arm, and keeping them both pinned behind your back as he drapes over you. You didn't think he could slide any deeper, but you're sorely mistaken as his free hand rests right next to your head.
"What was that? I asked you a question, Baby. I want you to use your words. Do you feel good? Do you feel me deep inside, molding you to my cock?"
You cry out, tongue heavy in your mouth as he grinds his hips against your ass, and stars burst all the way down to your toes as you scramble to speak. "Yes! Yes, oh fuck - fuck you're so big!" You're babbling, fluttering around his cock as the familiar warmth pools in your lower stomach. "Feels so good, Cheol! Please," You gasp, and his hand around your wrists tightens to keep you in place. "Please move!"
Seungcheol's ego is fed, the sick part of him enjoying the way you beg as his cock throbs with need. He leans down, placing a soft kiss between your shoulders and huffs a laugh, a teasing tone in his voice. "You just had to ask."
When he slides out, it's only halfway before he's rocking forward, picking up the pace with each moan he pushes out of your glossy lips. And you're stuck taking it, taking whatever he gives as he keeps you under him.
Every time he stuffs you to the hilt, the bed creaks, the headboard knocking into the wall as your toes curl in ecstasy.
And you can feel him everywhere. His thighs brushing against yours, his hips smacking into your ass until the noises of it mix with your whines and his grunts.
You can feel his chest hovering over your back as he leans onto the palm resting by your head. And the way he tugs on your wrists behind your back to pull you onto his cock. He makes you meet each one of his heavy thrusts, knocking the wind out of you and causing drool to form in your mouth.
He's fucking you stupid, your brain clearing out any thought that wasn't him or the way his cock pounded against the sweet spots inside of you head-on. He builds your orgasm fast, the previous two leaving you sensitive and near delirious, so it doesn't take long at all.
And Seungcheol can tell you're close with the way your moans pick up in pitch, your ass pushing back to take him deeper with each thrust. You're greedily chasing your orgasm and making him chuckle darkly.
"You gonna cum, Baby? You're milking my cock like you're gonna cum." He smirks, and you're proving him right as you clench around him, his words egging you on. "Go on then, let me see you fall apart for me."
You didn't even realize you had been waiting for his permission until he gave it. The heat in your stomach curls tighter until it finally snaps as you cum with a wail.
Your sweet pussy spasms around nothing, your clit throbbing, as you gush wetly. Your ass squeezes his cock, and your slick drenches your thighs and the sheets underneath you as Seungcheol fucks you through it.
"Fuck, you're making such a mess, Baby." It's the hottest thing for him, seeing the way he can make your pussy weep. It has his thrusts growing erratic as he lets go of your wrists to slip a hand between your thighs.
His fingers drag up your swollen folds, gathering your syrupy slick to bring it up to his mouth. When he tastes your honeyed arousal, it's the final thing to bring him over the edge. He moans around his fingers, his hips flushed against your ass as his cock swells.
And true to his word, he fills your ass with his creamy seed, his cock pulsing as his hips rut the gooey wads deep inside like he had done to your cunt hours ago.
And you take it all, letting him rock his hips into your ass shallowly as he licks his fingers clean with a groan.
When he slips from you, some of his cum follows, dripping down and mixing with your slick that's smeared onto your thighs. And you feel boneless, lying on your stomach as Seungcheol goes to clean you up.
He cleans the toy next, putting it back in the drawer, and finds you in the same position five minutes later, making him laugh as he joins you back into bed.
He's able to push you onto your side, you two facing each other as he takes your hands, kissing your wrists and massaging them to relieve any soreness.
"You did so well for me." He praises and moves on to rub your back, pulling you to his chest as you blink up at him with glossy eyes.
"You're a menace."
This earns you another laugh, and his fingers knead your ass softly. "You're irresistible."
You huff a laugh, rolling your eyes, melting into his chest as he rubs your body, massaging the soreness that you will most likely still feel later. "You're insatiable."
Seungcheol hums in agreement, kissing your forehead. "I told you, it's not enough. It will never be enough. I will always want you."
Pairing: Yunho x Fem!Student!Reader
Genre: Smut - dark twist
Requested: Yes/No
w.c. 5.8k
Warnings: heavy on the smut, semi public sex (ish), mutual pining, food? - THE SUCKER - he does...things with it. Yunho is a FREAK. Reader is desperate for yunho dick (yes YOU, reader)
Spoiler warnings are in comments if you need them.
A/N: So, this is sort of two requests in one, however I don't want to disappoint anyone so I'll post it solo. I hope it's okay! <3 god deleted my ticket to heaven with this one.
Requests: Open (link below)
Taglist: @baby-stay92
If you'd like to be added to my taglist, please DM me or click here.
You release a tired sigh and rub your eyes, throwing your pen down. It bounces off of your ridiculously thick textbook and lands on the papers scattered around your study partner.
“Ah ah. No crashing yet, we’ve got three more chapters,” Yunho says with a laugh, tapping you on the end of the nose with his own pen. You pout, making a face at him before dramatically collapsing on the table.
“I give up. You can become a lawyer, I’ll go back to making sandwiches,” you groan, muffled against pages of your future.
“I thought you liked working at the sandwich shop?”
“I did,” you reply, tilting your head to look at him. “But sandwich shops don’t pay me six figures.”
“Then stop whining,” Yunho shrugs. You grumble words unintelligible even to yourself and sit up, fixing your hair. You stretched, yawned, checked your phone for the thousandth time that evening. Finals were next week. Then there was the Bar exam. You were so close to being y/n l/n, attorney at law…but you were beginning to feel nauseous at the mere sight of words on a page.
“Wanna take a break?” Yunho suggests, leaning back to stretch. You avoid looking at the way his sweater rides up, revealing inches of what appears to be a toned belly.
“No,” you mumble, forcing yourself to look away. “If I leave this library…I think I may never return.”
Yunho chuckles and nods, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index fingers. For a few minutes, you both just sit there, enjoying a rare moment of peace. Usually the library is filled with students, exactly like you—stressed, depressed, drowning in student debt and reading assignments.
“Yunho?” you mumble. He hums a response, looking over at you. You swallow. “If I start to cry, will you judge me?”
“Not at all,” he responds. You nod once, feeling tears burning in your eyes.
For the next hour or so, you take turns reading passages and summarizing them, going through various laws and statutes that you could barely comprehend. Your brain felt as if it might explode, and you considered calling it a night, but it was only 10 p.m. and you’d be damned if you gave out before midnight.
“What the hell are these ‘title 16 provisions?’” you scoff, crinkling your nose. “Were these even part of our assignment?”
“Let me see,” Yunho says. He scoots his chair over to your side of the table rather than just moving seats, and you feel your heart leap into your throat. And god, his arm slides over the back of your chair as he leans in to look at the tiny words on your page.
He smells like coffee and the peanut butter granola bar you shared earlier, and this close you can see that he has very light freckles on his cheeks. You kind of want him to never move.
“Ah, no this isn’t part of this assignment but we will have to know it for finals,” he says, words going in one of your ears and out the other. He begins talking about these provisions, but you must be numb to all forms of communication other than Jeong Yunho’s body heat.
“Y/n?”
“Huh?” you mumble, shaking your head. Yunho has a funny look on his face, one brow raised. Oh god. Oh god. He caught you staring like a fucking creep.
“...You good?” he chuckles. You swallow and quickly nod, brushing your hair back so fast you nearly hit him in the face.
“Yep, uh huh,” you mumble. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Oh,” he says as though relieved. “Good. Well, if you need to take a break, let me know.”
He begins to move; you panic and grab his wrist.
“Wait! You didn’t explain this part to me,” you say, pointing at a random section on the page. Yunho sits down again and tilts his head.
“You need me to explain…marital property to you?” he asks, sounding both amused and disbelieving.
Well, if you’re gonna be a bad liar, at least you’ll be persistent.
“Yes,” you nod. “Just like a refresher, you know? My brain is cooked.”
Yunho stares at you for a few seconds, and you feel your cheeks heat up. It feels like he knows something you don’t know, and you don’t like that. So you yank him back into his seat and let go of his wrist, pretending to be very interested in one of the most basic aspects of your degree.
Marital property is boring, even when the hottest guy in your class is explaining it to you. And what’s worse—he knows. You know he knows. He’s explaining basic concepts to you, and then explaining the basics of those basic concepts, all the while keeping a little smirk on his handsome face. You consider caving, thinking of any possible excuse for your behavior. You’re delirious from lack of sleep, that’s actually true. But you were too deep in this to give up now.
“That’s most of it,” Yunho finally says, long fingers splayed over the textbook. They nearly reach from one end of the open book to the other. You shiver. “I guess we should move into parental rights—”
“Yunho,” you begin with a sigh, ready to admit defeat. He smiles innocently, resting his chin in his hand.
“Yeah?”
“I—”
You freeze, having forgotten how to form sentences. Yunho’s still smiling at you, but his free hand is now resting on your thigh. You thanked the gods you’d decided to wear a skirt today.
His palm is large, warm, spanning much of the plush skin there. He’s not gripping it, but it’s still very obviously intentional. You feel your cheeks burn hot; you’re determined to remain unaffected.
“Nevermind,” you mumble. He chuckles and turns back to the page, though he doesn’t move his hand.
You don’t ask him to.
You go back to your respective chapters, thankfully far beyond the basics, but his hand stays right where it is. He even reaches over his other arm to sip his coffee, refusing to move it. Your skin burns in the shape of his fingers; you almost want to push him away simply because your body is reacting to his touch in a way that’s making you feel crazy. You’re practically feverish, just because he’s near you. Pathetic, honestly.
When you sigh and rub your eyes, those long fingers twitch, making you jump. You try to play it off, though you know he’s aware of your reaction, because he does it again. When you don’t react as dramatically, he squeezes gently.
Your knee jerks up so fast it hits the table, causing your belongings to rattle, and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. Yunho chuckles, though doesn’t move his hand. You clear your throat as though everything is normal. As though he’s not currently squeezing your upper thigh.
“Yunho,” you say quietly.
“Hm?” He doesn't bother looking up from his textbook.
“What are we doing?”
He does look up this time.
“Studying,” he says, giving you a sweet smile. You narrow your eyes.
If he was going to do this, then so were you. You were sleep deprived, numb to the world, and horny as hell. So you parted your knees.
Not much, just an inch or so, but very obvious. You didn’t miss the way Yunho’s throat worked as he swallowed, clearly not expecting the reciprocation. You go back to your textbook, but your victory is short lived, however, as his large hand slides further inward.
You’re flustered. But you’re also stubborn. So you drop your pen and look him in the eyes as you open your knees. Yunho’s gaze is steady as he slowly moves his hand, as though expecting you to stop him. You don’t.
Yunho went back to reading and you did the same, just as his pinky brushed the crease of your inner thigh. You knew you were wet, knew he could probably feel the moist heat radiating from your body behind your pink panties, but you chose to be nonchalant. Until he rubbed the back of his knuckle against your panties, over your clit.
The soft moan that escapes you is mortifying.
Yunho quickly clamps a hand over your mouth, laughing breathily as your brows pull together and you shudder. He looks as shocked as you are, though now you’re hazy, focused only on how good it felt, and wanting more.
“Shh,” he chuckles nervously, glancing around despite the fact that you’re the only ones here. “No wonder you act like you’re walking around on thin ice. You’re frustrated as hell, huh?”
“P-Please,” you whimper pitifully against his palm, though it’s muffled. He moves his hand and you grip his wrist, looking up at him. You silently communicate your needs, praying he has mercy and doesn’t force you to say it out loud. Yunho glances around one more time, licking his lips before looking down at you like a fucking steak on a platter.
“If we’re gonna do this, you gotta be quiet for me,” he murmurs. You nod quickly, gasping when he effortlessly yanks your chair closer to him. He adjusts his glasses before lowering his hand to your thighs, gently stroking them.
“Can I touch you?” he asks quietly. You open your mouth, but he presses a finger to your lips. “Quietly.”
“Yes, yes,” you whine. “T-Touch me.”
Yunho bites his lower lip, as though imagining doing much, much more than that. When he rubs your thighs again, your knees fall open and you stifle a moan behind your sleeves. Yunho smiles at the sight of you, slipping his hand between your legs again.
This time, he’s more careful, though it’s much more frustrating for you. You squirm when he strokes either side of your cunt, making a ‘v’ and squeezing your plush pussy lips between them. You moan again, loudly, and Yunho scrambles to cover your mouth.
“Baby, you’ve gotta be—”
“Quiet, I know,” you pout, gripping his wrist. “C-can’t help it…feels good.”
Yunho swallows, letting his fingers brush against you again. You manage to stay quiet this time, but your mouth opens in a silent scream.
“So fucking sensitive,” he murmurs, drawing his hand back. You nearly protest, but he presses his index finger to your clit like a button and you jolt, covering your mouth just in time. Yunho smirks.
“H-Haven’t had sex,” you say, fisting the sleeve of his sweater as he pushes again. “In m-months.”
“Why?” he asks, beginning to rub slow circles against your panties. You feel your wetness spreading beneath them, but you don’t care. You grip the edge of the table and swallow.
“Busy,” you breathe, licking your lips. Yunho’s eyes follow your tongue. You don’t notice.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Y-yeah, yes,” you nod frantically.
Yunho uses the hand between your legs to turn your entire body toward him. You want to mention how attractive that is, but he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips to yours.
His kiss is nothing like his touch; there’s nothing dirty or hurried about it. His nose brushes the crease of yours as he tilts your heads to the side, his free hand moving up to cup your cheek. It’s a sweet kiss that makes no sense when his fingers are currently resting against your panties beneath your skirt.
He seems to have forgotten what he was doing amidst your soft kisses, as you break away from his lips to impatiently bounce and whine. Yunho smirks and begins rubbing his middle finger directly over your clit, applying very little pressure. He kisses you again, and you throw your arms around his neck, trying to push your body into his. His knee prevents you from doing so.
“Nng…what are you doing?” you whine, fisting his sweater. “Wanna…wanna be in your lap.”
Your own admission makes your cheeks flush red, but you don’t care. You’re horny and your crush’s hand is between your thighs.
“Not yet, baby,” he mumbles, stealing another lazy kiss. “Wanna keep you like this. I like how desperate you are.”
“I…I’m not desperate,” you mumble. Yunho bites his lower lip and applies more pressure to your clit, you buck your hips and grip his sleeve. He’s laughing, but you don’t care, aching for more of him.
“Desperate,” he hums, pulling you in for another kiss. You don’t understand his obsession with kissing you; wasn’t he as horny as you were? But you kissed him back anyway, because you’ve had a crush on this guy since your freshman year and even the slut hormones clouding your brain couldn’t block that much out. He was a damn good kisser too, taking the lead and hardly giving you time to breathe.
In contrast to his soft mouth, Yunho’s index finger hooks your soaked panties, tugging them to the side. His finger brushes your bare cunt, though he knowingly silences your moans with a kiss.
“What can I do?” he asks once you finally break apart. You’re unwilling to let him go, however, pulling his lips back to yours..
“Don’t care,” you mumble between kisses, body buzzing with need. “Whatever you want.”
“Can I go in here?”
He prods at the needy hole between your folds and you fucking purr, clutching his sweater and pulling him close with a whine.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs. He waits for you to eagerly nod, then brings his fingers to your mouth and taps your lips. “Open.”
You do as he says and he slips his fingers inside. You nearly moan around them as you instinctively suck and lick his digits; they’re long and thick, two of them practically as big as a few hookups you’ve had in the past. Yunho watches, pupils wide as you act like an obedient doll a little too eager to be fingered in a library at midnight.
When he pulls his fingers out, they’re slick and shiny with your drool, and you see him suck in air. You blush, a little embarrassed at how thorough of a job you’ve done. You expect Yunho to go beneath your skirt, but he slides his wet fingers in his mouth, eyes never leaving yours.
It’s the filthiest thing you’ve ever seen, next to the look of pure bliss in his eyes as he sucks your saliva off of his fingers and replaces it with his own. You decide then that you do not want him to finger you.
“Fuck me,” you blurt out.
You barely register what you’ve said, but you’re damn near ready to jump his bones. Yunho blinks in surprise, obviously not having expected that. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth.
“Really?” he asks. He sounds surprised for reasons you don’t understand, but you nod.
“Yeah,” you say, pulling him in for another kiss. “Want you inside me. All of you.”
“Fuck,” Yunho groans. He grabs your face in his hands and kisses you back, harder. Your hands are shaky as they go for his jeans, but then he freezes like you’ve just slapped him.
“What?” you ask, breaking the kiss. Yunho curses and rubs his face with both hands, tilting back in his chair. “What is it, yu?”
“I don’t…fuck. I don’t have a condom.”
He runs a hand through his hair like this is the biggest mistake of the century. You bite your lower lip—the idea of leaving tonight and not getting fucked by him makes you genuinely want to cry.
“We could…you know?” you mumble, face hot. “I mean, I-I’m clean. Obviously, haven’t had sex in god knows when—”
“No,” Yunho says, shaking his head. “I don’t trust myself.”
“Don’t trust yourself to what?” you frown. Yunho looks at you,
“There’s no way I’m gonna be able to make myself pull out once I’m in you,” he murmurs. “We need a condom.”
You swallow. You really shouldn’t push; but you need to hear more.
“How do you know?” you breathe, licking your lips.
“C’mere.”
“What?”
Yunho reaches over, grabbing your wrist. He pulls you into his lap and you gasp, able to feel the rigid line of his cock beneath you. But he grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss again.
“I’ve been thinking about you for so long,” he hums, and you mewl in response, grinding down against him. He kisses you again to stifle what was no doubt a moan.
“Y-Yeah?” you manage to squeak out. Yunho nods.
“Yeah. Not gonna be able to pull out if I’m balls deep in that little cunt with you fucking crying for it like this.”
Fuck. You needed him. To be honest, with or without the condom, but if he felt it was necessary.
“Let’s go get one,” you mumble dizzily. “A c-condom. There’s a convenience store down the street.”
Yunho frowns, looking at the clock on the wall.
“The library will be locked, won’t it? Don’t we have to lock up?”
You lean back in his lap, smiling.
“Yes. But I’ve got a key,” you chime.
The moment you stepped into the store, you immediately regretted it and felt all the horny escape you. Not really, but it was embarrassing as hell, and painfully obvious as to what you were doing here. Yunho didn’t seem to mind, his hand tightly clasping yours as he guided you toward the back.
You had a little trouble finding the condoms—it made you inexplicably happy when Yunho suggested asking the clerk as he didn’t know either, even though your answer was a firm NO—but eventually found the rack next to the sex pills and cold sore cream.
Hot.
Yunho squints, and you cross your arms impatiently. You grab a box and shake it.
“It’s not a shoe store, here,” you mumble, pushing the box into his hand. Yunho glances over the label and smirks, tossing it back on the shelf. You want to ask what the hell is so funny when you’re so fucking wet your panties are sticking to your thighs, but then he finally makes a choice and puts the box in your hands. Oh.
Oh.
XXL. Makes sense.
You make him grab a few more things as though that makes the purchase less shameful. When you go to check out, you look everywhere but at the clerk—until he has the audacity to speak to the man holding your hand, very obviously purchasing condoms so the two of you can go fuck in a library.
“Finals week?” the guy says. Yunho slides his card across the counter and squeezes your hand.
“Finals week,” he nods.
“I just realized we could’ve gone to my apartment,” you say, unlocking the library door. Yunho leaned against the wall, unwrapping the candy he’d apparently decided on last minute. A red round sucker. “It’s only a few minutes away.”
You’d been given a key to the library your second year here, as you were a trusted student who often pulled all nighters—and you lived in the shitty part of campus where the power often went out. You were aware this was a total abuse of that power, but you figured if you showed Yunho to Ms. Lin, she’d understand.
“Yeah, well, my fantasies during puberty weren’t at apartments,” Yunho shrugs, holding the door for you. You head inside and find your table, where you drop the bag of your purchased items. Yunho grabs it, immediately fishing out the box.
“Very boy of you,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Let me guess, the hot librarian offers to help you find your dick? Is that part of the dewey decimal system?”
Yunho smiles. “Can we get back to you whining for me to fuck you? I liked that.”
“I was not—”
Your freakishly tall study partner grabs your wrist, tugging you against him. You swallow and look up, lips parted at the sudden contact.
“Not what?” he asks. You blink, but something is suddenly pushing at your lips. You open dumbly, feeling too obedient as you take whatever he’s putting in your mouth apparently. The taste of artificial cherry makes you grimace.
Yunho backs you up to the table, crowding you against it. He cups your face in his hands and kisses your cheek, thumbs brushing below your ears. You realize you’ve been staring at him wordlessly, sucker in your mouth.
“How’s it taste?” he asks.
“Good,” you mumble. It doesn’t taste good, you hate cherry, but if Jeong Yunho puts something in your mouth, you love it, you decide. Cherry is your new favorite flavor.
“I doubted if they sold gags, so,” he chuckles. “This’ll do.”
You frown, but he takes the stick of the sucker before you can respond.
“Open,” he says. You open.
You see his eyes twinkle, almost like he can’t believe how well you’re listening to him. If only he knew you’d do anything he asked.
Rather than pull it out, Yunho rubs the sucker around your mouth. He coats your tongue with the sticky flavor, then the inside of your cheek. By the time he pulls it out, you don’t realize you’re drooling, mouth open for him.
He pops the sucker in his own mouth, just like his fingers, and you shudder. Then he’s slipping his hands beneath your skirt, pushing your panties down your thighs.
“What are you doing?” you ask softly, more curious than concerned. Yunho takes the sucker out and kisses your cheek, then your lips. You can taste it on his tongue, just like yours.
Something sticky and wet prods at your clit and you gasp, but Yunho wraps an arm around your waist and keeps you from pulling away. You squeak helplessly in shock, caught between mind numbing bliss and disbelief. He’s rubbing the bulbous head of the sucker against your clit.
“Shh…figure it’s too risky to eat you out properly,” he hums in your ear, crushing you to his chest. You squirm, though not out of discomfort.
You have no idea how to react, hands gripping his sweater as he holds you in place. The candy feels warm and sticky, sliding through your cunt juices as he teases you with it.
“I wasn’t going to,” he says, voice strained as though he’s doing all he can to hold back. “But I saw it and…well fuck, baby, if I’m honest, I just wanted to see if you were desperate enough to try and fuck yourself on a piece of candy.”
You whine and bury your head against his shoulder, because you fucking are. You are desperate enough to try, because he slides the candy between your lips and you jolt when it brushes your hole.
“F-Fuck, Yunho,” you gasp, nails digging into fabric. You hear him laugh, and it sounds so fucking cocky, like he knew you’d end up like this, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you work yourself to ruin on a piece of candy.
He slides it beneath the hood of your clit, twisting the stick in his fingers. Your knees buckle, but he’s gripping you tight. He works it like a toy, rubbing up and down, focusing on your clit until you’re nearly there before he moves it again. It didn’t feel this big when it was in your mouth, but you’ve never wanted something inside you so bad.
“Oh my god,” you moan, thighs clamping together. It doesn’t stop his hand, or the candy, the rounded tip pushing against your hole. He starts rolling it again, and you gasp as you feel yourself snapping inside, the hot neediness spilling over the edges. You try to warn him, but only manage to squeak.
“Are you…are you cumming on a fucking lollipop?” Yunho asks, voice filled with awe. You nod.
Your ears ring, your vision blurs, and you feel something pushing against your mouth. It’s Yunho’s hand you realize, but you can’t stop, can’t stop shaking and screaming and there’s something wet on your cheeks.
You haven’t had a proper orgasm in months, maybe even a year, and were it not for Yunho holding you up, you’re pretty damn sure you would’ve fainted.
When you open your eyes, Yunho is laughing quietly and hugging you tight, rubbing your back.
“Fuck, are you okay?” he asks, sounding concerned and impressed. You sniff and nod, using the back of your hand to wipe your cheeks. Yunho cups your face and uses his thumbs to clean you up. You were crying.
“I’m sorry, jesus, I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. You realize then that the damn sucker is in his mouth.
You whine, yanking him forward until you’re kissing him. It’s clumsy, but he takes the sucker out and tosses it on the table behind you. You begin working desperately at his jeans, and hear him release a cherry flavored groan.
“Still gonna let me fuck you?” he asks, keeping his lips against yours.
“God yes,” you say in a shaky voice. “P-Please.”
“I can do that,” Yunho breathes. He places a large hand on the softness of your belly, gently pushing you back.
Yunho towers over you, one hand moving to cup your thigh and open you up so he can stand between them. The other goes to his jeans, and you find yourself biting your lip and digging your nails into your palms.
XXL?
“Since you look like you’re about to fucking eat me,” Yunho says with a laugh, “why don’t you do it? Hm? When’s the last time you put a condom on?”
You feel yourself blush at having been caught, but sit up to snatch the box near you.
“Asshole,” you mutter, refusing to give him a proper answer.
Your hands are too shaky to open the box, so you end up ripping it down the side, condoms spilling out. You sigh anyway and grab one, slipping the foil packet between your teeth. You move your hands to his jeans, and realize that for the first time…you’re nervous.
Until now your brain had been sex focused; it still was, but your post orgasm clarity made you realize how fucking desperate you looked. You roughly popped open the button of his jeans.
Yunho was so damn tall that his hips were practically level with your face whilst you were on the short table. This meant that, as soon as you’d tugged his boxers down, you suddenly found yourself face to face with the biggest cock you’ve ever seen.
XXL.
For a moment you were too dumbstruck—why did they bother sculpting the soft dicks when the hard ones could look like…this? All veins and smooth skin and a pink mushroom head that looked perfectly designed for…use. You wanted it in your mouth. But he hadn’t technically put his mouth on you, and you were both in a library, and right now you were starting to get a little shaky at the idea of this thing going anywhere near your neglected pussy, so you swallowed your resolve and took the condom from between your teeth.
Yunho watched as you struggled to tear open the packet, biting your lower lip in frustration. You finally got it open, sighing as you placed the rubber at the tip. He grabbed your hands then, and you paused. Shit. Were you doing this wrong?
“We don’t have to do anything,” he mumbles softly, cupping your chin. “You wanna stop right now? We stop. Not trying to ruin the mood, just want you to know it’s okay.”
You shake your head.
“I’m okay, thanks,” you say quietly. “It’s just…fuck, Yunho.”
He laughs, his little ego having returned just a bit, you wanted to roll your eyes and kiss him at the same time. He bites his lower lip and strokes his thumb over yours.
“I’ll be gentle,” he hums. “You can take it for me.”
Fuck. Yes, you absolutely can.
Yunho guides you onto your back, though you settle on your elbows, propped up for him. You watch as he squeezes the rest of the lube from the packet onto his cock, giving a few tugs before nodding at you. You weren’t sure if you were excited or scared, but there were two heartbeats and one was between your legs.
He pushes your legs apart and guides his cock forward. You lick your lips and let your knees fall open, bunching your skirt around your waist, offering yourself to him. Yunho sucks in air through his teeth and curses.
“So fucking pretty,” he hums, supporting his weight on one palm as he brushes his cock against you. You shiver as the cold lube is smeared around your sensitive cunt. “Knew it from the day I saw you freshman year in a skirt just like this one. Thought I was gonna die when you smiled at me.”
“I didn’t know you remembered,” you mumbled. You were so nervous your first day, which wasn’t helped by the hot guy who approached you and asked if you were lost. Apparently you could stop feeling ashamed for having mind fucked him back then.
“Of course I do,” Yunho chuckles, teasing the head of his cock up and down your slit. “So cute, how you blushed when I talked to you. You still do that, you know.”
“Shut up,” you mutter. Yunho laughs, then licks his lips.
“Gonna put it in now. Tell me if it’s too much,” he says. You nod.
The swollen head of his cock catches on your hole, and Yunho uses his weight to lean forward and urge himself inside. It aches a bit, not just from the size but fuck it’s been so long since you’ve had something more than your own fingers in you. Your thoughts go from not so bad to okay damn to holy fuck there’s more? Because he keeps pushing and you keep taking, and you feel every inch of him filling your insides while his body offers more.
“Fuck, baby. Fuck,” Yunho whines, still gripping the base of his cock as he guides it into you. Your head falls back and you curse at nothing; his cock is somehow too big but perfectly sized at the same time and you’ve never felt so god damn full. “Look at you, that needy little cunt is swallowing me babygirl. Keep fucking taking it.”
His words make you dizzy, and you whine when he’s finally fully seated. You feel heavy, pinned to the table, as though you can’t move. You reach down and feel the rigid sides of his cock, shocked to feel just how much is inside you.
“How’s that, beautiful?” Yunho asks. He places both palms on the table, either side of your body, and you tense. If he started thrusting, it would fuck you up.
“Good,” you say, nodding. “Big, but good.”
“Knew you could take it. 'm gonna fuck you now. Stop me if you need to," he murmurs. You can take it.
"I can take it," you nod. He smiles, kissing you once, then twice.
You squeak as Yunho begins fucking you properly, ploughing into you hard and fast, moving with need and instinct rather than reason.
The table shakes with his heavy thrusts, pistoning into you so hard it makes you dizzy. You’re surprised you can take him like this, able to feel every inch of him when he’s seated inside, pressing deliciously on your walls.
Yunho ruts into you like an animal, unfortunately one with a very big cock as he struggles to keep every inch buried inside you. He wasn’t lying about not pulling out, as he refused to do so even when thrusting. You had no room to breathe, no chance for air, as he fucked into you repeatedly while trying to go deeper.
You’re at a loss for words, lips parted, eyes following his expression and movements. He’s desperate in his own way, obviously holding back, though you don’t know from what. You consider encouraging him to let go—until he groans loudly and snaps his hips, stealing the breath from your lungs.
“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby. So fucking…need you to hold still for me and take it,” he breathes. "Hold still. A-Almost done, fuck, keep taking it so good for me."
You do as he asks without question, clinging to his shoulders, nose to nose with Jeong Yunho as he forces his cock as far as it can go in your body and begins to pump a thin condom full of cum that should be you.
Yunho takes a few moments to breathe, arms shaking where he holds himself up on the table. You run a hand through his damp hair, watching as he moans softly and leans into your touch.
“You okay?” you giggle. He nods, tilting his head to kiss your palm.
“Just…You’re so fucking perfect. Want more of you if you’ll let me, wanna make you feel good every day," he says.
You blink at the surprising tenderness of his words, feeling they were more than sex related. You wanted to ask questions, but right now, you were both sticky with sweat and fucked out on a library table that would need to be wiped down with holy water.
You separated, which left you shuddering from the sudden cold emptiness inside of you. Yunho exhaled sharply, waiting a few moments before removing the condom and tying it off.
You both cleaned up and fixed your clothes as best you could—though you stuffed your panties in your bag because the sticky wetness was a little much.
“Do you want to come over?” you ask, making sure your skirt is covering your ass. “You know. To clean up.”
Yunho smiles, which makes you smile, and then you’re blushing and cursing at yourself. He nods and brushes your cheek with his knuckle.
“Sounds good,” he hums. You beam and gesture for him to follow you. Yunho watches as you collect your things with shaky legs, smiling to himself.
You were so damn pretty. Intelligent. He’d noticed right away that you were someone he was going to want.
He grabbed his own bag and walked past the table, pausing as he stepped on something.
The sucker.
You crinkle your nose when you notice it, too.
“Guess we need to throw that away,” you mumble. He nods, bending down and picking it up. He holds it in his hand for a few seconds.
What a good idea it had been.
He slips it into his pocket, for the memories.
Memories like, your name. Your favorite color. That skirt you wore on your first day. Apartment 2B, where you lived. You like the right side of the bed, don’t you? Yunho likes the left side.
The last man you slept with—11 months, 1 week, and 4 days ago.
Yunho hated that one.
You had waffles for breakfast this morning. You usually have oatmeal. You sleep with a nightlight on.
You’re afraid of the dark.
“You coming?” you ask with a shy smile, pausing at the door. Yunho looks up. You didn’t see him slip the sucker in his pocket. You never notice things like that.
“Yeah,” he says. He follows you out the door and waits for you to lock up. Then, without thinking too much of it, he takes your hand. You don’t pull away. Your hand is small compared to his, and he squeezes it. You squeeze back.
You like hot showers.
You sound so pretty when you moan, especially when you think you’re alone.
Synopsis: You need to be careful. Two predators have had their eyes on you for a while, and the ball's in your court when you attend a notorious Jackson Wang party. What are Jeon Jungkook and Kim Taehyung planning… And once you find yourself entangled in their games, will you ever find your way out?
Warnings: MINORS GET YO ASS OUTTA HERE!!! get ready... DUBCON!!!! threesome (mmf), explicit sex, unprotected sex (wrap it!), oral sex (male!receiving), bondage, face fucking, pussy slapping, dacryphilia, power play, humiliation/degradation, fingering, afab!reader, mild BDSM, manipulation, anal sex, double penetration in 2 holes, edging, mild predator/prey, choking, breath play, spit kink, blood kink, praise kink, manhandling, size kink/belly bulge, drug use (recreational; it's just weed guys), and probably more...
Word count: 15,213 (listen...)
Author's note: hi so yeah this is insane yes whatever awesome enjoy! this is crossposted on @st4rtells's blog (this is a collab!). as always, would love to hear what everyone thinks! this is my first hardcore smut (imho). like legit i think every kink u can of is here. enjoy!
Side note, this is also on AO3!
Links: masterlist, requests
You should never have come to this party.
One of the friends you’d made at your new job working for HYBE had invited you out, and you’d agreed. It was a Saturday night, for God’s sake, and you were young. Might as well enjoy it.
Jackson Wang’s bachelor pad in Hannam-dong is massive. Towering, Greek-style columns line the entrance, hiding floors upon floors of meticulously decorated rooms. Frankly, you didn’t even know there were houses of this size in Seoul. His white mansion seems to pulse to the beat of the music, flashing LED lights casting colorful shadows across the sprawling lawn.
When you arrived with your friend Minwoo, the party was already in full swing. Every direction you turn, there was some A-List idol drunkenly singing along, taking a hit from a messily rolled blunt, or wiping their nose after doing a line.
Minwoo seemed rattled, but you were able to push the shock factor aside. Having worked in entertainment for some time now, this wasn’t exactly new. Especially with K-pop idols.
You remember finding the dichotomy hilarious when you first noticed it; the way the South Korean media and entertainment companies painted these perfect pictures of their idols. How they’d blush and giggle and seemingly devote their lives to their fans. But—of course—that was nothing more than a facade.
Minwoo leads you through the throngs of dancing people, bee-lining for the drinks table. He sends you a sheepish smile when you make it.
“This party is crazy, huh!” Minwoo’s teeth flash through his smirk. He seems to be trying to hide his nervousness. Cute, you think.
He’s sweet, sure, but not really your type. It isn’t that he isn’t cute, because he is. He’s tall (well, taller than you) with dark hair cropped just beneath his ears. You aren’t sure exactly what it is that turns you off to him. Maybe it’s how friendly he seems to be.
Alas, he’s a good friend, and someone you wouldn’t hesitate to call to help you move something heavy. God forbid a girl use her resources.
“Thanks, Min,” you smile at him when he hands you a cup of God-knows-what. You hadn’t planned on drinking it; who the fuck was that stupid? You probably know two whole people here, including Minwoo, and you value your consciousness.
Minwoo, on the other hand, takes a hearty gulp of his. You bite back a chuckle. He’s a man; he’ll be fine.
“Oh my God, Minwoo!” A grainy voice pierces your eardrum, followed by a flash of long blonde hair. “Hi!”
“Tana!” Minwoo looks pleasantly surprised to see the woman to your left. You raise an eyebrow. “It’s been so long! How are you?”
The woman—Tana, you presume—looks a bit too old to be here. She smiles back at your friend, shiny veneers on full display. For a second, the conversation is silent as you wait for Minwoo to introduce you.
Wiping a manicured hand under her nose, she sniffles, “I’ve been so great! Seoul is just so fun and—”
Right, okay. Tana’s voice trails off as you take a few steps away to let Minwoo work his magic, or do whatever his version of that is. You’re ready to take a lap, anyway.
You let yourself meander through the crowded rooms of the Wang house. You wonder, briefly, if the host himself is even here. Chuckling lightly under your breath, you make your way up a marble staircase in the foyer, admiring the glittering lights of the grandiose chandelier. Slowly, you reach a hand out to feel the crystals.
“You know, you probably shouldn’t touch that.” A greasy voice has you halting in your black kitten heels, and despite yourself, your heart jumps.
“What? Cat got your tongue?” The owner of the voice is sitting a couple of stairs above you. He looks familiar, but you can’t place his name. Your arm falls back to your side, slowly, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Who the hell does this guy think he is?!
“Thanks for your opinion,” you retort, evenly, moving to continue up the stairs.
“Hey, woah, slow down, now!” He stumbles over his words a bit, which makes you want to roll your eyes even more. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this all alone?”
You consider him briefly. The man is leaning over his jean-clad legs, lanky arms braced against his chin. A few spots of acne are splattered across his cheeks, and he has a few stray hairs sticking out of his chin at weird angles. They almost look like pubes.
“Have a good night, bud,” you decide, after a moment’s thought. It appears that he isn’t planning to let you up the stairs, so you turn on your heel and head back down.
Admittedly a bit fazed from that weird ass dude, you spot an open door to a patio. Some air would be lovely right about now.
Your footsteps echo on the linoleum floors as you dart for the doorway to outside. You let a sigh escape your lungs when you realize Mr. Chin Pubes is too fucked up to chase after you. Thank God.
But, the devil has other plans for you, because as soon as you make yourself comfortable, you notice an eerily familiar sleeve of tattoos out of the corner of your eye.
God, this had been the worst shift of your life.
Not only had you dropped your morning coffee and suffered an extremely bad hair day when your heatless curls had promptly frizzed up thirty minutes after getting to the office, but your manager at HYBE had sent you a Microsoft Teams message to come to his office. Which you had never been to. Hence why you were scrambling like a headless chicken around the office building trying to find him.
You had asked another employee where it was, and she pointed you in this direction. Vaguely.
So, you felt relatively confident when you turned the corner into yet another hallway. Wait… did she say third door on the right? Or left? You shook it off and went with your gut, reaching for the door handle to the right. But before you could turn the handle, voices drifted down the hallway from inside. You paused, thinking against eavesdropping momentarily before your curiosity got the better of you.
“Nosy bitch,” you muttered to yourself, slowly turning the handle and peeking in.
The sight before you made you pause. It was… a dressing room? Where the hell even were you? The lights were flicked off, but two bodies were tucked into a corner. Shirtless, mind you—both of them.
You almost chuckled to yourself. Talk about office romance. But the sight of a very familiar tattoo sleeve made the laughter die in your throat.
You shake yourself out of your day-mare, suppressing a shiver. Fucking Jeon Jungkook. And, just your luck, it seems he has spotted you, too. Panic clutches at your throat, and the beginnings of hot tears begin to burn behind your eyes.
So, naturally, you high-tail your ass straight out of there. Fuck Minwoo and his stupid magic. You’re going to find him and get the hell out of this house.
The main area of the house is somehow busier than when you’d arrived, bodies on bodies of sweaty skin and a blasting bass flooding your senses. Your impending panic is not helping you navigate the mess.
“—And I was like, tone, question mark? A tone, like, a bleach and tone?!” Tana’s chainsmoker-ass voice wanders back into your eardrums. Her words cut through the music, somehow louder than everything else. Thank God for her vocal fry.
You lock your eyes on her bright hair a few yards away. Next to her, Minwoo is bent backwards, a hand clutching at her arm as he laughs. Ugh.
You can’t do this right now. You were already pissed off, and this bitch had swooped in and stolen your friend. You have half a mind to make a passive aggressive comment but ultimately decide against it, your need to escape winning against any desire to start a fight. Anger is beginning to outweigh your anxiety.
You storm past the two of them, unaware of the predator quickly catching up to you from behind. You don’t realize his presence until a hand grabs your wrist and yanks you aside.
You’re suddenly shrouded in darkness, the previously deafening music now muffled, only a deep bass and your throbbing heart discernible. The scene has shifted too quickly for you to acknowledge the spike of your heart rate.
“What the fu—” A hand clamps shut over your mouth, effectively silencing your scream.
“Careful, sweetheart,” A sultry voice tickles the skin of your earlobe, “wouldn’t want your little office friend to find out who has you in here alone, would you?”
With that, the lights come on. Your heart skips a beat.
The fluorescents blind you momentarily before your eyes rest on the light switch, a tattooed hand hovering over it. Your gaze trails down the inked sleeve of none other than Jeon Jungkook, until finally meeting his own in the reflection of the mirror.
It takes you a few moments to push through the initial shock and recognize what’s happening, but as soon as you do, you start thrashing in his hold. You’re running on pure adrenaline, limbs finding an unknown strength to push against his well-built physique.
“Easy now, sweetheart; don’t hurt yourself,” Jungkook drawls on, effortlessly keeping you pinned in his grasp. Your throat is closing up, a sure sign of your now inevitable panic attack, as you rack your racing brain for something—anything—you can do to escape.
You don’t feel remotely bad as your teeth sink into the fleshy part of his hand, biting down with enough force to draw blood. His eyebrows pinch together in an almost amused way, still refusing to let go. Your eyebrows furrow as you close your jaw even tighter, probably reminiscent of a feral, cornered dog.
When you finally wrench yourself out of his grip, you’re spinning immediately to bolt towards the door. Terror overtakes the futile sense of hope you’d cultivated when you don’t make it far. An arm wraps around your waist for the second time, stronger, probably intent on keeping you captive this time.
You’re dizzy with terror as your body is flung towards the sink, back colliding harshly with the counter. You fight back tears, back stinging and heart racing, but Jungkook’s arms are resting on the counter on either side of you. You cannot show him that he’s getting to you.
You’re trapped, caged between his biceps, and his dark eyes are piercing into yours. It’s probably futile, but you stare valiantly back. Your heart skips a beat. Have his eyes always had specs of… gold?
“Try that again, and I’ll have you over my knee.” Momentarily, his crude words stun you into submission. What did he just say? You swallow the fear gathering in your throat, deadset on preserving perhaps the only upper hand you hold over him: confidence.
“What? Got nothing to say now?” He exhales, inching closer to your face with each drawn out word.
“Get the fuck away from me,” you spit, anxiety causing your voice to tremble just so.
“Oh, but you don’t want that, do you?” Jungkook leans back as his lips curl into a predatory smirk. He tilts his chin up at you, challenging you for a response. For a reaction.
“You have no fucking idea what I want!” You’re yelling now, anxiety and anger taking the reins despite your carefulness. You suppose you’re probably giving him that reaction, feeding his sick sense of control.
“The thing is…” he starts, bringing a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness, “I think I know exactly what you want.” His finger lingers by your face, twirling a strand between his long fingers. “Or rather, what you need.”
The audacity of this motherfucker. You’re scared, yes, but you’re also pissed. And turned on, but that’s a secret you’re not sure you’re ready to admit. Even to yourself.
“And tell me, Jungkook, what do I need?” You reply, poking your bottom lip out as you pretend his callous assumption. You try your best to ignore the dampness coating your underwear.
“You need to learn your fucking place,” Jungkook retorts, darkly. The aggressiveness of his words makes you pause. He’s eerily still in front of you.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” You spit back, although a twinge of guilt rumbles in your stomach. The tattooed man’s eyes darken, gold long gone, as he pushes you even further into the sink. Your arms shoot backwards to catch yourself, leaving a space open for his biceps to squeeze tighter to your body.
The pressure of his strength under your arms has your body lifting off of the ground. You balance on your toes, legs shaking in your heels, and not from fear anymore.
“Oh, I’ve seen you. Trust me, I have.” Jungkook eyes dart between yours, breath tickling your cheek. “Waltzing around the office in your tight little pencil skirt and low-cut blouse. Acting all important when you’re nothing more than a glorified secretary.”
Your composure falters, anger and something more feral bubbling up in your chest, “I worked my ass off to be here. You of all people should know that.” He’s speaking as if he’s actually seen you more than a few times at the HYBE office. As if he’s privy to all that you do—all that you’ve done—to get where you are. It’s a disgusting underestimation, you think, but still, his words hit at a long since established insecurity.
“See, that’s the problem with sluts like you,” he clicks his tongue as he continues, turning his head just so. “You think you can fuck your way to the top. You’re no better than the rest of the fucked up people in this industry.”
Sluts like me? Your perfect facade slips further, and you feel a single tear slide down your cheek. Fuck, you think, but the damage is already done. Jeon Jungkook has wormed his stupid way into your stupid brain. And his opinion matters. Another tear follows close behind.
But Jungkook only chuckles lightly, pushing you all the way up onto the counter so you’re sitting in front of him. He tuts and reaches a single tattooed finger for your cheek, letting a tear drip onto it.
And then the motherfucker brings his finger to his lips and fucking licks it. “There it is.”
You’re gaping at him, still seething with anger at his blatant disrespect but also especially grateful you don’t have to rely on your shaky legs to stand. You wonder, briefly, how he might lick something else from his fingers…
His hand suddenly glides around your neck, fingers splayed across your pulse. It’s not aggressive, you think, probably just meant to hold you still. Alas, your heart jumps into your throat, meeting his hand. Your heart is still racing—it hasn’t really stopped since you spotted him outside—but you’re well aware that more than just fear is contributing. You shift in your perch on the counter.
Overwhelmed, more tears start to fall from your eyes, and you’re sure your face is flushed with embarrassment as he pulls you in. Your lips mere inches apart when he whispers, eyes darting from yours down to your lips: “Is my stupid little slut finally realizing what she wants?”
Your heart pants as his hand moves suddenly from your neck to your face, gripping it and turning it forcefully, forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror.
Jesus. You look awful; blood is smeared across your lips, and tears are streaming down your face as you shake in his grip.
“Look at you, all fucked up,” he mumbles next to your ear, teeth lightly grazing the bottom of your lobe. “And just for me.”
He looks straight-up pornographic in the mirror, hands all over your body, and you can’t help but appreciate how big his hand is around your jaw.
“Leave me alone,” you whimper. Jungkook just smiles at you in the mirror, a certain air of derangement clouding his beautiful face.
“I’ll let you go this time,” he concedes softly, “but the next time you fuck around, I might just have to bend you over and teach you a lesson.”
You can only shudder, nodding hurriedly in his grip.
When he finally lets go of your face and gives it a couple of gentle pats before pulling back, you almost… miss the pressure of his strong grip. But as soon as he appeared, Jeon Jungkook walks out of the room and slams the door shut behind him.
The silence of his absence is deafening. More tears gather in your lashes.
After a moment, you stumble out of the bathroom, and for once find solace in the crowd as you try to escape the towering man who is more than likely watching you. Tears are freely falling from your eyes now, and you can’t do anything to stop them.
Fucking hell. Now, I need a drink.
Your shoulders slam into person after person as you fight your way back to Minwoo’s general area. Fuck, where did he go?
Now is really not the time to be getting busy, Min.
You choke back a sob, arms crossed around your waist as a sense of impending doom fills your system. The crowd isn’t thinning. How big is this damn house?
Suddenly, you slam into a broad chest, a deep oomph escaping the lips of whoever it was on impact. You stumble backwards, but strong hands grab your shoulders.
“Jesus, are you okay?” You can’t bring yourself to meet the deep voice’s eyes, tears still streaming down your face. You stare at his shiny black boots, half-hidden by a pair of expensive-looking dress pants. He even smells like money. And weed.
The deep voice calls your name, jolting you back to reality, and your eyes force themselves to look up to his.
Oh, hell no.
You weren’t sure if your eyes were deceiving you, but you were almost positive that the two shirtless figures were…
No, it couldn’t be.
With gentle hands and even gentler eyes, he takes in your presence. His dark, blown pupils dart over your face; he’s searching for something. You’re not sure if he spots what he’s looking for, but his eyes almost harden when he spots the blood dripping from your lips. Your heart jumps again, familiar now. Welcome, even.
You took a hesitant step into the dressing room, and the voices grew louder.
“What? You’re not going to listen to your hyung?” The figure with his back to you had pinned Jeon Jungkook against a wall of lockers. Strong, tanned arms braced onto the wall, and lithe muscles rippled beneath skin.
This was evidently not meant for prying eyes. But, if you could just get a little closer…
“No, hyung,” Jungkook was breathless, but somehow still assertive. The challenge in his tone had you unconsciously pressing your legs together, your breath catching in your throat.
“Well, prove it, then,” the other man growled. Without a second of hesitation, Jeon Jungkook gripped the fluffy black hair at his lover’s nape and smashed their lips together in a vulgar kiss. Their hips thrusted against each other in a searing dance, limbs moving together almost aggressively.
Your hand slapped to your mouth. It was a reflex, but it certainly helped to muffle the throaty moan that threatened to erupt.
Both heads spun to face you, the sound of your movement alerting them to your presence.
In the living room of Jackson Wang’s house, Kim Taehyung’s blown-out pupils looked almost identical to that memorable event in BTS’s dressing room. Your stomach drops, and you’re searching for a way out, struggling against his arms. You know exactly what’s happening. Where the hell is Jungkook?
“Hey, no, hey,” Taehyung coos, “you’re okay, baby.” You’re still thrashing around, breath coming in heaves as his hold tightens. Your brain is spinning, and he’s pulling you into his chest.
“Let’s get you somewhere safe,” he hums into your hair. No, you want to scream, but your face is pressed against his button-up so harshly that no sound escapes. Your brain spins so harshly that you find a strange sense of peace behind it. The world is suddenly muted, the sounds of the party only echoes in the background. Even Taehyung becomes a ghost.
Those godforsaken fingers caress your hair softly. Hesitantly, your hands work their way around his slim waist as you finally collapse into his embrace, and the rest of the world melts even further into the background. He’s all you can smell. All you can feel.
For the first time all night, you let yourself relax. Taehyung still has one hand in your hair, and the other is rubbing up and down your back, leaving little tingles in its wake. In his arms, you heave another sob. Delicately, like you’re going to break, he begins to shuffle you towards the crowd again.
“Atta girl.” Your heart flutters at his words, one particularly pathetic sob morphing into a whine against his neck. He hums in response.
When you reach the marble stairs, he maneuvers you to face the steps, and the lights of the party momentarily cloud your vision. The brightness shocks your system, and suddenly, you’re back in your body, and panic is crawling up your throat once again.
Wait. Where the fuck is he taking me? You pause, taking a hesitant step to the side, out of Taehyung’s arms.
“What’s wrong, princess?” He grumbles into your ear. Fuck. What’s a good excuse? How can you get yourself out of this?
“Uh,” you stutter. Think, bitch, think! “My, um… my friend. Minwoo, he’s probably looking for me. I—I need to find him.”
“Liar.” Taehyung whirls you around to face him, bowing his head to yours. Your rapidly beating heart skips a beat, but you urge the panic in your eyes to hide itself yet again. You can feel his warm breath on your face.
You gape at him, desperately willing yourself to yell back, or get angry, or something. But nothing comes. You’re frozen. Trapped.
His mouth twists into a smirk, and the air between you seems to pause as if it’s awaiting his next strike.
“You’re cute when you’re nervous. You know that?” He chuckles, a sinister glint behind his red-rimmed eyes. A lion and his prey.
The moment shatters almost instantly. Taehyung’s smirk transforms into a wide, boxy grin, any trace of the lion long gone.
“Baby, I’m messing with you,” he laughs. “God, you’re adorable!”
Oh. Of course! A forced laugh tumbles from your lips, and a visceral twinge of guilt pangs through your stomach. He was just trying to help you, for God’s sake. What kind of person did that make you? Assuming that Taehyung is in on Jungkook’s little power play just because you saw them together intimately? You scoff at yourself.
Overwhelmed and a little emotionally fragile, you feel tears burn behind your eyes. You must be going crazy…
“Oh!” You choke out. “Funny!” You smooth a hand down your sequined top, discreetly trying to smother your guilt, which threatens to double with every breath. Taehyung shakes his head and takes a step backwards—grinning still—as the tensions fall away with ease. You’re breathing out and finding a sense of calm, albeit faux.
“I saw him go upstairs a few minutes back,” Taehyung says after a moment, seemingly unfazed, “with that blonde girl… Hana, I think?”
“Tana, yeah.”
He hums again. You feel it in your chest. God, you almost forgot how soothing his voice was. The burning behind your lids dulls to an echo.
“Here, I’ll show you.” Without waiting for a response, he takes your hand and starts to lead you up the steps. It takes you a few moments to steady your legs as you stumble behind him, but you follow nonetheless. Gripping at the railing, you trudge after him.
A sense of unease finds its way back up your spine as the two of you make it to the main upstairs hallway. You realize—terrifyingly—that you’re alone up here. How long have you been here?
But, Taehyung just trudges on, hand firm in yours.
He means well, you insist to your traitorous brain. Instead, you focus on the appetizing ‘V’ shape of Taehyung’s back as he summits the staircase. His shoulders are impossibly broad, and his back muscles are hardly hidden beneath his tight t-shirt, which disappears into his dress pants.
How lucky are you to be taken care of like this by Kim Taehyung? How many people would sell their soul to be in your position?
Get your shit together.
You’re distracted long enough to be surprised when you find yourself at the end of the luxurious hallway. Several closed doors line the hallway, and you can hear a muffled symphony of grunts and moans behind them.
Taehyung slowly pushes open a door, turning his head to check inside.
“All clear,” he whispers with a grin, shuffling past the heavy-looking wooden door to reveal an elegant bedroom. The white walls are decorated with lavish gossamer curtains that dip and climb across like vines. The four-poster bed, dresser, and bed-side tables are a gorgeous pale wood.
The bed itself is… well, magnificent feels like an understatement. Royal blue sheets and a plush-looking comforter decorate it. Beside it, an elegant velvet couch matches the bed’s royal blue perfectly. Taehyung waltzes to the bed like he owns it, delicately taking a seat and bracing his arms behind him.
“Your friend’s probably around here somewhere. We can wait for him in here.”
For a second, you can only stare. His tanned skin moves to accommodate his muscled arms, and his eyes are hooded as he looks at you: he’s got a look in eyes that you can’t quite read. Unconsciously, you bite your lip, remembering the way those arms pushed Jungkook around that day.
Taehyung’s sultry voice calling your name draws your attention to his mouth, where his tongue darts out to wet his lips. His knees fall open into a manspread, head tilting to the right, just so. His pants are loose, but you can make out an imprint of something between his legs.
Shit. Your head is spinning, legs threatening to collapse beneath you and let him do whatever he wants with you. It’s deathly silent until Taehyung speaks.
“C’mere, baby,” he almost growls; his voice is so low. You swallow your inhibitions, willing your shaky knees to bend and walk towards him.
As you get within an arm’s length of the bed, the beautiful man in front of you leans forward, opening his tanned arms to beckon you closer. Gently, his hands fall to your hips, rubbing soft circles into the smooth material of your leather shorts. Every now and then, his fingers brush the skin just beneath, and your heart jumps. You’re surely covered in goosebumps.
Taehyung’s face is mere inches away; you can make out each individual eyelash lining his dark eyes, which alternate between your own. That damn tongue darts out again and his lips glisten in the light—or lack thereof.
Would Jungkook murder you if you kissed Taehyung right now? Because it was beginning to feel inevitable…
The sound of the door clicking shut has you whirling around, even as Taehyung’s hands tighten on your hips. You gasp, panic surging back into your throat.
“Oh, hell no,” you hear yourself say, finally.
There, Jeon Jungkook just fucking stands, arms folded across his chest as he leans against the now closed door. Expression unreadable.
You need to get out of here, and fucking quick.
Unfortunately for your escape plan, Taehyung grabs your face with surprising force, turning you to look back at him. “Easy now…”
“What the fuck are you—”
Before you can finish, he brings a finger to your lips. “Shhhh… I just wanna see something,” he says, lightly tracing your lips with his thumb, dragging the bottom one down sensually.
His hands around your hips suddenly pull you back harshly, planting your ass in between his spread legs. One of his massive forearms wraps possessively around your waist, the other reaching up and grasping your face, forcing you to look at Jungkook, whose expression could only resemble that of hunger.
“Look at him, baby,” he whispers across the skin of your neck. “Look at how much he wants this.”
You have no idea how to feel. Your breathing becomes shallow, stopping all together when you feel Taehyung’s hand move from your waist to your stomach, then lower. Your heart rate accelerates so much that you’re sure Taehyung can feel it under his lips.
His fingers find the button of your leather shorts, easily popping it open. Your breath hitches as he slowly pulls down the zipper, exposing your lace trimmed thong. You’re still frozen—save for your rapidly rising and falling chest—when Taehyung begins to slide your shorts down your legs, letting them fall to the floor between his feet.
You squirm under his touch when you realize Jungkook is staring right at you. At the wet circle coating your flimsy underwear.
Taehyung feels it, of course he does. “Careful, don’t want to make it seem like you aren’t enjoying yourself,” he drawls, the hand he has on your face firm and unyielding, keeping your gaze pinned on the brooding man in front of you.
You breathe and slowly relax into him, even spreading your legs a little when he pushes at your inner thigh. You feel disgustingly lewd, but the thrill of the moment keeps you still in his arms.
He hooks your legs over his knees, spreading you open for Jungkook to see.
“There you go, princess,” he whispers into your neck, humming lightly, and he trails his other arm from your face to wrap around your waist tightly. “You like how he’s watching you?”
The moment his index finger brushes your clothed clit, you jolt at the unfamiliar sensation.
This is such a bad idea…
You can’t bring yourself to care, as his fingers start making slow, tight circles around your core.
“Would you let him touch you like this?” Taehyung has the audacity to ask you, huskily. Jungkook’s glaring eyes reveal absolutely nothing, but the way the veins in his neck pop out has you closing your eyes and throwing your head back onto Taehyung’s shoulder. You feel him smile against your neck, cool teeth sending a shiver straight through your body.
The man beneath you moves his long fingers down further, leaving your clit begging for more. You let out a helpless whimper, but it gets caught in your throat when you feel the cold air of the room on your bare pussy. You refuse to open your eyes in fear of what you may find, but you’re certain that the thin material of your panties has been pulled to the side and replaced by a warm possessive palm covering you completely.
There it lays, as if waiting for you to make a move.
“Wanna show me how needy you are?” Taehyung whispers in your ear as you fight the urge to grind into his palm. You bite your lip, eyes still squeezed shut. He clicks his tongue in disapproval.
“Nothing?” He lets out a breathy chuckle. “C’mon, princess, show me how bad you want it.”
Hesitantly, you start to move against him, a wave of pleasure hitting you each time his rough hand makes contact with the bundle of nerves screaming his name.
“That’s my girl,” he growls.
With growing but shaky confidence, you let yourself move faster against his hand, hips gliding back and forth aggressively. The combination of his calloused palm and the friction of his clothed member on your ass has your head spinning.
As you feel the pressure building in your core, breathy moans escape from your lips, and you bring a hand to your mouth to muffle it. Your skin is sweltering, not just from pleasure, but from the pure embarrassment of your actions.
“I don’t think so, baby,” Taehyung corrects, delicately pulling your hand from your mouth and bringing it back down in his grip. His arm returns to its position with yours in tow, wrapped around you tightly to restrict your movement despite your squirming and grinding.
You feel the coil of pleasure winding even tighter as your orgasm approaches.
“You wanna cum, hm, baby?” You let out a warbled mhm, because, yeah, you do.
“Beg.”
“W—What?” You whimper out, still terrified to open your eyes. Beg?
“You heard me,” Taehyung’s husky voice demands. “I want you to beg for it.”
“P—Please…”
“Please what, princess?”
“Please, God! Let me cum!” You cry out finally, so close you can taste the need in your mouth.
“Alright,” he chuckles, pinching your clit between two fingers. “Go ahead.”
Your eyes shoot open, only to widen in shock when you see Jungkook standing right above you.
“F—Fuck!” You scream as your orgasm crashes over you. At the same time, Jungkook grips the bottom half of your face, wrenching your mouth open. The waves of pleasure continue to course through your body as the man above you lets a string of spit fall from his mouth, directly into yours.
Before you can even come down from your high, Jungkook shoves two fingers deep inside your mouth, forcing your throat to convulse in a gag.
“Swallow,” he demands, figure blurring as tears cloud your vision.
You struggle to follow his command as Taehyung continues to fondle your clit, the sensation becoming almost unbearable.
You gag one more time before finally managing to swallow around Jungkook’s thick fingers. He smirks in approval at your ruined figure below him, tilting his head in mock sympathy.
“Aw,” he tuts. “Poor girl.”
Taehyung chuckles in agreement, “Already spent, baby?”
Your cheeks burn, somehow still embarrassed despite the way you just fell apart on Taehyung’s fucking fingers. Jungkook’s still admiring your fucked out face when Taehyung clears his throat to speak again.
“You’ve still got a few more in you. Don’t you, princess?”
You whimper in protest. You’ve never had a guy make you cum so fast and so long. Hell, even on your own it’s never felt like that.
You’re floating, pussy still throbbing, aching for something. Anything. You’re so far in your own head that you don’t notice when Jungkook clambers to his knees in front of you.
You’re forced back to reality when you feel a growl against your back as the hand Taehyung has inside you darts up, smearing your juices into Jungkook’s soft hair as he tightly grips it. He pulls harshly, and Jungkook is hurled to the side, neck at an awkward angle.
You’re still floating in a post-orgasm haze, but alarm bells still sound through your ears when Jungkook’s giant eyes seem to darken. He licks his lips, leaning his head into Taehyung’s hand.
“Not yet, Kook,” Taehyung murmurs, voice somehow carrying through the harsh sound of your breathing. “She needs to learn to wait her turn.”
“Move her to the bed.”
The next thing you know, Jungkook’s tattooed hands are tugging you from Taehyung’s grip, and suddenly you’re splayed out on the plush comforter, heart racing.
Jungkook’s back is to you, baggy jeans fallen just enough to reveal his black Calvin Klein briefs. Taehyung murmurs something you can’t hear, making his way closer to Jungkook.
You’re hit with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu when Taehyung grips one of Jungkook’s shoulders with a veiny hand, pulling him closer with a force that has the tattooed man stumbling. Already, you feel the coil in your stomach threaten to tighten again at the way Taehyung’s dark eyes seem to cut through Jungkook’s body.
“Off,” Taehyung growls, tugging at the bottom of Jungkook’s t-shirt. You imagine that Jungkook is arching an eyebrow, his head tilting just slightly.
Instead of obeying, Jungkook lurches forward, smashing his lips onto Taehyung’s. His hands grope over Taehyung’s body, finding brief but strong holds along his shoulders and arms as their lips move together.
Their kiss is reminiscent of the one you unintentionally saw all those months ago. Their lips fight, pressing forward against each other harshly. Both sets of tanned arms are tangled together, the only distinguishing factor being Jungkook’s tattoos. You’re stunned into the blankets, unsure of what exactly they want you to do.
She needs to learn to wait her turn.
You suppose you can do that, but it’s starting to prove difficult when Taehyung abruptly breaks the kiss. A string of spit connecting their lips glints in the dim light of the room.
Taehyung goes in for a barely-there peck. It’s weirdly… sweet, especially given the way they were just making out. He reaches a hand to the back of Jungkook’s head, stroking the hair along his nape. He treats him so fragile, almost as if he’s scared he'll break.
Jungkook leans in, trying to press his lips to Taehyung’s, but the older man only leans back, hand falling to his side.
“Did I stutter?” Taehyung tuts, holding Jungkook an arm’s length from his chest. “I said, off.”
Jungkook laughs lowly, eliciting a rush of heat to your core. Taehyung doesn’t move a muscle, though, opting only to stare at Jungkook through his lashes.
Arms slap together and some are even flung to the side as Jungkook lunges forward towards Taehyung in a frantic, desperate attempt to continue their kiss, but Taehyung’s hand shoots up to close around his neck, effectively halting the movement. A throaty chuckle escapes Jungkook’s lips, and a whimper tumbles from yours.
Twin heads of dark hair spin to face you.
“Whatcha doing there, princess?” Taehyung says, a half-smirk adorning his mouth. Jungkook’s shoulders are heavily rising and falling, but he says nothing, face lacking any kind of expression behind pure lust.
Your eyes widen. Both Jungkook and Taehyung are burning holes into your body with dark, hooded eyes. Heart jumping, you dart your eyes down and away from their piercing glares.
Oh, fuck.
It seems, subconsciously, that your right hand had found its way down your stomach and was teasing at the hem of your panties. You feel your throat tighten as you swallow around nothing.
Silence overtakes the room, charged air in the space between you and the men. A hand grabs your chin, and you’re forced to look up.
“Princess.” It’s Taehyung, and he looks mad. Your thighs press together, begging for more friction. “We’re the only ones who get to touch you, okay?”
Your eyes widen as his fingers tighten around your jaw.
“I need words, baby.”
“Okay,” you sputter.
“Okay, what?” He’s not letting up, pushing his stupidly gorgeous face closer to yours. His breath dances over your cheek.
“I won’t.” He raises an eyebrow, so you continue, still flustered, “I won’t… Touch myself.”
A smirk crawls over his features, and he releases your chin. Taehyung presses a kiss to your lips. It’s just a peck, but it’s the first of the night. It’s sweet enough to have you begging for more. Your mind flashes with a vision of his tongue down your throat, hands all over your body once more.
You barely stifle a groan, chasing his lips, but Taehyung just steps back, scoffing out a laugh.
“Wait your turn, princess,” he tuts. Taehyung spins to face Jungkook, who is silent as ever, and crashes their lips together.
“Let’s give our baby a little show, okay, Kook?” Jungkook rumbles a deep sound in his throat at Taehyung’s words.
Where Taehyung is slow and controlled in the kiss, Jungkook’s lips seem to melt into his hyung, hands crawling to explore every inch of his body. He’s not submissive; it’s more like Jungkook is putting trust in Taehyung by letting him lead. But even then, you’re not sure if Taehyung is leading, per se…
It’s an interesting dynamic, one that is evidently riddled with months—if not years—of history.
“I need this off,” Taehyung growls, clutching at the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt. Jungkook pulls back, waiting a second before responding,
“No. You first, hyung.” You’re stifling a moan at his words. To just deny Taehyung like that… You can’t help but wonder what might happen to you if you—
No, it’s better to not. Right?
Taehyung moves his long fingers from the front of Jungkook’s shirt to just a bit lower, squeezing harshly to elicit a nasty moan from the tattooed man’s lips. He’s gripping at Taehyung’s shoulders for support, and their mouths hover near each other’s, breathing the same air.
Taehyung raises an eyebrow, and Jungkook smiles wickedly. It’s a stalemate, the charged tension sending shocks of arousal straight to your core. It’s begging you for relief.
You hardly have a second to acknowledge it because Taehyung is using Jungkook’s momentary weakness to pull his shirt up and off his body. Jungkook, ever competitive, reaches his hands for Taehyung’s tight black t-shirt without a moment’s hesitation.
In only a few seconds, both men stand before you completely shirtless. Yet again, you’re transported back to that day at the HYBE office: their chests heaving as they face each other, muscles rippling beneath perfect skin.
They press into each other again, mouths moving in perfect sync against plush lips. Taehyung grabs at Jungkook’s slim waist, creating indents with his harsh grip. Sweat is building at the base of both men’s necks, but neither are deterred. If anything, the added heat is egging them on.
Egging you on, too.
Jungkook dips his head into the crook of Taehyung’s neck, biting, sucking, and licking at the skin there. Taehyung is groaning, evidently trying to muffle the noises pouring from his throat, but Jungkook’s assault on him is relentless. Every moan that escapes from Taehyung adds to the pressure building in your lower stomach. You ache to relieve it, squirming against the sheets beneath you.
Surely, they’re too distracted to notice if you just… dipped a finger or two down…
Your heart races as you ever so slowly move a hand from its place on the bed beside you to your throbbing heat. Taehyung’s fingers dig deeper into Jungkook’s plush skin, pulling him closer. His eyes are pressed shut, and your heart races as you feel the lace of your panties on your index finger.
Taehyung groans again, shifting against Jungkook, and you freeze.
But he’s not looking at you; in fact, Taehyung is switching their positions, pressing his own lips to the skin of Jungkook’s neck. You exhale.
Taehyung pulls at Jungkook like he’s trying to meld their bodies together, mimicking Jungkook’s passionate style of kissing before. He seems to let go, or, at least, Jungkook is forcing him to. You slip your hand beneath the hem of your panties.
Taehyung is sucking at Jungkook’s neck, and while the tattooed man is certainly quieter than Taehyung, a handful of moans still slip from his lips.
Your hand is now low enough to feel the immense wetness pooling in your underwear, and it only serves to turn you on more.
God, who could have predicted you’d be here, doing this, tonight? A pathetic whimper echoes from your throat.
Suddenly, Taehyung releases Jungkook’s waist to look at you, unlatching his lips from Jungkook’s pulse point. He looks almost amused.
“What did I say about touching yourself, hm?” His voice is deeper than ever, practically a growl, as he slowly starts to make his way over.
“I—I wasn’t doing anything,” you manage to stutter out, quickly snatching your hand back from between your legs.
He stops walking towards you, pausing to stand above you at the edge of the bed.
“That’s not what it looked like to me,” he says, sensually tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’m sorry,” you whimper out.
Nervous but excited shivers make their way up your spine.
“Kook,” Taehyung calls, still looking at you, “wanna come take care of this for me?”
Jungkook is on you in an instant, grabbing you by the hair and hauling you over to the couch.
“Yeah?” He breathes out, pushing you over the arm of the couch, “wanna see what happens when you don’t listen?”
You yelp as he uses his boot to kick your legs apart. His hand travels from your hair to in between your shoulder blades, pushing you almost painfully further over the threshold.
“Stay.”
You listen, holding your legs wide. The straps of your heels dig painfully into your ankles as you feel Jungkook back away.
You sit there, scared. You don’t hear any movement behind you. You have no idea what they’re planning, but something about that turns you on even more.
Smack.
You yelp, startled as you feel a heavy slap land right over your clothed pussy.
Fuck, that hurt!
If anything, you were expecting it on your ass! But, of course, knowing Jeon Jungkook, he had very different plans.
He rubs his palm against your stinging entrance, soothing the burn momentarily. But, as soon as the pain subsides, he rears his hand back and delivers another devastating smack.
You scream into a couch pillow, not expecting the second one to be harder.
“Does it hurt? Poor thing. Can’t even take a couple slaps?”
Tears prick at your eyes as he continues to alternate between slapping and rubbing your throbbing core.
His pace quickens, no longer taking his time with you.
A sob escapes your throat after a particularly painful one.
“What? Had enough already?” He says condescendingly, knowing damn well he has no intention of stopping anytime soon.
“Fuck you!” You let out between sobs. Your head is spinning, pleasure overwhelming the lingering stinging on your pussy from Jungkook’s slaps.
He doesn’t like that, you gather, as his hands entangle in your hair again, pulling you back at an awkward angle.
“Say that again. See what happens.”
“Fuck. You.” You warble out, making eye contact with him.
You don’t notice his other hand grabbing your underwear before it’s too late. He tears them clean off your body.
Making a scene, Jungkook holds eye contact with you as he brings the thong to his nose, inhaling briefly as his eyes flutter shut, before bringing the torn fabric to your mouth.
“Open,” he demands.
“Or wha—” You barely get out your words before he shoves your ruined underwear in your mouth.
You choke on it for a moment, trying to spit it out, but Jungkook covers your mouth with his hand, keeping it inside.
“Shut the fuck up.” Damn.
You can taste yourself on the lace, the obscenity of the situation turning you on more than you care to admit.
His other hand then reaches down, finding your sore clit. He pinches it harshly between his thumb and finger, making you squirm in pain. You didn’t realise how much pain turned you on, but you learn something new every day…
You couldn’t dwell on that particular realization for very long, as his fingers dip into your entrance.
“So wet for me…”
You don’t realize how close you are to coming until his fingers suddenly ram into you, making your knees buckle.
He slowly starts moving in and out, the obscene sounds of your wetness around his fingers turning your face a bright pink.
He curls them inside you, hitting the spongy spot right below your navel. You moan loudly, but the soaked material shoved in your mouth muffles the sound.
Jungkook continues to stroke the sensitive spot inside of you, bringing you to the edge only to slow down right as you’re about to cum.
You squirm around, growing impatient and needy.
“Aw, poor baby,” he purrs next to your ear. “So worked up, and I’m not even inside you yet.”
He continues to edge you until tears are forming in your eyes again; long, tattooed digits press against your g-spot while his palm grinds against your clit. You’re brought to the edge once again, pleasure winding up in your lower stomach as you pant through your nose.
Tears are now freely falling from your eyes, collecting on Jungkook’s large hand that’s still pressed firmly over your mouth.
“Go ahead, baby, cum,” he finally says, speeding up his fingers.
You cry out, well, as much as you can with your mouth stuffed with cotton. Messily, you come all over his fingers. Your juices dripping down your shaky legs.
He continues to move in and out of you slowly, helping you ride out your high.
“That’s it sweetheart, just like that,” Jungkook drawls. You slump against him, still convulsing.
“Think that’s enough, Kook,” Taehyung’s deep voice is cutting in over the pounding in your ears. Never in your life have you orgasmed twice this close together.
“You got her nice and ready for me?” Taehyung’s body hums, draped over Jungkook’s back as he whispers in his ear. Jungkook groans in response, removing his fingers from inside of you as he lets his hyung take control.
You can only gape when Taehyung moves from behind Jungkook to your side.
“You doing okay, baby? Think you take my cock now?” He tilts his head with a pout at his lips. You whimper, nodding your head groggily as his strong arms roll you towards him. He works his hands at the straps of your heels, tugging them off and tossing them to the side. His hands find their way under your back and knees to lift you bridal style.
Taehyung clears his throat, silently asking you a question. Even in your current state, you knew it was coming when you didn’t use your words.
“I’m okay,” you say. Taehyung just smirks, those damn eyes crinkling in approval.
He sets you down delicately on the bed, holding your cheek in one hand. His face is so close now, and you are not above begging him to kiss you. Ultimately, you decide to just press your lips to his.
Taehyung emits a moan of surprise at the feeling of your lips against his. You imagine the experience of kissing you is much different than Jungkook, so you lean into a side of confidence you aren’t positive you actually have.
Your hands brace around his neck, pulling him closer as you fall onto your back. Taehyung is forced down with you, hands scrambling to brace his body so as to not crush you.
Not that you’d really mind.
He seems to have recovered from the shock of you initiating the kiss, letting your tongue pry his lips open. You find a rhythm together, hips grinding in sync with your lips. Time melts together, and you’re not sure what your hands are even doing as they dance all over Taehyung’s body.
At some point you feel the bed next to your head dip down as Jungkook takes a seat. He tangles one of those godforsaken hands in your hair, petting and pulling as he probably just sits to watch the two of you make out.
Taehyung’s hands creep under your sparkly top, pushing it up and over your breasts. You feel Jungkook scoot imperceptibly closer, hands running down your sides to tease his thumbs at your nipples.
He would be a boobs guy.
Taehyung’s giant hands squeeze at the fat on your chest, twisting your nipples. Every time, without fail, you’re arching your back off of the bed into his lean body.
It has to be at least five minutes before Taehyung pulls back, lips bruised and swollen, looking down at you with blown out pupils. He holds that eye contact with you, but he plucks his hands from your body to unbuckle his belt and toss it haphazardly to the side.
You’re sure his head is clear of thoughts when he pushes his pants and briefs down in one go, lurching forward to connect his lips with yours again.
Despite the way his lips make you feel like you’ve had one shot too many, the feeling of his hot cock pushing against your pussy is immediately sobering.
A needy whine escapes you, slipping right into Taehyung’s eager mouth.
“Can I have you, princess?” He whispers back. “Please?”
You groan out, begging, “yes, Tae, all of me, please.”
He needs no further permission.
Kim Taehyung slams his thick cock between your folds, past the sensitive muscles at your entrance, and sheaths himself entirely in you in one fell swoop. You’re screaming, groaning, and whimpering; somehow all at the same time.
Naturally, he doesn’t wait a second for you to adjust to his size. He’s pounding into you, drawing himself all the way out before slamming right back in. Your fingers claw at his back as he buries his head into your breasts.
The feeling of his cock stretching you and hitting that perfect soft spot inside of you drowns out anything else. You don’t know where you are, who’s with you, or what your name is. All you can feel is him.
That damn coil is tightening again as you approach your third orgasm. Taehyung must feel you squeezing around him because he slows his pace enough for you to hear above the rushing of blood in your ears.
You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering closed, as the pleasure turns from intense to soothing. Taehyung starts to lick at one of your nipples in earnest, using just his hips and forearms to fuck you. You can’t help but move your hips to meet his, craving that friction.
You try to look down to see where your bodies meet, but Taehyung nips at one of your nipples harshly. You scream out, head flinging backwards.
Lucky—or unlucky—for you, Jungkook’s hand is there to meet you. He pets your face sweetly through Taehyung’s thrusts. If you weren’t so cockdrunk, you’d have questioned his motives. Jungkook and sweet did not go together.
Taehyung’s cock hits the perfect spot in you once again, and you know you’re close. Your eyes roll back, and Jungkook’s hand disappears from beside your face. Instinctively, you look backwards in his direction, craving his touch despite yourself.
But your eyes don’t meet his tattooed hand, or even his beautiful face.
Behind you, just inches from your cheek, is Jungkook’s veiny cock. It’s red and swollen, and pre-cum is dripping from the top. You moan lewdly, the smack of Taehyung’s skin against yours providing a sexy backdrop for the sight gracing your eyes.
“You want it, sweetheart?” You think he asks. Lost in your pleasure, you aren’t sure if you just imagined it. But Jungkook is on a mission, so he asks again, reaching a hand to smooth your messy hair back.
“Wanna eat my cock like the slut you are?” Jungkook asks, voice deep with desire. You whine obscenely.
“Yes—please—!” You barely manage to get out between Taehyung’s sharp thrusts.
“Atta girl,” he drawls, taking your face with both of his hands as you slowly open your mouth.
Taehyung slows his thrusts just enough for Jungkook to ease his cock into your open mouth. He only gets halfway in before you’re gagging.
“Shhh, just relax, baby,” he coos.
You try your best to relax your throat muscles, tears once again pooling in your eyes as he pushes himself deeper.
“God, you’re perfect,” he groans in admiration.
Taehyung starts to thrust into you again, the force pushing you forward, and in turn, making you take Jungkook deeper. Tears are falling down your face now, painting your skin shiny under the dim bedroom lights.
“I need you to tap my thigh twice if you want me to stop, okay?” Jungkook pulls out just long enough for you to tell him you understand. But once you do, he doesn’t hold back, slamming his cock back into your mouth.
He takes a hold of your cheeks, using your jaw as leverage as he ruthlessly pounds your mouth. You try to breathe, avidly trying to avoid sobbing around his cock.
Still, you gag and warble beneath him. Not that it matters; he’s taking what he wants, no matter what the consequences are.
The pleasure of taking both of them at the same time is mind boggling. You literally cannot form a full thought as Taehyung hits your g-spot again, and again, and again.
Jungkook slows down, seemingly focusing on bottoming out. Each drive of his hips helps to open you up for him before burying himself to the hilt. He holds himself there, basking in the tightness of your throat and waiting for you to adjust.
Your vision is entirely blocked, his balls dangling obscenely in front of your nose, pubic hair brushing your forehead. He moves a hand from your face down to your neck, brushing lightly over the bulge that his thick cock has made.
Taehyung chuckles from further down your body, hooking one of your legs over his tanned shoulder. You struggle to moan around Jungkook as he starts to move back and forth, ravaging your throat one slow thrust at a time. At this point, you’re nothing but their toy; the noises you’re making are instinctual.
Their pace stays the same, pausing every so often to give you a break. Their tandem thrusting pushes you back and forth over the sheets, but you’re easing up, your throat and pelvic muscles relaxing bit by bit.
Soon, something starts to shift in the air. You can’t see them, but the two men share a look over your ruined body. Smirking at each other, they’re planning something devious.
“I think it’s time for her to have some real fun,” Taehyung whispers, breathing close to Jungkook’s mouth.
“You think she can take me in that tight little pussy?” Jungkook retorts, still petting your face sensually.
“Only one way to find out.”
At once, they pull themselves from you; Jungkook’s cock drags along the flesh of your throat and scrapes just barely against your teeth, and Taehyung simply slips from your wetness. You’re left gasping and coughing for air, the sudden emptiness jarring you.
“Hyung is so gentle with you, sweetheart,” Jungkook says, crouching down to your eye level with a crazed look in his eyes. “It makes me wonder if you can take something a little more intense.”
You audibly gulp, the action a bit painful from how deep he was just moments ago. He gives you a brief but gentle peck. You wonder if it’s an apology for what he’s about to do.
Taehyung crawls off the bed, taking a seat on the couch you had so recently defiled. Despite himself, he sits casually, spreading his legs and relaxing into the cushions. His dick is still hard and is dripping with your wetness.
You tilt your head to look at him, a bit confused. And then it hits you. Neither of them have cum yet.
This was far from over.
“Eyes on me sweetheart,” Jungkook growls, climbing on top of you.
You obey, looking nervously up at the man now above you. You reach for his face tenderly, quickly catching his lips in a more heated kiss, desperately wanting to be on the receiving end of his strong lips. For months, you’ve wondered what that silver lip ring would feel on your tongue… And now…
You let yourself explore his mouth, wondering if you could taste Taehyung on his lips. You take your time licking and sucking around the cold metal.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t protest, letting you play with the jewelry as he carefully kisses you back.
Fuck me, you’re thinking. You want to test something…
Albeit a slightly dangerous thought, considering that you knew—or didn’t know, for that matter—what he was capable of.
Your newfound confidence finds a sturdy hold inside of you, and it feels familiar as you bite down hard on his bottom lip. You pull him further on top of you, eliciting a growl from Jungkook’s lips. It turns into a yelp, however, when you bite down harder, hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood seeping onto your tongue.
Jungkook pulls back suddenly, wrapping a hand harshly around your neck and pushing you back into the comforter. He brings the fingers of his other hand to his lips, wiping his bottom one and rearing back to look at what you’ve done. You can’t help but smile, anticipating his reaction.
A dark, sadistic look crosses his face. It’s something resembling a smile, but it completely lacks warmth. Blood starts to collect at the corners of his lips, and a single bead drips onto his teeth, painting his smile red. You stifle a pathetic moan. He looks psychotic, but somehow, you’ve never been more turned on.
“You’re going to regret that sweetheart,” Jungkook drawls as if spelling it out for you, grip on your neck tightening.
You struggle to breathe as his weight presses into your throat, cutting off your air supply momentarily. When he releases, you suck in mouthfuls of air, gasping and coughing as your body lurches forward. Your pulse quickens, and you urge your brain to register some form of survival instinct.
However, the only thing you can feel is a familiar slickness returning between your legs.
Damn, maybe I am fucked up…
Consistent with what seems to be his style, Jungkook is back in action before you can form a full thought: his strong arms tug you forward, flipping you over to shove your face into the blankets.
“Don’t. Move.” You can feel Jungkook’s body pressing into yours, his breath tickling at your nape. He straddles you from behind, and you hear… Clinking?
While he was having his way with your mouth, it seems he didn’t have time to slip his jeans all the way off. So that makes that clinking his… belt?
Oh, shit.
Before you can protest the inevitable, your arms are wrenched behind your back. Jungkook wraps his long fingers all the way around each of your wrists, crosses them over each other painfully, and secures them with one tattooed hand. The other fumbles with his belt until it’s tightly secured around both of your forearms.
You’re stuck, immobilized in his hold, which you suppose is exactly where he wants you. Taking a fistful of your hair, he pulls your head back towards him, forcing you to crane your neck to look at him.
“Remember, sweetheart, you asked for this,” he says, smugly. Jungkook doesn’t bother with another warning before slamming into you from behind in one fell swoop. Staring up at him, you watch his face morph into a blissed-out grin.
Just like Taehyung, he doesn’t give you time to adjust to the size of his cock, rearing back and fucking you like a man on a mission. You’re screaming out in pleasure, body overwhelmed and overstimulated, and his hands find their way back to your head to shove your face into the blankets again. The cries tumbling from your lips are muffled as he continues to slam into you.
“Such a good little slut. So fucking loud while I take you,” he rambles. “Bet you can't even tell me your name, huh?” You let out a particularly loud moan, tilting your head to the side to look at Taehyung on the couch.
There, the older man is draped sensually over the velvet, hands stroking his cock slowly like he has all the time in the world. His eyelids are half-closed, but his dark eyes are trained directly on the connection of your and Jungkook’s bodies.
“Yeah? What’s your name slut?” Jungkook steals your attention back, continuing between thrusts.
“Mmmmph—!” You can’t respond, a drunken blab falling from your lips.
“That’s what I thought, so cock drunk you can’t even think straight.” He leans forward, pressing his weight fully on top of you. “Yeah, just like that baby."
The screams falling from your lips are so loud that you almost don’t notice Jungkook biting harshly into the fatty piece of skin between your back and shoulder. The harshness of his teeth inside your skin has a particularly gritty scream escaping you, but Jungkook methodically licks and kisses at the mark, soothing the sharp pain into a dull soreness.
“You wanna cum, baby?” He asks, definitely more aware of you clenching around his cock than you are. You barely register his words, mind growing foggy as he ruthlessly fucks you.
“P—Please, Jungkook!” You scream out, body rocking into the sheets at an even faster pace.
“Please what, slut?” The question is guaranteed at this point, and your answer is ready.
“Please, let me cum!”
“Go on then,” Jungkook’s voice drops an octave, and you can barely hear him give the green light. “Cum for me.”
“Aghh—!” You cry out, pussy spasming and legs shaking, but he maintains a relentless pace, pounding into you like there’s no tomorrow. Drool is collecting beneath your mouth, jaw hanging open as you ride out your high.
“That’s it baby, take it,” Jungkook’s voice is rising in volume. “Take it like the little whore you are.”
Finally, after what seems like eternity, he slows down. Your arms feel numb from the lack of circulation as he finally halts his movements, methodically unwrapping the belt from your arms which are now rubbed raw.
You think you hear your name being called through the haze. But nothing’s really making sense. Someone’s hands are pulling you up to a sitting position and rubbing along your arms.
Your vision clears up slowly to a lightly smiling Taehyung.
“You’re okay, sweetheart,” you hear Jungkook call from out of your eyesight. He must be the one rubbing your arms.
Taehyung brushes a tangled piece of hair away from your face gently.
“Think you can take one more for me, princess?” He asks, smile morphing into a sadistic smirk.
Uh, no, there is literally no way. You think you’ll actually die if you cum again. No way.
“She can handle it,” Jungkook cuts in, but Taehyung’s eyes flit over to him in… warning? Surely, you imagined it.
Either way, you actually don’t think you can. Tears prick at your eyes. You’re overwhelmed, tired and are starting to realize the weight of what has just happened between you and two of the world’s most famous idols.
If knowledge of this situation spreads, you could be risking your entire career. Your safety. Your wellbeing.
But, nevertheless, you’re too hazy to really be anxious. Your body is limp like a rag doll, and, honestly, you’re willing to let these two do whatever they want with you. Whether or not you make it out alive.
“Please, baby, be our good girl one more time?” Taehyung is practically begging you, eyes wide and searching your own.
“You can do it,” Jungkook hums, words morphing together into more of a grumble. You can’t see him, but his fingers trail over your shoulders and down your bare back.
All you can do is stare at Taehyung. At his wide eyes begging you. At the way the muscles of his stomach clench together, his cock still uncomfortably hard against his lower belly.
You turn your head to look at Jungkook, whose eyes are trained on your back. He’s biting on his lip ring, teeth flipping it in and out of his mouth. His fingers are warm on your skin. Your eyes trail even lower yet, to his cock, which rivals Taehyung’s as it twitches.
Throat dry, you swallow.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
You can only hum before Taehyung is laying back against the pillow by the bed’s headboard, pulling you to straddle his thighs, and forcing your head down to his to kiss you. It’s a hesitant kiss, but quickly revs up when you start to grind your aching pussy against his member.
The feeling is uncomfortable, the shocks stinging your entire body, but you can’t stop. Taehyung is like a drug, and you’re addicted.
You’re so wet that you hardly feel his cock slide into you, but your head spins at the feeling of being full. Especially from him.
The energy to move on his dick has long since gone. You opt to just sit and feel him.
“Aw, our princess is tired,” Taehyung coos, mockingly. “Kook, help her out, yeah?”
You feel more than hear Jungkook take up a position behind you. His hands grip your waist, squeezing your flesh harshly before rubbing circles into your skin. His breath tickles the hair on the back of your neck.
“Good fucking girl,” Jungkook worships.
And then he’s moving you, rocking you on Taehyung’s cock. You can feel the flesh of your ass and tits bouncing up and down as Jungkook moves you. Unadulterated, you’re groaning, sounds overlapping with the sounds of skin on skin and the moans coming from Taehyung.
“You’re perfect, princess,” the man below you says. “Letting us use you like a little ragdoll.” You moan obscenely, prompting Jungkook to exhale harshly into your shoulder. His breath ghosts over the open wound from earlier.
Jungkook trails one hand to your front, covering your stomach completely.
“I can feel you, hyung,” he growls. “Do you like it when he hits this part inside you?”
You look down to his hand as it moves to the side. Sure enough, an imprint of Taehyung’s dick protrudes from your stomach. You lean back into Jungkook, moaning loudly as he continues to move you.
“You like that, baby?” Taehyung moans, hoarsely. “You like seeing my big cock inside your tight little pussy?” You moan and hope it’s a good enough answer.
It’s your lucky day because Taehyung is so focused on lasting inside of you that he doesn’t comment on your lack of response. Especially as Jungkook increases your pace on his hyung’s dick.
You’re whimpering again as he pushes you forward onto Taehyung. Your breasts press into his chest, and you practically scream at the stimulation of your nipples dragging across his sticky skin with every movement.
“That’s my pretty girl,” Jungkook says so lowly that you barely hear him over your screams. “Spread that ass for me, yeah?”
Evidently, Jungkook is less concerned with your answering him because he’s spreading your ass cheeks, kneading each in his giant hands. Taehyung begins to fuck up into you, wrapping his sweaty arms around your back to hold you to him.
It’s probably dirty and something you should be ashamed of, but you love the way they’re using you. You’re exhausted, but feeling better than you have in a long, long time.
Without warning you feel something warm and wet trickle from Jungkook’s mouth onto the opening on your ass cheeks. You freeze on top of Taehyung, eyes going wide.
“Shhh, I just need to get you ready for me,” Jungkook mumbles from behind you, nipping at your ear lightly. You feel the pad of his thumb making contact with your open, tight hole. You clench out of instinct, eliciting a groan from Taehyung.
“Slowly, hyung. Relax her a little for me.” He grunts, and Taehyung slows his thrusts to a more manageable pace as Jungkook works his thumb further into your rectum. You wince at the foreign feeling, whimpering as he finally fits the whole digit in.
“That’s my girl,” Jungkook coos as your muscles slowly start to relax. You feel a light pop as he pulls his thumb out briefly. Taehyung still guides your hips up and down a few times before you feel Jungkook press his finger back inside you.
You’ve never felt something like this. The sensation is unreal. You begin to moan again as you feel Jungkook’s thumb brushing the sensitive wall dividing his hand and Taehyung’s dick.
Suddenly, the realization that these men have you entirely full between them helps the lingering discomfort subside. A second wind—or fourth, maybe—overtakes you, and you tentatively begin moving up and down on Taehyung’s cock as Jungkook continues to finger your back entrance.
“Oh, my God,” you whimper. Taehyung reaches a hand from around your waist to lightly caress your cheek.
“You're doing so good for us baby,” he purrs, a fucked out grin adorning his features.
You’re surprised you don’t flinch when Jungkook presses his other thumb to your hole, joining the first one as he slowly works your asshole open. Each stretch is only unbearable for a moment, quickly replaced with pleasure. Once he feels like you’re ready for him, you feel his pulsing member nudge your now more accommodating hole.
The first few inches go in. You wince, face twisting up in pain.
“This is only gonna work if you relax, baby,” Jungkook tuts from behind you. He wraps a hand around your waist tenderly, caressing.
“Here, take a breath with me,” he guides you. “In… and out…”
You try your best to listen, taking a deep breath in and slowly exhaling as he pushes further in. He’s almost to the hilt, breathing still in sync with yours. Your mind is absolutely blank.
You didn’t realize Taehyung had halted his movements until he starts to thrust back up into you. Jungkook only stays stationary for a moment, letting more spit fall from his mouth as added lubrication before slowly pulling out, leaving only an inch inside of you.
The emptiness has you frowning, and Taehyung chuckles from beneath you.
“Someone likes being full,” he comments. You glare at him momentarily until Jungkook pushes back in from behind, making you gasp, expression morphing into one of simultaneous pain and pleasure.
Then, swiftly, they both pull out and slam back into you. You let out the loudest scream of the night.
“Yeah, that’s it, let us hear you, baby,” Jungkook chides. You scream again as they pound into you, thrusts in tandem as your body jerks in between theirs.
“I—I’m so full,” you manage to mumble out, embarrassed by the way you’re practically begging for them.
“Damn right you are,” Taehyung grumbles, starting to speed up his pace. Between them, your mouth hangs open. It’s mind-bending: the way Jungkook pulls out as Taehyung thrusts in. It’s safe to say you’re fully adjusted now, gaining confidence in your movement and body.
“Faster, please,” you beg between filthy whines.
“Princess, are you sure?” Taehyung asks sincerely, sweat pouring from his temple.
“Y—Yes,” you try. “I need… I need more."
Evidently, you don’t have to tell them twice because both of their paces quicken—still in sync—until you’re nothing more than a ragdoll being fucked into oblivion. Both of their breaths quickens, and nothing can be heard other than heaving sighs and skin slapping together. It echoes around the luxurious room, your screams and moans getting higher and quicker as another orgasm approaches.
“Nope, hold it.” You vaguely hear from behind you. It’s Jungkook, you think, but you can’t be sure. You’re beginning to reach a state that you’re not sure you’ll survive.
“No, wait, I—I can’t!”
“We’ll see about that,” Jungkook replies, wrapping a large bicep around your neck. He pulls you back, letting your breasts stick out towards Taehyung as he secures you in a chokehold.
Your breath gets caught in your throat when Jungkook squeezes, cutting your screams off. Somehow, your orgasm feels closer yet further away at the same time.
“Almost there, just hold on, princess,” Taehyung lets his hands fall onto your waist, helping Jungkook to prop you up. The lack of air is skyrocketing your other senses: Taehyung’s calloused hands along your ribs, Jungkook’s muscle into your bicep, and, most importantly, the pressure of your impending orgasm.
At this moment, you’re nothing more than a hole for them to fill. Your head spins from lack of air. The pressure inside of you is neverending; you never want it to end. It feels like eternity before Jungkook mutters out a command to let that coil inside of you loose.
“Let go, baby,” he whispers, finally—blissfully—releasing your neck. “Let go for us.”
As air rushes back into you, your orgasm crashes into you with full force, and you’re spasming between them as you scream out. Taehyung follows soon after, spilling into you with deep and powerful thrusts. Jungkook is not far behind him.
“Hyung, I—I’m close,” he moans, speeding up his pace into your asshole. You’re not entirely sure what’s happening, so beyond fucked out, but Taehyung pulls you down onto him. Your eyes flutter shut just as Jungkook pulls out, spilling his seed over your back, painting a sick and twisted picture of pure ecstasy all over your body.
Everything is numb. You’re not sure your limbs are even connected to your body anymore. The pleasure that had been burning white hot behind your eyelids has since faded to a black.
Was the room always this dark?
You can hear faint echoes of voices. Panicked voices.
“Fuck!” One exclaims. There’s a rustling of fabric. Sheets? Clothes? You aren’t sure.
“Hyung, she’s out,” another says. It could be the same voice for all you know.
You feel pressure on your cheek, your head spinning as you’re being moved. Or, so you assume.
Evidently, the numbness is fading. You’re beginning to feel a tingling in your extremities and the softness of the blankets beneath you. You remember where you are. How you got here.
You’re remembering how you whimpered as Taehyung rammed his thick cock into you. The taste of Jungkook’s blood on your tongue, and the rush it brought with it.
A rush of shame and fear flushes through you, effectively shocking your system. The throbbing of lingering pain between your thighs comes back in full force, and you’re squeezing your eyes shut through a whine.
“Hey, hey,” it’s Jungkook cooing in your ear, “sweetheart, hey. You’re okay, you’re good.” His tone is sickly sweet, and if you weren’t so fucked out, you’d surely be raising a red flag.
Your cheeks are wet with tears, but you can’t remember when they got there. Or, rather, when they started. Indeed, they’re still pouring down your face.
Wrapping your trembling arms around your knees, you choke out a sob, eyes still closed. Maybe if you force your body into a small enough space, you can forget this ever happened. The thought has your chest tightening even more, though; your shoulders are heaving as you cry.
“No, don’t cry, baby,” Taehyung whispers. His voice is tight, almost as if he’s trying not to cry himself.
But what happens next? You wonder silently. Will they go back to ignoring your existence unless it benefits them? Will Jungkook continue his habit of glaring at you in passing? Will Taehyung just go and find some sexy little idol to flaunt on his arm?
You hear your name in the flurry of emotions. It’s being repeated, each time louder and more urgent.
“Princess, please,” Taehyung’s hands are wiping the liquid from your cheeks. “Open your eyes. Just look at me, please.”
Even in your current state, who are you to deny him? You squint your eyes, letting the dim light of the room penetrate your corneas. Taehyung sits beside you, one arm braced on the bed just beside your head. His other hand is stroking your damp hair away from your face.
“That’s it, baby,” he smiles, warm and watery. It’s a grin you’ve only ever seen as V of BTS, which tells you it’s more than likely hiding something. You aren’t sure if that something is, in fact, genuine concern or something more… nefarious. Something you’ve grown to recognize in the last few hours.
He must spot the hesitance in your eyes, because before you can mobilize your strength to get the fuck up and out of the room, Taehyung is gathering you into his arms. He presses your face into his bare chest, strong arms encircling your body.
You feel… comfortable. Safe. Protected, even.
You’re conflicted.
“You’re safe. I promise,” he says, still ever so quiet. When you don’t say anything, you hear Jungkook’s voice calling your name. He’s sitting behind you, out of your line of vision.
You shiver. The image of his psychotic, blood-soaked grin has burned itself into the backs of your eyelids. You suck in a breath, tensing up yet again.
“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s going through that beautiful head of yours?” Taehyung asks, tone sweet and soft. “Let us help you, please.”
You gulp, suppressing another sob. You feel utterly pathetic. Curled up like a fucking baby, sobbing into the chest of a man you barely know. You’re embarrassed, you feel dirty, and a lingering sense of terror has taken up residence in your belly. But most of all, you’re exhausted.
“I—I don’t know,” you sob, voice muffled by Taehyung’s warm body. He’s rubbing soft circles into your back, humming as he presses a kiss to your hair before smoothing it back down.
“That’s okay, princess,” Taehyung whispers into your hair, “you don’t have to know right now.” He keeps a constant, comforting pressure on your back.
“Kook, go run her a bath,” he whispers to Jungkook after a moment, “please?” The bed shifts as Jungkook presumably gets up and pads over to the bathroom. His absence elicits another round of heaving sobs, anxiety shooting up your wrecked throat.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Taehyung says, rocking you, “he’ll just be gone for a bit.”
God, you feel insane. You’re simultaneously terrified of and obsessed with Jungkook, but you let yourself be rocked into a faux sense of calmness by Taehyung. The silence of the room presses you further into him, and you let yourself wrap your weak arms around his body.
“That’s it,” he coos, squeezing you even closer. He traces figure eights into your shoulder, just over the mess of a mark Jungkook left there.
Eventually, you find yourself laying in a warm bath. You’re completely out of it, the hot water encasing your naked body in a comforting embrace. Jungkook and Taehyung take turns running a soft washcloth over your curled up form, whispering sweet nothings to you as you fight the urge to fall asleep.
A gentle, yet firm hand tilts your head back as Jungkook pours water from a cup over your messy hair. You smell a hint of lavender as he pumps shampoo into his hands, working the foam through your strands with tenderness. Conditioner follows, and Taehyung even finds a comb to work through all the tangles.
You’re in a state of pure bliss, and it’s so much different to the version you were experiencing earlier. You feel a calmness that could only be described as a sense of belonging as they continue to gently massage your sore muscles with flowery scented soaps.
But, the moment shatters instantly as you feel Jungkook spread your legs and start to clean up your sensitive area. You freeze, making eye contact with him as he searches your face with shocked concern.
And then you’re breaking down, sobs making their way up your sore throat as you start to panic. Taehyung rushes over from his position as the base of the large tub.
“Hey, hey, hey, no, what’s wrong, baby?” He panics, hands cupping both sides of your face. His expression is unreadable as his eyes dart between yours and Jungkook’s, which are currently laced with something fragile.
“Is he scaring you? Is that it, princess?” Taehyung asks again, gently urging you to speak. You can only nod with a trembling chin, still unable to tear your eyes away from Jungkook’s.
Jungkook is taken aback for a moment, his expression turning from a deer in headlights to somber, his pupils swimming with guilt. He’s moving to your side in an instant, gently grabbing one of your hands and holding it firmly in his own.
“Baby, I would never let anything happen to you. I need you to know that.” Jungkook says earnestly. “I know this is scary, but we need to get you cleaned up.” You search his face for the monster you had succumbed to earlier, but find nothing but tenderness and genuine sympathy gracing his strong features.
You nod slowly, tears beginning to ebb as he lightly places your hand in Taehyung’s.
“Here, hold him while I do this. It’ll make it easier.” His doe eyes are big and lined with tears, awaiting your consent.
You nod once again, gripping Taehyung’s hand with all the strength you can muster as Jungkook moves down your legs. He finally meets your vulva with the cloth, washing as gently as humanly possible as you squeeze Taehyung and try to calm down.
Jungkook calls your name when he’s done. You meet his eyes again.
The big, scary man from earlier really is gone now. You swallow your tears, offering a watery smile, and Jungkook places a sweet kiss to your temple. You let yourself relax into the men surrounding you. Taehyung squeezes your hand every now and then, and Jungkook lets you lean your back into his chest, soaking in the moment.
“Okay, princess, let’s get you up and dry,” Taehyung cuts in softly. You must have lost track of time in the bath. The water is cold.
Your boys help you stand on shaky legs, drying your hair and wrapping you in a fluffy robe. You feel the color returning to your cheeks, and your thoughts begin to form sentences.
It seems that Jungkook is harboring some kind of guilt, because he won’t let you walk. Once you’re dry and tucked into the robe, he’s lifting you gently and depositing you onto a set of fresh sheets. You suppose that someone had switched them out at some point.
You can’t believe you were so gone…
On the plush bed, Taehyung and Jungkook arrange themselves around you after pulling on some boxers. You don’t fail to notice how Taehyung boasts the Calvin Klein brand, or how Jungkook’s are a plain black.
It’s a pile of limbs and softness. Your back is tucked into Jungkook’s chest, and he’s got an arm wrapped around your stomach, holding you firmly to him. His legs curl just behind yours, careful to avoid the sensitive area between your legs.
Taehyung is facing you, head pressed into your chest. His hands trail down your bare legs which poke out from between the folds of your robe. He rubs your skin—gently at first—before finding the sore spots and massaging them with strong hands. It’s bliss.
“I need a fucking blunt.” Taehyung’s voice cuts through the air after a moment, rumbling into your chest. His hands have paused on your legs, opting instead to let his body feel yours.
“I got it, hyung,” Jungkook replies, grunting just slightly as he lets Taehyung wrap long limbs around you. “Gimme a second.” You press your lips together in a muffled chuckle.
Jungkook shuffles from the bed and out of the room, leaving Taehyung to hug you to him like a prized stuffed animal. His legs find their way around yours, and he grunts into your chest once he’s comfortable. You can’t help but sigh around him.
Jungkook’s return shocks the calm room. Energy now flows, joining the lingering smell of sex, skin, and lavender. Clearly having bounded up the stairs, Jungkook’s breath comes in huffs as he wiggles a pre-roll in the air, clutching three obnoxiously giant bottles of water in his other arm.
“I’ve located the goods,” he boasts, and Taehyung’s head is springing up from your chest.
“Bruh, Jungkook, that’s a joint,” Taehyung deadpans. Jungkook rolls his eyes and strolls over to the balcony, holding the glass door open while wiggling his eyebrows.
Taehyung wastes no time dragging you from the bed and out to the balcony to join Jungkook.
The night air is warm but not sweltering as Jungkook leans over you to cup his hands around Taehyung’s mouth, lighting the joint between his hyung’s lips. You’re laid out between Taehyung’s legs as he takes a drag, blowing the smoke up above your heads.
“Two hits and you pass it, hyung.” Jungkook raises an eyebrow from his newfound residence in your lap. “I’m not playing these games.” Taehyung just opts for a grunt. He does pass the joint after two puffs, though.
You let your eyes trail over the backyard of the Wang house. There are a few stragglers. Some are passed out on the lawn. Others are up and walking. In fact, you think you spot… oh yeah, that’s definitely who you think it is…
“You’re a cunt! You’re a cunt! You’re a cunt!” Tana’s vocal fry is loud as she screams at none other than Minwoo. They’re only a few yards from you, Jungkook, and Taehyung, but you can hear their conversation like it’s right next to you.
“Hey, princess, isn’t that your friend?” Taehyung comments as the interaction below you continues. “Uh… Mingoo, was it?”
You roll your eyes. “Minwoo. And, yeah, it is.”
Jungkook snorts.
“Can I help you?” You raise an eyebrow at the man sprawled out in your lap. Jungkook has the sense to avoid eye contact with you. He lifts his hands in surrender.
“Look, baby, he clearly has no idea how to treat a woman,” Jungkook snorts. Taehyung laughs, puffing out smoke before passing the joint back over to Jungkook. You pout.
“Right,” you retort, “as if you do, Mr. Trap-Me-In-The-Bathroom. Plus we came as friends.” You cross your arms.
Jungkook closes his eyes, biting on his lip ring.
“Listen,” says Taehyung. “We've been planning this for a while.” You stare at him, a bit confused.
“It all started when you caught us in the dressing room,” he continues. “It was a joke at first—genuinely—but then we started having more serious conversations about inviting someone else into… Well, whatever it is we are.” You look back out at the dying party, taking in his words.
“We knew from the moment we saw you that you were the one,” Jungkook adds. “The way your cute little eyes widened when we all realized that you’re a little voyeur, aren’t you?” Your cheeks blush, only mildly annoyed.
“What? Am I wrong?” He raises an eyebrow, turning in your lap.
“Well… I guess not.”
“Exactly,” he finishes, making his point clear.
“We wouldn't have even approached you tonight if we didn’t know what we were doing,” Taehyung adds. “You had plenty of chances to run away, don’t act like you didn’t.” You promptly shut your mouth, knowing how much truth his words hold.
Your heart softens a bit. You enjoyed your night with them—there’s no denying it—but it’s nice to hear them acknowledge the… insanity of it all.
You settle on a hum in response, emotion tickling your throat. You don’t trust your words, and you’re decidedly done crying for the night.
“So, did I or did I not hear that you’re single?” Jungkook’s voice echoes into the silence, deeper after a few hits from the pre-roll.
You roll your eyes as you laugh. “If I said no, would it even make a difference?”
“Nope.”
“Sorry, princess, you’re stuck with us.”
------------------------
Hope you guys enjoyed yourselves. We definitely did!!!!!! Feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments xx
I feel like y'all should have a photo to picture me and @st4rtells cuz like lowkenuinely this is exactly how we looked cooking up this bullshit...
Let's Put the End in Friends | Jackson Wang (Part 2)
Part 1
The one where your best friend/sort of boyfriend really wants to fuck you.
Pairing: Jackson Wang (GOT7) x Fem!Reader
Genre: Fluff, SMUT, BestFriend!Reader, idiots to lovers
Requested: Yes
w.c. 7.8k
Warnings: reader is bad at feelings, jackson is in love, two horny weirdos, "begging" for sex (but not in a bad/manipulative way there's a mutual understanding ok), oral - fem!receiving (the man eats it like cake even after he hits), unprotected sex (don't do it unless you're best friends with Jackson Wang and I'm guessing you aren't), discussion of contraceptives, breeding kink sorta kinda heh, brief talk of having kids in future, banter, teasing, name calling, dirty talk, I think that's all?? they're still really annoying except just horny now
A/N: Ughhhh here's the part two that I desperately wanted to write and finally people requested it!! This chapter is like 15% feelings and 85% smut, but it's all kinda mixed in so I apologize in advance.
Jfc I love these two so much. If this is bad I'm sorry! I love writing where it takes me and it all felt right. I love my readers so much. <3
Requests: Open (link below)
In dramas, after a confession, things were usually a little awkward, shy, sweet. But the day after Jackson confessed to you, he nearly bit your hand off when you tried to steal one of his dumplings. Granted, you bit him first, but it was his job to be chivalrous, not yours.
“Um, maybe eat your own before you try to steal mine?”
“I’m literally just a girl, Jackson.”
A few weeks after said confession, things were still mostly the same, as you were awoken by someone pinching your cheek. Bleary eyed, you squinted, looking up at a very hot, very annoyed face.
“Where the hell is my academy sweatshirt? I’m gonna be late for my shift,” he huffed, giving you another pinch. Jackson worked part time at an MMA academy, teaching a class of young children. Unfortunately, that meant three days out of the week, he had to wake up at 7 in the morning to be ready by 8. And if he was up, so were you.
“I dunno,” you whined groggily, rolling over. “I didn’t wear it. Promise.”
“Liar,” he accuses.
“Mmn. ‘m not lying, check my laundry.”
You hear shuffling, the sound of your hamper being opened (filled with clean clothes, because dirty clothes go on the bathroom floor of course), and quickly tug the blanket over your head as Jackson calls your bluff.
“At least it’s clean,” you attempt to plead your case, but the covers are yanked off. You yelp as Jackson flips you onto your back and begins to tickle you.
“Didn’t wear it, huh? Seriously, of all my clothes?” he snarls, fingers digging into your sides. You can’t speak; you instead make animalistic noises of possession as you attempt to free yourself. You wrap your legs around his waist and shove at his chest, shouting apologies in between fits of laughter.
At last, the tickling ends, and you all but collapse against the sheets, sprawled out like half a starfish.
“I’m going to start charging you for the things you steal,” Jackson says, breathless himself from the efforts of torture. Only then are you made aware that his hands are on your thighs. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, until you do, when he squeezes them beneath his palms and brushes his thumbs under your pajama shorts.
“Hey,” you warn, wriggling beneath him. He laughs and leans over you.
“What?”
“You know what. Get off of me.”
He sighs, letting his head drop down as though weary.
When he looks at you again, his eyes have gone all soft, and it makes you feel warm and tingly inside. You swallow and force yourself to look away. You weren’t completely immune to his charms and didn’t want to risk it, answering the question he hadn’t asked.
“Nope.”
That was the deal.
Kissing was alright—as long as it wasn’t too long or too deep. Touching was fine too, just avoid any erogenous zones. Truthfully, you weren’t sure why you’d placed such heavy restrictions on your…relationship? Whatever this was. Probably because at the end of the day, you were still terrified of losing him. Of crossing a bridge that crumbles behind you, never being able to return to where you were.
Right now, the two of you could still be around your friends, could still shamelessly flirt and insist it isn’t flirting. When you’d shown up to dinner with the guys, your hand clasped in Jackson’s to test the waters, no one said a word. Youngjae crinkled his nose and said it was cringe…and that’s it. That was the only reaction. The only people surprised about this development were the two of you, apparently, mostly you. And, you hadn’t realized how horny you were for one another.
When you’d stare at him after a shower, when he had the audacity to drink juice from the carton wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, you noticed that…you’ve always stared. That wasn’t new. It’s just that you were now aware of it, and also very aware of how it felt to see his throat working as he swallows, beads of water dripping down his chest and following the dip of his abs like a treasure map for your tongue—
But it went both ways, fortunately, as Jackson’s playful way of grabbing your waist when you were busily bent over no longer felt fun, but rather, made you want to push against him, feel his hands sliding elsewhere, because god had they always been so big? Had his fingers always been so long?
Presently, Jackson rolls his eyes and kisses your cheek. You refuse to look at him still, so he tilts down, where his lips brush your throat; when your head snaps up to scold him, he takes the opportunity to catch your lips with his, sighing as though relieved.
Kissing him feels so normal that it’s almost painful, like every second his lips are against yours, you ask yourself why you were so stupid, why you hadn’t noticed before, why you hadn’t understood that the feelings you’ve had for him were being confused for platonic when they were much, much closer to something akin to lo—
“Mmff…ou’re ‘unna ‘ee ate,” you mumble, though Jackson doesn’t stop kissing you. You giggle as your words are slurred by his mouth, which in turn makes him smile, which in turn makes you wrap your arms around his neck and consider begging him to let the kids down just this once.
You know he wouldn’t hesitate. So that’s why you groan and push him away. You squirm from beneath him before he can snatch you up, fixing your pajamas as though you were preparing to walk the red carpet. When you look up at Jackson, he’s on his knees on your bed, hands gripping the covers and head tilted to the side. Oh.
“Stop looking at me like that, puppy boy,” you mumble, rolling your eyes. You cross your arms, taking on the weight of the world’s strongest soldier as Jackson fucking Wang silently begs to bend you over the mattress
Jackson lets his legs slip over the side, feet planted on the floor as he tugs you toward him by the strings of your shorts. You whine in protest—losing a drawstring was so—
“I think you like it when I beg,” Jackson says, voice too low to be good for your health. You look at him in surprise, his expression hasn’t really changed, but why did he have to do this to you?
“I think you’re gonna be late,” you huff, feeling your cheeks redden.
“I think you’re cute when you blush.”
“I think—”
“I think we’re gonna be good for each other.”
“It was my turn,” you pout. “I think you need a cold shower.”
Jackson mumbles something you don’t catch as he nuzzles his face against your stomach. His arms hang loosely around your hips, and you’re once again left with emotional whiplash as the man somehow goes from fuck me~ to hold me in the span of a few seconds. You swallow and rake your fingers through his hair (which he pulls at less nowadays, thanks to your nagging).
“I want to,” you say quietly, nails scratching at his head. “But I’m scared. Like…we could probably bounce back from this, and from holding hands and even kissing. But I’m afraid that I’d never be able to, you know, not hurt around you the further we go if things turn out bad. We just don’t know what’ll happen if we commit. That’s scary.”
To your surprise, Jackson squeezes you tighter. He tilts his head back to look up at you, his chin resting just above your belly button.
“What is it gonna take, pie?” he asks softly. Your brows furrow, though he continues. “What’s it gonna take for you to realize I’ve been yours this entire time?”
Your breath catches in your throat; you know he can feel it from the way your stomach tightens. He noses at the material of your top, planting a kiss there. Then the bastard opens his mouth again. You can taste his words.
“You own me, baby.”
You wake up confused and sweaty, fumbling around for your phone. You grab the device and groan—it’s not even five in the morning, and it’s a saturday.
The dream woke you up. You and Jackson had an idea to conserve water, apparently, sharing a shower too small for one person let alone two. Your brain filled in the blanks for the missing information, unfortunately for you, though you had no doubt he was as beautiful in this reality, too.
It was almost impossible for you to go back to sleep after waking up usually, so you throw the covers off with much more attitude than necessary before quietly stepping out of your room. The light beneath Jackson’s door is off, and you tiptoe down the hall, but when you round the corner to the kitchen you gasp in surprise.
Jackson raises a brow at you, taking a sip from the bottle of water in his hand. He’s wearing nothing but black boxers, showing off the lean muscles he works so hard on. So very hard.
“You’re up?” he asks, and by his raspy tone it’s clear he woke up not long before you. You nod and shrug for no reason at all other than to distract from the fact that your eyes are eating him alive. He has the sexiest bedhead, and the thin chain he wears glints as it drapes over his collar bones.
“Thirsty,” you lie. You move past him to reach the fridge, but an arm hooks around your waist. You inhale sharply as you’re tugged against his chest, the warmth of him shooting tingles down your back. You swallow, and he holds the bottle in front of you.
“Here,” he mumbles. He sounds so casual, like his actions hadn’t just made your soul briefly leave your physical form. You take the water from him and tilt your head back for a sip, not having realized how thirsty you were until you’ve finished half of it.
You turn around, though he doesn’t release you, so you remain pressed to his bare chest. You have no idea why, but you lean forward and kiss him just below his collar bone, realizing too late how cruel you were being. In an attempt to make it chaste, you kiss the other side, right above his heart, though Jackson’s hand flies to your hair. He cups the back of your head and refuses to let you move.
“Jackson,” you protest, but he whines.
He fucking. Whines.
“Please, pie. Just keep your lips on me. Please,” he breathes. You exhale a shaky breath and nod.
“Okay,” you say quietly, and you swear he sighs with relief. You watch his face, tilting in again and pressing another kiss to the same spot as before. Jackson nods, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips.
You kiss the center of his chest, lips dragging over his skin to his left pec. When you move a tad bit lower, this time where his heart beats, he hisses and tightens his grip in your hair. You gasp for all the right reasons, though he doesn’t know that.
“Fuck, sorry,” he whispers as though the two of you are sneaking around rather than doing…whatever this was in the middle of your shared kitchen. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” you giggle softly. “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.”
Jackson looks down at you, his expression morphing completely into…calmness? But it still puts you on edge.
“What’d I say?” you ask with a frown.
“I haven’t had sex in almost a year,” he admits.
You blink.
“You…what?” you breathe, shaking your head. “But, you’ve had tinder…you’ve gone on dates.”
Jackson pulls you close again, silently asking for more kisses. You realize he might’ve been right…you like when he begs. You kiss him as he asks, this time close to his nipple, and he shudders.
“I’m not gonna fuck a girl who wants more than I can give her,” he says. You mouth over his skin, tongue reaching the edge of his areola. You like his answer.
“Why can’t you give her what she wants?” you ask, knowing what he’ll say but wanting to hear it all the same. Jackson knows this too, but he’s more than happy to give you what you want.
“Because she—fuck—”
Your tongue lathes over his nipple and he grips the counter tight.
“—’cause she’s not you,” he finishes. “None of them are. Can’t be anything for anyone except you. Wanna…wanna be everything to you.”
“You are…you are…” you mumble carelessly, barely kissing him, but rather rubbing your mouth on his chest. He seems more than okay with that, his head falling back, though he shakes it.
“I’m not, baby. I’ve got so much to give you, gonna show you what it’s like to be loved right, fucked right, needed right. I need you, y/n. I-I fucking need you so bad. Always have.”
You were supposed to be turning him on, not getting choked up, but you pulled back and covered your face. Jackson was still a little breathless and out of it, but he grabbed at your wrists.
“Sorry, fuck, was that…was that bad? I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” you mumble, wiping helplessly at tears that slide down your cheeks. Jackson pulls you forward, crushing you to his chest. He wraps both arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. You love it.
What else do you love?
You love that you can feel his cock pressing against the inside of your thigh, that you can feel how much he wants from you. You swallow your tears and reach between you, your palm finding the thick outline beneath his boxers and squeezing.
Jackson’s reaction is visceral and downright sinful. He jumps, then buries his face into your hair.
“Again, p-please,” he mumbles. You do it again. There’s a weird mix between sadness and horniness between you, but you keep going, sliding your hand up and down his clothed length. He’s definitely thick and a little longer than average, but not frighteningly so.
Thick enough to make you choke, but not enough to bruise your cervix. Perfect. Somehow, you think you know exactly what it feels like to be fucked by him.
“Jesus fuck—I don’t care if I get to fuck you, just please…let me taste you, baby,” Jackson grunts, hips lazily bucking against you.
That…sounds alright with you. You take your hand off his cock and grab his wrist to pull him to his room, but he twists you around so that your back is to the counter. You open your mouth to ask what he’s doing, but the words die on your tongue when he drops to his knees.
“J-Jackson, you don’t have t-to…”
“Shh, baby,” he mumbles, cupping the backs of your thighs. You feel dumb, forgetting how to speak. “Let me make you feel good. Wanna hear those pretty sounds you make when you play with yourself.”
Your cheeks flush pink, Jackson’s words hardly registering in your brain. He hooks his fingers into the elastic of your pajama shorts, leaning forward to kiss the front of your thigh before he begins tugging them down.
“W-What do you mean when I pla—oh…”
Jackson doesn’t hesitate, going face first between your legs and groaning. The vibrations ring through your inner thighs and go straight to your clit, nearly sending you down. He hadn’t even touched you properly yet.
“If you tell me you didn’t want me to hear you fucking yourself, I’m gonna call you a liar,” he whispers. His lips graze over the hair you keep trimmed—you could be a little self conscious about that at times, a couple past partners even commenting on it, but Jackson is worshipping your pussy without words and you’ve never felt so perfectly adequate.
You think over what he said once you regain a little bit of consciousness. And fuck.
You were tired of this sort of hindsight ability you had now, the way you felt when you thought back to the times you were so obviously head over heels in love with him and had convinced yourself you were friends.
Like fucking yourself with your favorite toy, back to the wall splitting your rooms. Moaning loud even though you didn’t do that when he wasn’t home.
“S-Sorry,” you whimper, because what the fuck else are you supposed to say? You feel warmth as Jackson breathes a laugh against your thighs, teeth grazing the sensitive skin near your labia.
“It’s okay, baby. Just do it again for me, hm? While I’m in the same room at least?”
Did he have to be such a fucking brat? You thought “pie” and his attitude would disappear after all of this, but you were sorely mistaken. You opened your mouth to complain.
Jackson pushed your thighs open wider, settling between them and looking up at you from his knees. You squeaked, and the last thing you saw before his face disappeared was that smug grin underneath his pretty brown eyes.
You learned two lessons very quickly. One:
Jackson Wang ate pussy like his life depended on it.
And two, you were immediately jealous of any woman who’d ever had him like this, on his knees between their legs. This should be illegal.
His tongue slid between your tender pussy lips, expertly finding your clit and daring to flick at it beneath the hood. Your knees did buckle, but he hugged your thighs and kept you upright, taking the opportunity to squeeze and knead at your ass. You reached down and gripped his hair for purchase, tugging, eliciting a groan from him that felt better than any dick you’d ever had. You did it again, and this time he practically sang praises into you—he was literally fucking you with his moans.
“Jesus fuck, Jackson?” you ask, unable to do much else other than feel and squeak out your needs. His fingers dug into the plushness of your thighs, though one hand slipped beneath your shirt. His thumb grazed over your nipple before gently pinching it, and you were ready to die.
When he sucked the tender flesh of your clit into his mouth, you stumbled forward, nearly sending him back until he caught you by the waist. You whimper and tug at him to let you go until finally, he pulls away from your cunt, looking far too pleased with shiny lips. He licks them and you fall into his lap, shuddering as you cling to him.
“That bad, huh? Should I keep my day job?” He teases you gently, one hand cupping the back of your head while the other hugs you tighter. You can still feel his cock straining against his boxers, nearly perfectly aligned as it presses against your ass.
“S-Shut up, a-asshole,” you stammer out, gripping his shoulders tightly for comfort—or maybe dear life. Jackson chuckles in a way that makes you feel safe and annoyed—because how can he send you to fucking space and then try to convince you it’s all good and dandy with the same mouth?
“You okay baby?” he asks softly. When you nod, he pulls back enough to kiss your temple, though keeps his lips there. You swallow, having a feeling that he wasn’t done with you. Not even close.
“Was it good?” he asks.
“Very c-classy,” you manage to huff, but Jackson only laughs.
“Mmm. Knew you’d taste good. Knew you’d love me on my knees,” he hums. You shiver, and he moves to your ear, nipping at your lobe. “Knew you’d look so pretty while I eat it.”
You let out a soft whine, your hips rolling into his. You’re spreading your sticky juices along his clothed cock, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he grabs your waist and bites his lower lip.
“Are you done? Hm? Or can I take you to my room and finish you off?” Jackson asks, tilting his head to kiss below your ear. “Lay you down and hold you open until that pretty clit is nice and swollen…”
“F-Fuck,” you whine, digging your nails into his shoulders. “N-No.”
“M’kay, need me to run you a bath then? I bought some new bath bombs—”
“No I meant…” you breathe, letting your head drop to his shoulder. You were dizzy, but your thoughts had never been more clear. Not necessarily a decision out of desperation, just…it needed to happen. You needed it.
“I-I don’t want you to eat me out, Jackson,” you say as you swallow.
You lift your head, relieved to see there’s no frustration in his gaze, no disappointment. God, he’s really just here to make sure you’re happy, safe, comfortable.
“I want…I want you to fuck me.”
“Why are we in your room?”
“My bed is bigger.”
“When’s the last time you washed your sheets?”
“I don’t know, pie. When’s the last time you washed my sheets?”
You crinkle your nose, but Jackson just rolls his eyes. He drags you onto the bed with him, grabbing a pillow and stuffing it in your face. You sniff, your eyes immediately narrowing.
“Have you seriously been washing your bedding regularly now under the implication that we’d fuck soon?” you hiss, sitting up to glare at him. He was sprawled out, looking much too happy for your liking.
“Yes,” he says gleefully. You grab the pillow and make an attempt to suffocate him, but he doesn’t fight back, and that’s not very fun.
Oh yeah! You’re also only wearing his a t-shirt, and he’s only wearing boxers, and his cock is very hard and you’d very much like to put it in your mouth now that you’ve recovered somewhat from his tongue.
“You’re such a boy,” you groan, throwing the pillow back to the headboard. Jackson nods, tugging at the hem of your shirt.
“Yeah. Take this off and sit on my face please,” he hums, lying back as though preparing to be sacrificed to the thigh smothering gods.
“How romantic,” you scoff.
“Come sit on my face so I can make you cry the only way a man should make a woman cry, please~”
“Better.”
With the back and forth out of the way, you can’t bring yourself to smile, pulling your knees to your chest. Jackson sits up, reaching out to take one of your hands in his large one.
“Hey, no expectations, remember? You wanna stop right now, we’ll stop and never do anything like this again. You want me to finish you off, that’s fine too,” he says, thumb brushing the back of your knuckles. You shake your head.
“No. I think…I think we should. We need to, I mean, otherwise we’re gonna be in limbo forever. But…” you pause, feeling your eyes burn a little damn it. When you look up at him, his boyish charm is gone, replaced completely by a concerned man who almost looks in love with you.
“Hm? What is it, pie?” he asks, coaxing you gently. Ugh—why did sex have to be so god damn complicated?
“Promise me,” you say, biting your lower lip as you gather your words. “Promise me if we hate it, if it’s bad, just…stay with me? Like, forever? Please don’t move out? I mean if you have to get married just try to find someone who’s nice enough to let me stay? I’ll do the laundry. We can be like a throuple except you both just have to feed me and nothing else.”
“I love you, y/n.”
“Nevermind, let’s just do it.”
Jackson laughed as you flopped onto your back, though he leaned over you and caught your chin in his hand. You avoided looking at him, but he tilted your head down and pressed his forehead to yours to prevent you from escaping his eyes.
“I know you’re allergic to that word—”
“I am not—”
“But I love you. I love y/n and I love pie and I love the girl who thinks ‘coinkydink’ is an appropriate alternative for ‘coincidence’—”
“It is but okay—”
Jackson rolls his eyes, cupping your cheek under the romantic guise of making you shut up by pressing his thumb to your lips.
“Do you know why I want to fuck you?” he asks, his voice oddly gentle for such an erotic question. You blink, he lifts his thumb.
“Um, ‘cause I’m hot?” you offer with a shrug. His thumb goes back to your lips.
“Yes, but the truth? I want to make love to you but I assumed your reaction to that phrasing would be…”
Jackson lifts his thumb.
“Cringe?”
“Correct,” he smiles. “I’m gonna do what I can so the next man you meet has to climb to fucking heaven to reach the lowest bar for you. I’m nowhere near perfect, but I’ll be damned if you leave my bed able to call your best friend and complain that your inner thigh got more action than you did.”
You pout and push his hand away.
“That was one time,” you mumble. “If sex with you sucks, who am I gonna call? Yugyeom?”
“I dare you to fucking try,” Jackson says, narrowing his eyes. You beam, attempting to boop his nose, but he leans forward and kisses you instead. “If you leave this bed and hate me after, I’ll move out before sunset. And if you want me to l-o-v-e you for the rest of your life, I’ll do that too. I told you, pie. I’m yours.”
You kiss him this time, turning into him and cupping his jaw. Why couldn’t he see that the more of this he showed you, the less you wanted to risk it all disappearing?
You tilt your head to the side, nuzzling your face against his throat to plant kisses there. He inhales, leg sliding between yours as a hand strokes your hair.
“Mm…what do you want, y/n?” he asks, groaning when you suck beneath his jaw.
“Wanna suck you off,” you mumble against his skin, relishing in the heavy groan you feel from him. “Then I want you to fuck me.”
“I can do that,” Jackson nods, licking his lips. You release him and sit up, looking over his stretched out form. He was so fucking gorgeous, and you were in his bed.
You place a hand in the center of his chest, and Jackson sits up on his elbows, his thighs parting eagerly. You giggle, gently kneeing his side.
“Patience,” you hum, dragging your hand down to his abs, letting your fingertips dip between the muscles. You remembered all those times you fantasized about drawing your tongue against them—realizing you can. So you throw a leg over his, sliding down until you’re hovering over his thighs, face level with his hips.
One hand rests on the elastic of his boxers while the other palms his abs. You look up at him as you drag your finger through the lines, following the shape of his muscles. He’s tense, but still coherent, so your other hand slides down to palm him again.
Jackson curses under his breath, eyes never leaving yours. So you lean down and flatten your tongue below his navel. He gasps as you lick down the thin trail of hair that disappears beneath his boxers, kissing the sensitive skin there before moving up again. Jackson whines, and you lift a brow.
“You’re not being very patient,” you say, kissing his stomach before licking up to his chest. Jackson’s head falls back, one hand moving to your hair.
“It’s been almost a year, pie,” he groans. “Want this…want you…”
You giggle softly. When you palm him again, curling your fingers around his constricted length, Jackson practically flies off the bed, grabbing your wrist.
“Baby, I will let you suck my cock until the sun explodes, just…please not now, I’m so fucking close, wanna be inside you…” he breathes. You’re surprised to see his chest flushed and heaving, not having realized how worked up he was over just a few light touches. You swallow and nod.
He smiles in relief, pulling you in for a kiss before sitting up on his knees, gently guiding you back. It’s a little jarring, suddenly being underneath your best friend, but Jackson immediately gives you gentle kisses, whispering your name and promises to make you feel good. You believe him.
You lie there awkwardly as he reaches over you to the bedside table, removing a foil packet. You feel your cheeks redden, which makes him chuckle, and you mumble a quiet shut up. When he holds the condom packet between his teeth and thumbs the waist of his boxers, you realize that you should probably be naked, too. So you cross your arms over the hem of the t-shirt, tugging it over your head and tossing it to the side.
The condom drops and bounces off your thigh as Jackson’s lips part in shock.
“What?” you mumble shyly, bringing your arms to your chest. He clears his throat and fumbles for the condom, shaking his head.
“Nothing. You’re gorgeous. Knew you were, just..." he sucks in air through his teeth.
You blush harder, resisting the urge to tell him to hurry.
Jackson manages to slide his boxers down to his thighs. His cock, once freed, smacks his toned stomach and you grip the covers at your sides as you watch an enticing bead of precum slide down the shaft. It’s exactly as you’d imagined; a little bigger than average, thick, and so beautifully veiny. God it’d feel so good on your tongue, but later. The idea that, hopefully in the future you could suck his beautiful cock whenever you wanted to, made you happier than you’d ever admit to anyone.
You watch as he rolls the condom down his length, swallowing down your doubts as he drops to his forearms on either side of you.
“You okay?” he asks, no humor, no teasing, just genuine concern. You nod and lick your lips.
“Yeah, I’m alright,” you say with a shaky breath. Jackson smiles, leaning forward until your noses bump. The action makes you giggle until you realize he’s fitting your mouths together, and suddenly he’s kissing you.
It’s gentle and soft, his lips sucking at your lower one but moving no further than that. Your arms move to loosely hang around his shoulders, where both of his slip beneath you. You feel the head of his cock brush over your clit and jump. Jackson chuckles. It happens again, but this time, the swollen head catches against the opening between your folds, and you can already feel the stretch, wriggling your hips as if to wedge him in.
Jackson begins to push.
The stretch is slow, heavy, delicious, both of you releasing sounds of relief with eyes rolling back into your skulls as though you’ve both spent four years pretending you don’t want this. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, he squeezes you tight beneath him as he sinks deeper and deeper. At last, his hips meet yours, and Jackson Wang, your best friend, is balls deep inside of you. You squeeze your eyes closed, overwhelmed by the sudden and intense sensations and emotions.
“Are you okay? Feels okay, baby?” he asks softly, clearly restraining himself. You nod, licking your lips.
“Mhm. It’s good. So good,” you babble. Jackson chuckles, nodding as he kisses you again. It’s sweeter this time, moreso as he begins to slide out. The drag of his cock makes you shudder, and you clamp your thighs tight around his waist.
“That’s it,” he hums, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Lock me up inside you, baby. So fucking pretty.”
You purr in response, arching your back. Jackson takes this as a go ahead, pushing himself up to his palms as he begins to fuck you properly.
You feel your mouth open in shock as he thrusts rhythmically, the switch between emptiness and fullness making your head spin. Every time his hips smack the backs of your thighs, another grunt escapes his mouth, and fuck if you couldn’t listen to that sound for the rest of your life.
Jackson leans down and kisses you. This time, you make sure it’s not as sweet, sucking his tongue and letting him lick yours. You taste his groan as he bucks heavily, pausing to collect himself. Your legs hook around his waist, heel digging into his lower spine, making him moan.
“F-Fuck baby, gonna make me come already,” he breathes, letting his head hang down. You smile, cupping his face and pulling him into you.
“So sensitive,” you purr. Jackson huffs.
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” he hums, wincing at his own sharp thrust. “Maybe I should pull out and leave that gorgeous head to wonder what it’d be like.”
“You won’t,” you reply, calling his bluff. “If I begged you, I bet you’d go raw.”
Jackson surges forward, hands moving behind your knees as he folds you nearly in half. You choke on air and look up at him, wondering why the fuck you've forced yourself to wait for this.
“You don’t have to beg for shit. Don’t fucking tempt me, y/n.”
Your mouth opens at his tone, but he begins to fuck you harder, gripping your form against him as he gives you everything he has. Your whines turn into muffled cries as he tucks your face into his shoulder.
“Shh…let’s not let the neighbors know I’m finally inside you baby…that’s it, quietly…take it for me, yeah?” he hums, and you whimper, digging your nails into his skin. Your legs bounce uselessly where he holds them in place, giving him room to be flush against your ass each time he bottoms out.
“Can’t wait for you to let me lick this sweet little cunt until you cry,” he murmurs, leaning back to slip a hand between you. You jump when he immediately finds your clit, index and middle finger repeatedly alternating pressure. He’s a god damned expert, and you feel yourself clenching tight around the obstruction of his cock.
“Fuck…is that all it takes? You’re squeezing me like a fucking vice, y/n," Jackson groans. “More, baby. That’s it…fuck. So fucking good.”
“J-Jackson,” you huff, squirming beneath the pressure of his weight. “Nng…f-feels so good…”
“Yeah, princess? Just like you've dreamed about?"
Fuck. He always knew, knew you too well, were you made of glass?
"Y-yeah," you whimper, choosing not to lie. "B-Better."
Jackson kisses you again, his hand slowing its movements to match his hips.
“Show me,” he says roughly, obviously close himself. “I wanna feel you cum, baby. Want my cock shiny and sticky like my tongue was.”
“Mm..don’t stop, ‘m close,” you breathe. You tuck your hands into his hair, tugging at the strands, knowing what kind of response you’d experience. He groans, as expected, though pulls back and pushes your thighs apart.
He looks down at your cunt swallowing his cock whole as he rubs at your hooded clit, cursing and biting his lip. Your cheeks flush despite everything, and when his eyes flicker to your face—you’re not sure what to call that expression if not love.
You want him to cum first. You bring his hand away from your clit and up to your lips, kissing the wet pads of his fingers before slipping them into your mouth. Jackson lets out a high pitched noise that you can’t wait to tease him over later as he watches you suck them.
He swallows and leans forwards, pulling your fingers away from your mouth to kiss you. You think it’s an accident, the intimacy, but the kiss is soft, so soft that he stops thrusting and you stop trying to make him cum, so soft that you’re suddenly crying and hugging him and apologizing for being a fucking idiot.
“Hey, ‘s okay baby, I’m here,” he whispers, his own eyes wet. “Stop crying, y/n. I’m right here. I’m yours. I’ll still be yours tomorrow. Shh...”
“I’m so fucking sorry,” you breathe, burying your head against his throat despite the fact that his cock is kissing the opening of your cervix currently. “I was scared, Jackson, so fucking scared, I-I think I loved you so much that I scared myself into thinking I couldn’t.”
“Huh?” he asks, knowing damn well what you said according to the stupid grin on his face. You roll your eyes, using the back of your hand to wipe at your tears.
“I said I love you, asshole,” you whisper, sniffling. “And ‘m not gonna say it again.”
“Okay,” he chuckles, pulling your hands down to wipe your tears himself. “Fine. I’ll just memorize the way you sound when you say it and play it over and over until we live in a nursing home together."
"You roll your eyes, smiling through the teariness. Only you would cry in the middle of sex, but Jackson seemed to love this, taking it as your not-so-silent confession.
He eventually shifts again, making you shudder despite the fact that he was only getting comfortable. He prepares to ask—you already know—want me to stop? So you shake your head before he gets the words out.
“I want it, you know, without,” you say instead, shyly looking up at him from your elbows. Jackson looks a little confused, and you sigh, gesturing around as if that’s helpful at all. “You know. Without.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying, pie—”
“I’m saying I want you to fuck me, and then I want you to tell me you love me so I can say it back without dying, and then I want to go to the pharmacy with you and get plan b even though I’m on birth control because we’d make cute babies but I wanna wait like 10 years probably. So, like, without? If you want?”
You finish your monologue, your cheeks burning hot. You flop to your back and cover your face, once again forgetting about the cock buried inside of you. Jackson doesn’t, of course.
“Are you asking me to hit it raw—”
“Must you be so unromantic—”
“Shut up and c’mere,” he mumbles. He leans down, pulling you up enough to kiss you. You feel him shuffling between you, embarrassed by the gasp that slips out when he pulls back. Jackson smirks. There’s a snap of rubber and he winces as he removes the condom, tossing it into his desk trash can.
“Easy, baby. He’ll be back,” he chuckles.
“I’m actually going to kill you,” you groan. But then he’s pushing into you again, and fuck if the look on his face doesn’t make you want to buy a first class ticket to hell.
“Fucking…jesus…baby…” he gasps. You giggle, though he just pushes you back to hide the apparent blush on his cheeks.
“That bad huh?” you mock him, feeling him bottom out, completely. He curses and dips his head to kiss you, but it’s messy and desperate and feeds the fire that’s been burning inside of you for too long.
“So fucking…nng…so fucking pretty,” he says with a sharp snap of his hips. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders as he leans down. He kisses you again, hard, palms flattening on the bed on either side of your hips. He uses the leverage to fuck you harder, leaning over you until you’re pinned beneath him.
“D-Didn’t know it’d turn you into an animal,” you giggle breathlessly, hand fisting his hair. He groans and tilts his head to the side.
“You turn me into a fucking animal, baby,” Jackson grunts. “Makes me…makes me want to do stupid things, like fuck you without a condom and cum so deep the pill doesn’t do shit to stop it—”
“Jackson—”
“You said it first. Still gonna make you swallow the pill with my cum dripping down your thighs.”
You squeak and tug him down for a filthy kiss, tongues barely missing the mark as his thrusts become loose and sloppy. He’s fucking himself dumb, gripping the sheets and whining against your mouth like a dog.
“G-Gotta make you cum. Gotta make it good for you,” he breathes, reaching between you. You pull his hand away, shaking your head. He begins to argue but you squeeze your thighs around his waist, making him shudder and stumble. He falls against you, cursing into your hair as he continues his thrusts.
“Want you to cum first,” you whisper, hugging him tight. “Want you to fill me up like you said, so fucking deep—"
He groans, leaning on you and thrusting heavy as he snaps his hips forward. His speed remains the same, but you can hear the sound of his hips meeting your ass like he's trying to bury himself in you indefinitely.
"T-That's...fuck..." you whimper, nodding. "Good, that's good."
“Ah…ah…” Jackson whines, shaking his head. “F-Fuck, baby…gonna cum, is that…is that okay? Fucking…ah…c-can I cum?”
Oh. Oh.
You were going to explore this later, him asking permission to cum. But not now.
“Please, Jax. Please cum for me, in me?” you beg softly. “Promise, I’ll take it so good."
“Fuck, I know you will, princess. Know you’ll take it all so good for me…so perfect, so fucking beautiful…all mine, baby…”
Jackson clings to you so tight you have trouble breathing, but you feel him shudder, hear him gasp, and you squeeze him back just as much. He releases a sob into your hair, his muscles tensing as he cums hard. You feel his cock pulsing, the warmth spreading inside of you, and realize with a start that you’re feeling his actual cum seeping into your womb.
You rub his back for a few minutes while he recovers, until he finally sits up and hisses at the sensitivity of his softening cock still buried in you. When he tugs away, it’s your turn to gasp, shivering at the cool emptiness you feel.
“Was that okay?” he asks quietly, hands pushing your thighs apart. You nod.
“Yeah, ‘s good. What are you—shit.”
Jackson knelt between your legs, lips first kissing your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. You all but scream, trying to clamp your legs together, but his easy strength prevents that.
“F…Jackson...fuck, w-what are you doing?” you whimper again, trying to push yourself up to look at him. He uses a hand on the soft of your belly, pushing you back down. He pops off of your clit, free hand taking over the strokes.
“My babygirl didn’t cum. I’m gonna make sure she does,” he explains as though it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“B-But you…your cum…”
“Mhm, keep reminding me,” he moans, tongue slipping beneath the hood of your clit while two long fingers prod at your sore hole. You wince, but he slowly eases them in, his own cum working as lube. Rather than move them, he holds them there, gently stroking inside of your walls while he laps freely between your labia.
In a frighteningly short amount of time, you’re coming off the bed (literally) with a cry of surprise, mumbling his name over and over again as though he could save you from the crushing pleasure you felt. Your thighs clamped around his head, though he made no move to escape, apparently right where he wanted to be as it allowed him to continue sucking and licking the sensitive bundle of nerves until your legs trembled violently.
It stole your breath, and you saw stars, mixed in a few moments later with a boyish grin and someone peppering your face with kisses. It was the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had, definitely if you were comparing him to other men. Well. There was no comparison.
You could only imagine how it'd feel with his cock as deep as it was. Next time. You'd suck his cock, cum on it...maybe make him beg to do the same.
Jackson is patient enough to wait until you’ve mostly returned to your body before he smugly proclaims that he was right, the sex was great, and you owe him a backrub (don’t you usually have to make bets to win them in the first place?) but whatever, because you were fucked out and your boy was happy and probably planning your wedding.
But once you attempted to sit up, wincing at the soreness of keeping your legs open, Jackson kissed you sweetly and urged you to lie down again. He left for a few minutes, returning with boxers (darn it) and a bottle of water, which he forced you to sip whilst he ran you a bath.
You were helped down the hall, feeling like a frail old lady after you insisted you could do it—and had to catch yourself by the doorframe as you walked like a baby deer. You informed him it wasn’t polite to laugh at people you’ve nearly fucked to death, regretting your words immediately as a somehow cocky Jackson became even cockier.
He guided you into the bath, telling you to relax while he ran to the pharmacy. Before he left though, he knelt beside the tub, fingers tapping at the lava-like water you were soaking in.
“Do you like the smell?” he asks, resting his chin on his fist. You nod, letting your fingers find his and trying to pull them beneath the water. He compromised by pulling yours out, kissing the back of your knuckles. “Good. It’s strawberry scented.”
“Fucking me doesn’t make my bath bombs free real estate,” you say pointedly.
“Fucking me doesn’t make my clothes free real estate.”
You open your mouth, then purse your lips.
“Touche.”
“I have something to ask,” he sighs, resting his lips on your hand. “It’s really important.”
Oh god. What.
“Yeah?” you ask, your voice shaky. Jackson grins.
“Just…did you like my cream, pie?”
You stare at him for a few seconds, contemplating the last hour and four years of your life. “I want a divorce.”
“I love you.”
“How…how long have you thought of that joke?” you ask. You didn’t really want to know the answer.
“Um…about 20 seconds after I called you pie for the first time? Not with you of course.”
“Well why in the god damn hell not with me!?”
“I mean? Yes with you?”
“Creep.”
“I love you.”
“I still want a divorce.”
“I still love you.”
“Nng.”
“That means I love you in worm?”
“...Yeah.”
“Heh~”
“Hey Jackson?”
“Mm?”
“Your lil sperms might be kinda fast? So like? Maybe leave now? I do love you but I will not have your babies right now?”
“Oh. Yeah. Be right back. Try not to make a baby with those in the meantime, they’re not ripe yet, you know?”
✦ can be read as stand alones, but since all the stories are interlinked one way or another I would recommend reading them in the order listed above - otherwise you WILL get spoilers and might not understand some of the story lines
PAIRING: Jester!Jeonghan x Princess!Reader
SUMMARY: You've spent your entire life hiding behind the mask of a princess, forced to perform perfection at every moment. There is a single person who see's beyond your mask, but you see beyond his too - and you don't think the jester is as harmless as everyone thinks.
WC: 6,244
AU: Royalty, Implied Magical AU
GENRE: Smut
RATING: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
WARNINGS: Mild mentions of what's proper/what's not in a royal society, reader being frustrated and having repressed feelings of desire and arousal, sexually explicit content featuring vaginal fingering, some mild dirty talk, mild biting, mild exhibitionism (hooking up where anyone could find them), the use of pet names (love / good girl), Jeonghan being a bit of a menace, some magical ambiguity at the end re: Jeonghan, he's kinda a weird lil guy in this I don't know how to explain it, he's implied to be dangerous but he doesn't do anything necessarily scary on paper.
A/N: This is for my milestone request for @gimmegoodname! And part 8348934 of Hali doesn't know how to keep to a reasonable request word count :) Thank you jesus for landing on Jester and Jeonghan - this actually is not at all what I originally intended to write but fuck it we ball because the other idea would have taken me aprox 40k words lmfao
AN 2: This is not beta read so I’m sorry - there will definitely be mistakes! I did proof read/spelling and grammar check but I often miss a lot!
MAIN M. LIST | ASK | FOR MY MILESTONE EVENT
ORANTE PARTIES ARE PERHAPS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE RESPONSIBILITY AS A PRINCESS.
The castle's grand ballroom has been transformed into a glittering display of excess, the crystal chandeliers reflecting torchlight and dappled shadows across polished marble floors, the heavy velvet drapery covering the walls in hues of crimson and midnight blue - all of it tailored to make the inside of the room feel like something from another world.
You hate every inch of it. You hate the weight of your gown and its scratchy material, you hate how you can feel the bone stitching of the corset digging into your ribs, you hate the brittle laughter and the clink of crystal goblets, the venomous whispers behind delicate gossamer fans. Most of all, you hate the way every eye in the room seems to track your every movement, measuring you, judging you, waiting for the perfect princess to make a single mistake so they can talk about it with practiced smiles.
A bard stands at the center of the hall, his fingers dancing over the strings of a lute as he sings a soulful ballad of lovers lost in the heat of one another, of stolen touches and a kind of passion you'll never understand. You wonder what it might be like to experience something like that, to be touched by someone who wants you so badly they risk everything, to have hands on your skin that aren't bound by protocol and propriety. To do something dangerous and sinful, to have someone hold you the way those lovers in the song held each other, with urgency and desire instead of duty.
You'll never be that, of course. You are forever bound to this kingdom where the entire world is your stage, where you must remain untouched and controlled, and you're constantly expected to perform.
You're not the only one performing tonight, of course. You're halfway through a painfully boring conversation with the Lord of Coin regarding taxes when a burst of laughter cuts through the murmur of the party. Your gaze drifts against your will toward the small crowd forming near the arched windows, and though you can't see the man at the center of their attention, you know he's there.
The court jester's voice drifts toward you, mischief wrapped in pretty velvet clothes and a silly hat. You'd seen him earlier tonight, dressed in his best midnight blue velvet doublet and matching pants, little crystals stitchy to the fabric to make it look like he's lost in a midnight sky. His eyes had been filled with particularly vicious mischief when they'd landed on you, but your father had whisked you away to greet the Lady of Harvest before the fiend could slink your way.
Jeonghan is a fiend. You are perhaps the only person at court who thinks behind the practiced smiles, card tricks and juggling that there's something far more dangerous, but you've never been able to convince anyone of it. And why should anyone agree with you? Jeonghan is favored among the court for his wit, rhymes and tricks, thrilling the men and charming the women as he slides through each party like smoke, taking the shape of whatever his audience desires most.
A fresh wave of laughter erupts from his audience, brighter and more genuine than anything else you’ve heard tonight. It makes your skin itch and you turn away from the crowd, focusing back on the conversation at hand and determined not to let Jeonghan ruin your night like he does at most parties, determined to vex you and make you feel affronted and flushed and-
No.
You shove him from your mind as the conversation drags on while you sip spiced wine from your glass. As the Lord of Coin talks, you wonder what it would be like to leave this room. To go get somewhere lost in the city below. To fall into the bed of someone who would touch you like the lovers in the bard’s song, someone who smells like sandalwood and smoke and whose smile is sharp and familiar.
For now, you stay put and keep your eyes on the lord in front of you, ignoring the growing laughter coming from Jeonghan's corner. You hate that he enthralls them so - hate that even though you’re suspicious of him, he charms you in his own way, worming into your thoughts on lonely days, leading your mind astray to wonder how it is he does those tricks of his.
Your father appears suddenly, the Lord of Coin fumbling over whatever he was saying about inflation as the king puts a hand on your shoulder, grinning jovially. "Lord Hastings, forgive me, but I'm here to steal my daughter and spoil her with the fun part of the night!"
"Of course, Your Majesty!" Lord Hasting bows. "Thank you for the conversation, Your Highness."
"The gratitude is all mine, Lord Hastings," you nod, letting your father spin you away as dread knots in your stomach.
The crowd near the arched windows opens up as you approach, the members of the court bowing as you and your father approach the entertainment. Torchlight flickers on their faces, showing how flushed with delight they are as they watch the spectacle in front of them. Jeonghan stands in the middle of the, his midnight doublet fitting him perfectly as the crystals sparkle with his every movement.
Though the jester hat might look silly on anyone else, Jeonghan makes it look fashionable. His long, dark hair frames his angelic face, all sharp cheekbones and carefully sloped nose. His dark eyes find yours immediately, flashing as he grins. Your heart skips a little but you remain uneffected, staring at him as he juggles three daggers for the crowd as they ooo and ahhh at him.
You watch as the blades flash in the torchlight, each one caught cleanly while people gasp and clap. A lady nearby giggles behind her fan just as Jeonghan makes the daggers disappear into his sleeves with a quick motion. The crowd claps as he grins and bows politely, his dark eyes finding you again.
Irritation simmers, your gaze locking onto his and holding it. While everyone seems impressed, your instincts scream danger, wolf in fool’s clothing. The corner of his mouth tilts upwards as he steps toward you, the smell of his sandalwood and smoke clinging to him.
"Your Highness," he greets smoothly. "You look bored. Let me change that."
You say nothing but your father claps, his laughter booming as Jeonghan starts his performance. Cards fly from his hands in quick patterns and your attention is drawn upward as they flit through the air. He dances away from you and leans toward Lord Jeon, plucking a card from behind his ear before flicking his hand and turning it into a coin. The crowd laughs and claps as you stand there stiffly, watching as he charms his way through the nobles until he comes back toward you.
Jeonghan stops in front of you and holds out his hand, bowing slightly at the waist. The crystals on his double clink together as you stare at him, your stomach twisting when he looks up at you through his dark, silky lashes. To anyone else, the look might be reverent, but you see it for what it is - hunger.
"For the best trick tonight, I need a volunteer," he murmurs. The crowd claps excitedly and when you glance at your father, the king urges you forward, excited. “Your Highness, would you do me the honor?”
Swallowing thickly, you place your hand in Jeonghan's. His skin is warm, sending a spark of heat up your arm as he guides you toward the center of the circle where he spins you in a twirl, the skirts of your dress flaring. The lords and ladies clap, delighted and shouting how beautiful you look, how wonderful their princess is. Jeonghan’s touch lingers a moment longer than necessary before he grins and lets go, eyes glued to you as he circles you like a wolf might its prey.
When he stops, he leans close enough that you can see the silver threading in his collar and the way his sleeves are tailored to allow free movement, probably full of pockets for all of his cards and daggers and other baubles he uses for his performances. He's close enough that the sandalwood and spice makes your lashes flutter, making you think of something dark - not at all the cheery jester he claims to be.
"Try not to look so afraid," he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear him. "The court might think you're afraid of a simple card trick."
"I'm not afraid," you snap.
"No? Then why is your pulse racing?"
You grimace. Ever the observationalist, seeing far more than anyone ever dares to give him credit for.
"Do your trick, jester," you growl.
Jeonghan grins as he produces a deck of cards from one of his sleeves, fanning them out again. "Choose any card but don't show me, love."
Ignoring the casual way he uses a pet name entirely unfit for his station, you select a card from the middle of the deck and when you flip it, you see the seven of swords. You angle it away from him, eyes darting between him and the card. His eyes watch you closely, the heat of them making you fight off a shiver.
"Show the crowd, I'll look away. Cross my heart and hope to die."
You roll your eyes when he turns his back to you. The crowd leans in as you flip the card, showcasing the front to them all. They all nod excitedly, tittering behind hands and fans until you flip the card back around, holding it close to your chest and away from Jeonghan.
"Good," he says when he turns back around, tucking the deck away in one of his sleeves. "Put the card against your palm, card face down."
You follow his instructions, holding your palm out with the card face down to conceal the seven of swords. Jeonghan reaches for your hand, his fingers warm as he presses his palm on top of yours, the card firmly kept between both of your hands. You hate the way your skin responds to the contact, the way the sudden awareness of him prickles up your arm.
"Do you trust me?" he murmurs.
"Hardly."
"Clever." He guides your pressed palms upward so that you're both holding the card between you, each of your hands pressing forward with equal force. "Good girl. Keep your hand steady."
A snarl works its way to your lips at the pet name, but before you can snap at him for the impropriety, Jeonghan shuffles closer and the crowd goes quiet. You realize how far away they seem, the sound dull like it's on the other side of a bubble. Jeonghan is close though - so close you have to tilt your chin up to look up at him, his eyes glittering as they watch you.
"You're quite good at playing a dutiful princess," he notes.
"You know nothing about me."
"Don't I?" His eyes search yours, and there's something sharp in his gaze, something that cuts through the fool's mask he wears. "I know you watch everything. I know you see more than you let on. I know you're the only person in this room who looks at me and wonders what I'm really doing here."
Your heart pounds harder, the rhythm so forceful you're certain he can see it in the pulse at your throat. He's far too close and far too observant for a mere jester. The air between your palms feels charged, almost electric, and you're acutely aware of every inch of space he occupies. You want to step back, to put distance between you and whatever game he's playing, but the crowd is watching and so is the king. So you look onward, staring at him as he smirks.
"Breathe," Jeonghan says, softer now, and there's something almost gentle in his tone that makes it worse somehow. "You're holding your breath, love."
“Stop calling me that.”
"Nervous?"
You glare. "No."
His grin widens a fraction. "Liar."
The word hangs between you, intimate and dangerous. No one else speaks to you like this. No one else would dare, but Jeonghan isn't like the others at court. He refuses to be cowed by your title and your cold shoulder, protected by the silly little performance he puts on, convincing others that he's a fool. It gives him a freedom that feels threatening, and you're the only one who seems to notice.
The hand that isn't pressed against yours moves, tracing a slow circle in the air around where your palms are joined. The movement is hypnotic, and you find yourself following the movement, watching as he repeats the motion a few times. For a moment, you feel a little hazy, eyes fluttering as your thoughts grow foggy. Then, your mind sharpens again, Jeonghan’s intense gaze coming into focus.
"Picture your card," he instructs, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "Imagine exactly what it looks like - the edges, the images. The way it's shaped. The colors used, the details of the card face."
You think of the seven of swords, trying to focus on the image of it, trying to use it as an anchor against the way your pulse races. It's difficult to do so with the warmth radiating from his palm and the way his breath stirs the air between you. He's close enough that you can count every one of his eyelashes and see the way his dark eyes catch the light from the chandeliers overhead.
As you try and picture the curling red numbers on the card and blue paint of the swords, you let your eyes flit over his sleeves. His hands. His pockets. You try to work out what exactly the charade is, ready to catch him in his trickery. You always try, and you always fail, never quite able to pin down the source of the performance.
"You're thinking about the card," he says, dropping his voice again so only you can hear. "But you're also thinking about how I'm doing this. Trying to work it out. Trying to catch me." You don't answer, feeling the heat hit your chest and cheeks as you flush under being caught. Jeonghan smirks, nodding. "You also don’t like being caught. Are you afraid of what I'll see when I look at you?"
"You see nothing, jester."
"Untrue." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "I see someone who's hungry to be wanted. Someone who wants to be touched like those lovers in the ballad the bard was singing, with heat and urgency and desperate desire. Someone who wishes there was a person bold enough to touch her the way a princess is never supposed to be touched. To want her not because of the crown but despite it." His eyes glint with something darker. "And I see someone who looks at me and knows exactly what I am. A wolf in fool’s clothing, right?”
You want to deny it, but the words stick in your throat. You hate that Jeonghan is right and that he sees through you as easily as you see through him. There's a part of you that's always craved this kind of understanding, someone who could look past the crown and what lies beneath, but not like this. Not from him.
Being known by Jeonghan feels like standing naked before a predator, and the worst part is that you're not entirely certain you want to cover yourself. Your chest tightens with the contradiction of it, the simultaneous ache to be truly seen and the primal need to hide from his gaze.
"Now," Jeonghan says, and his voice drops again, intimate and teasing. "I'm going to find your card without ever touching the deck again. Without you saying a word." He leans in, just slightly, and you can feel the whisper of his breath against your temple, warm and deliberate. Your skin tingles where it touches. "Would you like to know how?"
You can't answer. Your throat has gone tight, and you're frozen there, caught between the urge to pull away and the strange, unwanted pull that keeps you rooted in place.
"I'm going to read your mind," he murmurs, and his lips are so close to your ear now that you feel each word as much as hear it. "I'm going to look into those careful, guarded eyes and see exactly what else you're hiding."
Your hands are shaking now, both of them, and you know he can see it. The crowd can probably see it too, but they likely think it's part of the act, part of the performance. They don't know that your heart is hammering so hard it hurts, that every nerve in your body is screaming at you to move, to step back, to break whatever spell he's weaving.
"It's the seven of swords," Jeonghan says, and his voice is soft enough to raise the hair on your arms.
Your eyes widen before you can stop yourself, before you can school your expression into something more controlled. The reaction is instinctive, damning, and you see the exact moment he registers it. See the satisfaction that flickers across his face.
"There it is," he murmurs, so quietly that you almost don't hear it over the blood rushing in your ears. "That's what I wanted to see."
Suddenly he steps back, and the loss of his proximity should be a relief but instead feels like an absence. His hand that was mirroring yours drops away to reveal that the card that was pressed between your palms is no longer there. You frown, mouth falling open slightly as he reaches toward your face. You go still as his fingers brush the edge of your jaw, feather-light and deliberate. It's barely contact at all, the barest whisper of his fingertips against you, but you feel it everywhere.
When he pulls his hand away, he's holding a card between two fingers, flicking it to show you the seven of swords. The crowd erupts in applause and delighted exclamations, the sound washing over you while you stare at him. You want to know how he did it, to know what you missed. Had his whispers distracted you from when he placed it there? Was it a trick of the light?
"Your Highness," Jeonghan says, and his voice is pitched for the crowd now, all performance and charm. He bows deeply, flourishing the card. "Thank you for your assistance."
When his eyes meet yours again, they tell a different story. They say he knows exactly what effect he's had on you. That he planned it, wanted it, enjoyed watching you unravel. It makes you step back, putting necessary distance between you as your heart hammers, your pulse deceiving you.
You excuse yourself as soon as the opportunity presents itself, your father turning to another lord as he laughs about something and the crowd pressing around Jeonghan, cutting him off from you. No one notices when you slip away from the gathered nobles, picking up the skirts of your dress as you rush for the exit, skin overheating.
Cool night air washes over you as you step into the gardens and away from all the noise and eyes. The sound of the ballroom has long since faded behind you, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the soft trickle of water from the fountain somewhere deeper in the garden. You inhale deeply, letting the scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine fill your lungs, trying to steady the frantic beating of your heart.
The gardens are empty. Everyone is inside, drinking and dancing and watching Jeonghan perform his tricks. Out here, there's only moonlight filtering through the branches overhead, casting everything in silver and shadow. The paths wind between tall hedges and rose bushes, their blooms pale in the darkness. Your footsteps are quiet on the stone walkway as you move deeper into the maze, away from the ballroom, away from the noise and the eyes and the suffocating weight of your crown.
You walk without direction, letting your feet carry you past marble statues and flowering vines that climb the garden walls. The moonlight catches on the petals of white roses, making them glow like ghosts. Everything is still and quiet, peaceful in a way the ballroom could never be.
Out here, you can think. Out here, you can try to make sense of what just happened.
Except you can't make sense of it. Can't explain why Jeonghan's proximity affected you so deeply, why his whispered words felt like they were carving themselves into your skin, why the loss of his touch left you aching in ways you don't want to examine. You barely know him. You don't trust him. And yet-
"Running away, Your Highness?"
You spin around, heart leaping into your throat to see Jeonghan standing in the middle of the path behind you as though he's materialized from the shadows themselves. His little hat is nowhere to be found, dressed only in the velvet outfit with crystals glittering like stars. The moonlight above catches in his dark hair, turning it silver at the edges. His eyes gleam, and you become hyperaware of the unnatural quiet of his presence.
"I needed air," you say, trying to keep your voice steady.
"Mm." Jeonghan takes a step closer, his movements fluid and unhurried. "Or you needed to escape me."
You don't answer - can't answer, because he's right and you both know it. He moves closer still, slow and deliberate, and you suddenly feel like he's a wolf giving the sheep time to run if it wanted to. You don't run, your feet planted to the stone path even as your pulse hammers in your throat, even as every instinct screams that you should walk away.
"You know," Jeonghan says conversationally, stopping just within arm's reach, "most people can't wait to be near me. They laugh at my jokes, beg for my tricks, hang on my every word." His head tilts slightly, studying you. "But you? You look at me like I'm something dangerous."
"You are dangerous," you say before you can stop yourself. “Even if I can’t prove it.”
His smile is slow and devastating. "Yes. I am."
The admission should frighten you. Instead, it sends heat curling through your belly, making your breath catch in your chest. He's standing close enough now that you can see the way the moonlight plays across his features. He's beautiful, with a sharp jawline and elegant nose, the curve of his mouth full and dangerous, the kind of beauty that bards say is dangerous, luring people into the spider’s web.
"But that's not why you ran," Jeonghan continues.
"It's not?"
He shakes his head. "You ran because of what I said in there. Because I saw through you, and you didn't like it."
"You don't know anything about me."
He takes another step, and now he's close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, can see the way his gaze travels deliberately over your face, your throat, the rapid rise and fall of your chest.
"I already proved that isn't true, love."
Your breath catches. Heat floods your cheeks, your chest, spreading through your entire body. "You're far too presumptuous and entirely impromper."
"I'm observant."His eyes meet yours, and there's something raw in them now, something that makes your stomach flip. "And I know you felt it too. In the ballroom, when I was close to you. The way your breath changed. The way you leaned toward me even as you tried to pull away. The way you're looking at me right now, like you can't decide if you want to run or-"
"Or what, jester?" You demand, huffing. "If you know me so well, just say it."
Jeonghan's smile turns predatory. "Or if you want to stay right here and let me show you what you desire, no matter how improper it is."
Your heart is pounding so hard you're certain he can hear it. "You wouldn't dare."
"Wouldn't I?" He takes one more step, closing the distance until you can feel his breath against your lips, until you're backed against the rough bark of a tree you didn't realize was behind you. "I'm not afraid of your crown, love. I'm not afraid of what anyone would say or do. I'm not afraid of you."
The words send a thrill down your spine that you absolutely should not feel. His hand comes up, not touching you but hovering just beside your face, close enough that you can feel the heat of his palm against your cheek. You grit your teeth, refusing to lean into the hand the way you want to, refusing to give him the satisfaction again tonight.
"Why risk it, then?" You ask. "Only a fool would."
"I am a fool," he agrees. "Let me show you how foolish I am. Let me show you what it's like to be touched and desired. Let me show you what I've wanted to do since the moment I've met you and how I want to make you come undone. Let me make you lose all that polished control you loathe so much."
You should say no. Should push him away. Should remember every reason this is a terrible idea. But your body isn't listening to your mind, and you find yourself leaning toward him, drawing by the magnetic pull you've been fighting all evening.
"What do you say," he asks, hand coming to cradle your face and tilt it upward until you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes. "Do you want your desires answered?"
You lick your lips and his eyes track the movement, pupils expanding. Swallowing dryly, you give the shallowest nod, damning yourself to desire, to the feeling of being wanted and seen.
It's all he needs. Jeonghan's eyes darken, and then his mouth is on yours and the world narrows to just the heat of his lips, the press of his body as he crowds you back against the tree, the rough bark catching on the fabric of your gown. He kisses you like he's starving for it, deep and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your knees weak.
You gasp into his mouth and he swallows the sound, one hand tangling in your hair while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. The kiss is nothing like you imagined. It's not gentle or reverent or careful, but instead it’s consuming, devastating, the kind of kiss that you never knew existed.
He tastes like wine and something darker, something that makes you want more even as your lungs burn for air. His teeth catch your lower lip and you whimper, your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle beneath the fabric of his costume.
"I've wanted this for so long," Jeonghan murmurs against your mouth, then trails his lips down your jaw to your throat. "Wanted you. Do you know how difficult it was to keep my hands to myself during that trick? To stand so close and not touch you the way I really wanted to?"
His teeth graze your pulse point and you can't stop the sound that escapes you, half gasp, half moan. He makes a satisfied noise low in his throat, then his hand slides from your hip to your thigh, gathering the heavy fabric of your gown and pulling it up as you pant against the tree, your head digging into the bark.
"Tell me to stop," he says, but his fingers are already tracing the inside of your thigh, moving higher. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me all my chasing and teasing and prodding is for nothing and that I should leave."
“I can’t.”
"Fuck," Jeonghan breathes against your throat, and the crude word from his elegant mouth sends another wave of heat through you.
His fingers find the edge of your undergarments and he pulls them aside with deliberate slowness, exposing you to the cool night air. When his fingers press against you directly, finding you already slick, you bite down on your lip to keep from crying out. The gardens are secluded and shadowed, but not so far from the ballroom that sound wouldn't carry.
"Don't," Jeonghan says, his free hand coming up to pull your lip from between your teeth. "I want to hear you. Want to know exactly what I'm doing to you. Want to hear every sound you make when I touch you like this."
His fingers slip between your slick folds and you do cry out then, unable to stop yourself. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, nails digging in through the fabric of his costume, and he groans like your pleasure is his own. You feel a shiver go through him and you realize he’s just as affected by you as you are by him and it makes the heat even worse, the knowledge that he wants you this badly turning your blood to fire.
"So wet," he murmurs, his fingers sliding through your folds, exploring you with maddening slowness. "So perfect. Is this what you were thinking about during the bard's song? Someone touching you like this? Making you fall apart?"
You can't answer. Can't form words. All you can do is gasp as his fingers circle your clit with devastating precision, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your entire body. Your legs turn molten and Jeonghan pins you against the tree with his hips, sliding one of his knees between your legs to keep you pried open for his hand.
"Answer me," Jeonghan demands. "Tell me what you were thinking about."
"Yes," you manage, the word coming out broken. "Yes, I was thinking about being touched."
His fingers press harder, moving in tight circles that make your vision blur. His fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance, and you can feel how wet you are, your entrance clenching around nothing as his fingers trace laze circles where you need him most, your hips twitching.
"I'm going to give you exactly what you want," he promises. "Going to make you come so hard you see stars.
He slides one finger inside you and you cry out, your back arching off the tree. He's watching your face with an intensity that should make you self-conscious, but you're too far gone to care, too lost in the sensation of his finger moving inside you, curling just right, finding spots that make you shake.
It feels so good - better than you imagined, even. Jeonghan is precise, leaning forward to leave bite marks and kitten licks up and down your neck as he works you slowly, finger pressing against your front wall in a way that sends you squirming against him. Your breath comes out in short, quick gasps, sweat gathering at the back of your neck as he fucks you with his finger, the wet press of his hand maddening.
"Look at you," Jeonghan murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "So beautiful like this. So desperate. I want to see you fall apart. Want to see your face when you come."
He adds a second finger and you whimper, your hands sliding from his shoulders to grip his arms, needing something to hold onto. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, and when he curls his fingers inside you while his thumb finds your clit, you nearly sob, rolling your hips forward into his hand, thighs trembling as you clench down on his fingers.
"You're so tight," Jeonghan continues, his voice a dark purr in your ear. "So perfect around my fingers. I can feel how close you are. Can feel you clenching around me. Do you want to come, love? Do you want me to make you fall apart right here in the garden where anyone could find us?"
The thought should horrify you. Instead, it sends another wave of heat through you, making you clench harder around his fingers. You nod desperately, squeezing your eyes shut as your cunt throbs around his fingers and you writhe against the tree.
"You like that," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Like the danger of it. Like knowing that you're supposed to be in there playing princess while you're out here letting the court jester play with this pretty pussy."
His words are filthy and crude, and they shouldn't affect you the way they do, but combined with the movement of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb on your clit, the heat of his body pressed against yours, you feel overwhelmed and strung out, the feeling low in your stomach coiling and coiling and coiling until you're babbling and squirming and squeezing your eyes shut.
"Please," you gasp, and you're not even sure what you're begging for.
"I know what you need." His fingers move faster, harder, curling inside you with devastating precision. "You need to let go. Need to stop thinking and just feel. Need someone to take control so you don't have to be perfect for once in your life."
His thumb presses harder against your clit, circling in tight, relentless patterns, and you can feel the pleasure building to an impossible peak. Your thighs are shaking, your breath coming in desperate gasps. Jeonghan invades your senses - the smell of him, the heat of him, the way his teeth scrape against your neck, the way his hair tickles against your skin.
"You're mine right now," Jeonghan growls. "Not a princess. Not a performance. Just mine. Say it."
"Yours," you gasp. "I'm yours."
"Good girl. Now come for me. Let me feel it. Let me watch you fall apart."
His fingers curl one more time, hitting that perfect spot inside you while his thumb works your clit, and the orgasm crashes over you like a wave. You cry out, unable to stop yourself, your body convulsing against the tree as pleasure floods through you. You clench around his hand, throbbing as your body shakes until you feel like you can't breathe.
Jeonghan works you through it, his fingers never stopping, drawing out your orgasm until you're boneless and gasping and oversensitive. He's murmuring praise in your ear now - how beautiful you are, how perfect, how he wants to do this again and again until you can't remember your own name - and it makes you dizzy, feeling like you're drunk off of him alone.
Finally, the waves subside and Jeonghan withdraws his hand slowly. You feel the loss of him like an ache, your legs still trembling and barely holding you up. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and you watch through hazy eyes as he licks them clean, tasting you. The sight sends another pulse of heat through you despite your exhaustion.
"Delicious," he murmurs, his eyes dark and satisfied. "Even better than I imagined."
Reality begins to seep back in slowly. The cool night air on your heated skin. The distant sounds of the party still going on inside. The rough bark of the tree against your back. What you've just done, and who you've done it with.
You should feel ashamed. Should feel horrified. Should be scrambling to fix your dress and run back to the safety of the ballroom. You don't. You feel satisfied and boneless and strangely alive all at once, like you've finally done something that feels real instead of the pretty performance.
When you look up at Jeonghan, you see him watching you, his expression unreadable in the shadow of the tree. The breeze makes the leaves dance, kissing your cooling skin as his hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheek with surprising gentleness.
"Regrets?" He asks, voices soft as the smoke that clings to him.
You should say yes and that this was a mistake, that it can never happen again and that you need to return to the ballroom and pretend this never happened. You should remind him that this is improper and unacceptable. Yet instead, you find yourself leaning into his touch, lashes fluttering.
"No," you admit. "No regrets."
Something like satisfaction shifts in his gaze, and he leans in and kisses you again. This time it's different - softer and slower, less consuming and more like he's savoring the taste and feel of your lips against his. You kiss him back, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the crystals click against your skin as his heart pounds beneath your palms.
When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard again, and your mind is spinning with questions you're not sure you want answered.
"How did you do it?" you ask suddenly.
Jeonghan tilts his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Do what?"
"The card trick. In the ballroom."
His smile widens, and there's something dangerous in it now."I already told you. I read your mind."
You shake your head, confusion and disbelief warring inside you. "That would make you something magical. Not just a jester with clever tricks."
"Yes," Jeonghan agrees, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "It would."
The implication of his words hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches, your mind racing through everything you know about him, everything you've seen, the way he seems to move through the world like something other. Like something more.
He's grinning now, watching the realization dawn across your face, and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, more possessive, like he's claiming you. Like he knows exactly what he's revealed and doesn't care. When he pulls back, his lips are still close enough that you can feel his breath against your mouth.
"You thought it yourself earlier, didn’t you?" he murmurs, teeth catching your bottom lip sharply. "I'm a wolf in fools' clothing."
Fandom: SEVENTEEN
Pairing: Choi Seungcheol (S.Coups) × Reader (Y/N)
Series: After the Meeting, Pt. 2
Rating: Explicit (18+) and fluff too!!!
Word Count: ~4,900 words
Link to Pt.1 -> https://www.tumblr.com/urmyrehab/823046654694391808/after-the-meeting?source=share
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Summary
The rumors are getting harder to ignore.
After weeks of stolen glances, whispered gossip, and late nights behind locked office doors, Seungcheol and Y/N find themselves standing on the edge of a secret they can no longer keep. Between a birthday they'll never forget and a question that changes everything, the hardest part isn't falling in love—it's finally letting the rest of the world see it.
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The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Y/N stepped into the familiar chaos of the office floor. Her heels clicked against the polished tiles, but the sound felt distant compared to the low hum of conversation that rippled through the cubicles. Heads turned. Eyes followed. The air itself seemed to carry the weight of recent rumors—speculation about the hotel room noises, the way Scoups had lingered too long near her, the faint mark on her neck that makeup couldn’t quite hide.
She kept her chin up, shoulders squared, but her pulse hammered in her throat. Scoups was already at the head of the long conference table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened just enough to reveal the strong line of his collarbone. Their eyes met for half a second—nothing more—and heat bloomed low in her belly. He gave the smallest nod, then turned back to the presentation on the screen.
“Morning, team,” he called, voice steady, commanding. “Let’s run through the Q3 targets before the client call.”
Chairs scraped. Laptops opened. But the usual focused silence never settled. Instead, whispers threaded between seats.
“Did you see how she looked at him?”
“Manager-nim’s been different since the trip. Protective. Like he’s… marking territory.”
Y/N’s fingers tightened around her pen. She forced herself to take notes, to nod at the right moments, but every time Scoups leaned over the table to point at a chart, the fabric of his shirt stretched across his shoulders and she remembered how those same shoulders had pinned her down in the hotel room, how his cock had stretched her open until she’d bitten his palm to stay quiet.
The meeting dragged. When it finally ended, the team scattered, but the tension lingered like static. In the break room, two analysts huddled near the coffee machine.
“I’m telling you, they’re fucking. Or dating. Or both.”
“Shh—keep it down. But yeah, the way he watches her? That’s not just professional.”
Y/N slipped out before they noticed her, heart pounding. She texted Scoups under the desk: They’re getting bolder.
His reply came seconds later: Let them talk. We’re almost done hiding.
The days blurred into a haze of stolen glances and careful distance. Scoups scheduled late meetings that kept them both in the office after everyone left. The first night, he bent her over his desk the second the last light flicked off, yanking her skirt up and sinking two fingers into her already wet pussy.
“Missed this,” he growled against her ear, curling his fingers until her knees buckled. “Missed how tight you get when you’re trying not to scream.”
She came hard around his hand, biting her forearm to muffle the sound. He didn’t give her time to recover—replaced his fingers with his cock in one smooth thrust, fucking her deep and fast, the desk creaking under them. When he came, he stayed buried inside her, cum leaking down her thighs as he kissed the back of her neck.
“Two more weeks,” he promised. “Then we stop pretending.”
Her birthday arrived on a Friday. Scoups had sent the car at seven, just like he’d said. Y/N wore the black dress—sleeveless, clinging to every curve, hem brushing mid-thigh. The driver took her to the penthouse suite without a word.
When the elevator opened, the space stole her breath.
Hundreds of white rose petals covered the marble floor, leading to a candlelit table set for two. A string quartet played softly on the balcony, the music weaving between the city lights far below. Scoups stood in the center of the room in a tailored black suit, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled once. His eyes darkened the moment he saw her.
“Happy birthday, love,” he said, voice low and rough.
He crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into a kiss that tasted like champagne and hunger. His hands slid down her back, unzipping the dress slowly, letting it pool at her feet. She stood in baby pink lingerie—exactly how he liked. He dropped to his knees right there, mouthing at the damp crotch of her panties, tongue pressing the fabric against her clit until she whimpered.
Then he hooked the lace aside and licked her properly—long, slow drags from entrance to swollen nub, sucking gently before spearing his tongue inside. Her fingers tangled in his hair, hips rolling against his face as he ate her like a man starved. When her thighs started shaking, he stood, lifting her effortlessly.
He carried her to the bedroom where more petals covered the silk sheets. He laid her down, stripped himself, and crawled over her. His cock, already hard and flushed dark, dragged along her inner thigh, leaving a wet trail.
“I want to fuck you slow tonight,” he whispered, lining up and sinking in inch by inch until their hips met. He stayed still, letting her adjust, forehead pressed to hers. Then he began to move—deep, rolling thrusts that dragged over every sensitive spot inside her. Each withdrawal was torturously slow; each push back in made her gasp.
They changed positions twice: her on top, riding him while he thumbed her clit; then him behind her, one hand fisting her hair as he pounded into her from behind, the slap of skin loud and filthy. He came first this time, groaning her name as he filled her, but he didn’t stop moving until she followed, pussy fluttering around his oversensitive cock.
After, they lay tangled, breathing together. Scoups reached under the pillow and pulled out a small velvet box. He opened it to reveal a delicate platinum ring with a single diamond that caught the candlelight.
“We’ve hidden this for years,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to hide anymore. Marry me.”
Tears pricked her eyes. She nodded, voice breaking. “Yes. God, yes.”
He slid the ring on her finger, then kissed her again—gentle this time, full of promise.
The next morning, they walked into the office hand in hand.
Gasps rippled through the open floor. Someone dropped a coffee cup. Scoups cleared his throat.
“Team meeting in five. Conference room.”
Once everyone gathered, Y/N held up her left hand. The diamond sparkled under fluorescent lights.
“We’ve been together for four years,” Scoups announced, voice steady. “Last night I asked her to marry him. She said yes. We wanted you to hear it from us first.”
Silence stretched for three heartbeats. Then the room erupted—cheers, applause, someone wolf-whistling. Colleagues crowded around, offering hugs and congratulations. One of the junior analysts who’d been speculating the loudest grinned sheepishly. “I knew it! Well… I hoped. You two are disgustingly cute.”
Y/N laughed, leaning into Scoups’ side. His arm wrapped around her waist, thumb stroking the ring on her finger like he still couldn’t believe it was real.
By lunch, the entire building knew. Cards appeared on their desks. Someone ordered a cake. The HR director stopped by personally to say the company had no policy against intra-office relationships when properly disclosed, and wished them well.
That evening, as they left together—no more sneaking, no more separate cars—Y/N looked up at Scoups.
“Think they’ll stop gossiping now?”
He smirked, squeezing her hand. “Doubt it. But at least the rumors are true.”
She laughed, the sound light and free, and let him pull her into a kiss right there on the sidewalk, in full view of anyone who cared to look.
Over the following weeks, the office settled into a new rhythm. The whispers stopped. Instead, people smiled when they passed, offered knowing winks, asked about wedding plans. Scoups no longer scheduled late meetings just to fuck her on his desk—now he simply took her home, where they could be loud, where he could bend her over the kitchen counter and fuck her until she screamed his name.
One night, after a particularly long day, he came home to find her already naked on the bed, legs spread, fingers circling her clit.
“Couldn’t wait?” he asked, voice rough.
“Needed you,” she answered.
He stripped fast, climbed between her thighs, and sank into her in one thrust. They fucked slow and deep, his hand around her throat, her nails digging into his back. When she came, he followed, filling her until cum leaked out around his cock.
Later, as they lay tangled, he traced the ring on her finger.
“Four years of hiding,” he murmured. “Now we get forever.”
She smiled against his chest. “Forever sounds good.”
Outside, the city lights twinkled like the candles from that night. Inside, they held each other—finally free, finally together, the secret no longer a secret at all.
The biggest client of the year. A hotel room. Two years of almosts.
When a late-night knock brings Seungcheol to your door, the line between CEO and employee finally blurs. Morning comes far too soon and so do coworkers with sharp eyes and even sharper suspicions.
The conference room still smelled like coffee and victory when the last handshake broke.
Choi Seungcheol, CEO, thirty-one, the man whose signature moved more money than most people saw in a lifetime stood at the head of the long glass table and looked at you like the room had narrowed to a single point. The client, a conglomerate VP who’d stonewalled three other firms, was laughing at something you’d said in the closing pitch. Not polite laughter. The real kind. The kind that meant contracts would be signed before the week was out.
You had done that.
Not the deck. Not the numbers he’d already known cold. You, the structure of the argument, the quiet pivot when the VP pushed on risk, the way you’d answered every question without looking at Seungcheol once for permission. Efficient. Precise. A little ruthless when it counted.
His jaw had flexed once, mid-meeting, when you’d dismantled a competitor’s claim with three slides and a smile. You’d felt his attention then the way you felt heat through glass: indirect, undeniable.
“We’ll send the final terms tonight,” the VP said, standing. “Pleasure doing business with people who actually know what they’re talking about.” His gaze flicked to you, then to Seungcheol. “You’ve got a sharp one, Choi.”
“I know,” Seungcheol said. Low. Certain. No smile for the room only the barest curve at the corner of his mouth when his eyes found yours again.
The team filed out in a rustle of tablets and relieved shoulders. Hana from strategy clapped your arm. Minjae muttered something about drinks that no one committed to. The hotel lobby beyond the glass walls glowed gold against the city dark. Business trip. Three nights. One floor of rooms block-booked under the company name so no one had to share walls with strangers.
You packed your laptop with hands that wanted to shake and refused to. Professionalism was a second skin. You wore it until the elevator doors shut on the last of the junior associates and the mirrored box held only you and the ghost of his stare.
Your room was 1842. Corner suite, king bed, floor-to-ceiling windows the city painted in neon and rain. You’d stripped out of the blazer the second the lock clicked, kicked off the heels, poured water that didn’t touch the dry of your throat. The win sat under your ribs like a second heartbeat. So did the way he’d said I know.
You showered quick — steam, citrus soap, hair twisted up so it wouldn’t soak. Sleep shirt. Soft shorts. Nothing that said I am waiting for anything. Because you weren’t. You were the best employee on this trip, and he was the CEO, and the line between those things had held for two years of late nights and shared flights and the occasional almost that never became.
Almost when he’d driven you home after the Osaka close and sat in the car too long. Almost when you’d stayed past midnight fixing a presentation and he’d loosened his tie and looked at your mouth. Almost every time his hand brushed the small of your back guiding you through a crowded lobby.
You turned off the bathroom light and the room went soft-blue with city glow. 11:47 p.m. You were reaching for the sheets when the knock came.
Not hallway loud. Two soft raps. Then stillness.
Your pulse climbed into your throat. You crossed the carpet barefoot, checked the peephole out of habit more than hope,
Choi Seungcheol stood in the corridor in a black T-shirt and dark sweatpants, hair damp like he’d showered too, no watch, no jacket. No CEO armor. Just the broad line of his shoulders and the set of his mouth that said he’d already decided something irreversible.
You opened the door.
He didn’t speak. Stepped in when you eased back. The latch snicked shut behind him. For a second the only sound was the air conditioning and the distant thrum of the city through glass.
“You were brilliant today,” he said. Rough. Quiet enough the walls might keep it. “I’ve watched a lot of people work. I’ve never watched anyone the way I watched you in that room.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “Seungcheol”
“I know.” His hand lifted, hovered near your cheek, didn’t touch yet. “I know every reason this is a terrible idea. I’ve recited them for months. Tonight I’m done.”
You could have stopped him. Could have cited policy, optics, the team two doors down. Instead you leaned the half-inch into his palm when it finally settled warm against your skin, and the sound he made was almost a laugh, almost a groan.
“Tell me to leave,” he said.
“Stay.”
That was all it took.
His mouth found yours hard and sure, no testing peck, no polite first try the kiss of your secret boyfriend who’d been starving himself on almosts. You tasted mint and something darker, felt the solid press of his chest as he walked you backward until your calves hit the bed. His hands framed your jaw, then slid into your hair, tilting you open so he could deepen it. Your fingers fisted in the soft cotton of his shirt. He was warm through it. Real.
“Been thinking about this,” he muttered against your lips, “every fucking flight. Every late night you sat across from me like you weren’t the only thing I could see.”
You pulled the shirt up. He raised his arms, let you strip it off, and the sight of him bare-chested in the half-dark punched the air from your lungs thick shoulders, the cut of muscle along his stomach, the trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his sweats. A scar pale near his ribs. Human. Not a title.
He looked at you looking and something possessive flashed behind his eyes.
“Your turn.”
You lifted your arms. He peeled the sleep shirt over your head slow, deliberate, like unwrapping something he’d paid for in patience. Cool air kissed your skin; his gaze dragged over your breasts, your stomach, the flush already high on your chest. He swore under his breath and bent, mouth hot on the slope of one breast, tongue circling your nipple until it tightened, until your back arched and a sound escaped you that you didn’t recognize.
“Quiet,” he whispered against your skin not unkind, almost fond. “Unless you want Hana asking questions at breakfast.”
The reminder should have cooled you. It didn’t. It made the secret sharper, sweeter. You bit your lip. He smiled against your breast and sucked harder, hand sliding down your stomach into your shorts.
He found you already wet. Two fingers stroked through your folds, slow, gathering slick, and the noise he made then was pure hunger.
“Fuck. For me?”
“For the meeting,” you tried, breathless, and he laughed low against your throat.
“Liar.” His fingers circled your clit with devastating patience. “This is for me. Say it.”
"For you" It broke on a gasp when he pushed one thick finger inside. Then two. Stretching. Curling. Your hips rolled into his hand without permission. He fucked you on his fingers standing there until your thighs shook and you had to clutch his shoulders to stay upright, forehead pressed to his collarbone, breathing him in soap, skin, the faint spice of whatever cologne had survived the shower.
“Bed,” he said. “Now.”
You went. He stripped your shorts and the scrap of underwear beneath in one motion, tossed them aside, and looked at you spread on the white hotel sheets like a man taking inventory of a prize. Then he shoved his sweats down. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, already hard enough the head glistened. You reached; he caught your wrist, kissed the inside of it, and climbed over you instead.
“If I let you touch me first I’ll come like a teenager,” he said against your mouth. “Been hard since you dismantled their counsel with a single slide.”
You laughed, helpless, and he swallowed the sound with another kiss as he settled between your thighs. The blunt head of him dragged through your wetness, once, twice, notching at your entrance. He held there, eyes locked on yours.
“Yes?”
“Yes. Seungcheol — please”
He pushed in.
Slow. Relentless. The stretch burned sweet, forced a broken moan out of you that he caught with his palm gently over your mouth. His other arm braced beside your head. Inch by inch until his hips met yours and you were full, impossibly full, clenching around the thick length of him while he shuddered above you and swore into the pillow by your ear.
“Tight God, you feel” He pulled back, thrust deep. The bed whispered. Somewhere a pipe ticked in the wall. You wrapped your legs around his waist and met the next stroke, and the one after, until the careful rhythm broke into something hungrier.
He fucked you into the mattress like he’d been saving it. Deep, steady rolls of his hips that dragged over every sensitive place inside you. Your nails scored his back. His mouth found your throat, your jaw, the hinge of it where a bruise might bloom if he wasn’t careful he was careful with his teeth, reckless with everything else. When you got too loud he kissed you quiet. When you bit his shoulder to stay silent he groaned like it hurt in the best way and drove harder.
“Look at me.”
You did. His eyes were dark, almost black in the low light, focused entirely on your face as he ground against your clit on every downstroke. The coil in your belly wound tighter. Tighter.
“Gonna come for me,” he said. Not a question. “Been waiting to feel it. Come on my cock that’s it fuck, just like that”
You shattered. Pleasure ripped through you in hard, shaking waves, cunt pulsing around him, thighs clamped to his sides. He rode you through it, jaw tight, holding his own edge by sheer will until you went soft and oversensitive beneath him. Then he pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach with a strength that made your stomach flip, hauled your hips up, and sank back in from behind in one smooth thrust.
The new angle punched a cry into the pillow. He covered your mouth with his hand again gentle pressure, grounding and fucked you through the aftershocks into a second climb you didn’t think you had. Skin slapped skin. The headboard knocked once against the wall; he stilled, cursed softly, dragged the whole tangle of you farther down the bed away from it, and started again, quieter, deeper, one hand spanning your hip hard enough to bruise.
“Mine tonight,” he breathed against your spine. “Say it.”
“Yours” Ruined. Honest. “Yours, Seungcheol”
He came with a muffled groan into your shoulder, hips stuttering, cock throbbing as he spilled deep inside you in hot pulses. You felt every one. Felt him shake. Felt the way his hand gentled on your hip after, stroking, apologizing for the grip without words.
For a long minute there was only breathing. Sweat cooling. The mess of you joined and trembling.
He eased out carefully. You hissed; he soothed a palm down your back, pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades, and murmured, “Shower. Come on. I’ve got you.”
The bathroom filled with steam again. He adjusted the water too hot, then cooler when you winced, and pulled you under the spray with him like it was the most natural thing in the world CEO and star employee, naked, cum sliding down your inner thigh to rinse away toward the drain.
He washed you. Slow. Reverent in a way that made your throat tight. Soap over your breasts, your stomach, between your legs where he was gentle and thorough and not quite clinical enough to stop the spark from catching again. You returned the favor, hands mapping the planes of his chest, the flex of his arms, the heavy weight of his cock when it stirred back to life under your soapy grip.
“Again?” you whispered, half-teasing, half-desperate.
His smile was wicked and soft at once. “You think once was going to be enough after two years?”
He backed you into the tiled wall. Lifted one of your thighs over his hip with an ease that spoke of gym hours and stubborn discipline. The head of him nudged your entrance slick still, from you, from him and he pushed home in a single smooth glide that made you both groan into each other’s mouths.
This round was slower. Water sheeted over his shoulders and down the groove of his spine. He fucked you against the wall with deep, grinding thrusts, forehead pressed to yours, eyes open. Every so often he’d kiss you like he was trying to memorize the shape of it. Your hands slipped on wet skin. He held you up. When you came the second time it was quieter, a full-body shudder you buried in his neck; he followed soon after, biting down on a curse against your wet hair, pulsing inside you again while the shower beat down around you both.
After, he cleaned you a second time. Towels. Soft hotel cotton. He dried your hair with more care than efficiency deserved. You caught him watching your face in the mirror like he was afraid the steam would clear and you’d disappear.
“Stay,” you said again, softer.
He nodded once. “Until I have to go.”
You slept tangled. His arm heavy over your waist. Your back to his chest. At some point in the night he woke hard and half-asleep and rocked into you slow from behind without fully waking either of you a dream-blur of heat and fullness and his sleepy mouth on your nape and you came soft and confused and sank under again with him still inside.
Morning arrived cruel and bright.
The first thing you registered was the ache between your legs, pleasant and damning. The second was the empty coolness of the sheets where his body had been. The third was Seungcheol standing near the window in yesterday’s sweats, T-shirt twisted in his hands, hair a disaster, looking at you like he’d committed a beautiful crime and wasn’t sure whether to turn himself in.
“Hi,” you croaked.
A flush crawled up his neck. Actual pink. The CEO of a multinational, reduced to shy. “Hi.” He cleared his throat. “I I should get back to my room before anyone’s in the hall. Breakfast briefing’s at eight-thirty.”
You sat up, sheet clutched to your chest, suddenly aware of every mark his mouth might have left. “Right. Of course.”
Silence stretched. Awkward. Tender. He crossed the room, hesitated, then leaned down and kissed you once soft, closed-mouthed, devastatingly sweet after everything filthy he’d done to you in the dark.
“You were extraordinary yesterday,” he said against your lips. “In the meeting. And after. I don’t… I don’t regret this. I need you to know that before the day starts pretending nothing happened.”
Your heart did something stupid and loud. “Neither do I.”
Another beat. He pulled the shirt on, found his key card on the desk where he’d dropped it, and paused at the door with his hand on the latch.
“Walk down separately,” he said, practical again, almost. “I’ll take the stairs to my floor and come up the elevator like I slept there.”
“Paranoid.”
“Careful.” A ghost of a smile. “You’re worth being careful for.”
Then he was gone — a quiet click of the door, footsteps fading fast down the carpeted hall.
You fell back into the pillows and stared at the ceiling, smiling like an idiot, body humming with evidence.
Breakfast was a private dining room on the mezzanine. Company lanyards. Pastries. Too much coffee. You arrived at 8:27 in a fresh blouse buttoned to the throat, hair down to hide whatever might linger on your neck, professional smile locked in place.
Hana was already there. So was Minjae. So was Jisoo from legal, who took one look at you and raised both eyebrows over her latte.
“Rough night?” Jisoo asked lightly. “Walls are thin on eighteen.”
Your stomach dropped. You poured coffee with steady hands that wanted to tremble. “I slept fine.”
“Uh-huh.” Hana’s mouth twitched. “Because someone was definitely not sleeping fine around one a.m. I thought the pipes were fighting.”
Minjae snorted into his juice. “I heard the headboard. Once. Then it stopped. Very considerate headboard.”
Heat flooded your face. You sat, crossed your legs, ignored the sweet ache, and opened your laptop like the quarterly projections might save you. “You’re all hearing things.”
“Sure,” Hana said. “And I’m hearing that the CEO’s room was empty when housekeeping did early turndown checks — Minjae’s cousin works nights — and that he showed up to the gym at six looking like he hadn’t used his own bed.”
As if summoned, Seungcheol walked in.
Pressed shirt. Fresh suit jacket. Hair tamed with product that didn’t quite erase the fact that someone had had their hands in it. A faint shadow under his eyes that could have been strategy fatigue and was not. He carried his tablet, nodded to the table at large, and took the head seat with the same calm authority he’d worn in the client meeting.
Except when his gaze flicked to you — half a second, nothing anyone should have caught — the tips of his ears went pink.
Jisoo made a tiny sound behind her cup.
Hana kicked your ankle under the table. Hard.
You kicked back and smiled at the agenda on the screen as Seungcheol cleared his throat and said, voice admirably even, “Good morning. Outstanding work yesterday, everyone. Especially the close we wouldn’t have landed the terms we did without the sharpest person in that room.” His eyes didn’t linger on you. They didn’t need to. “Let’s walk the next steps before we fly out.”
Professional. Flawless.
Under the table, out of sight of everyone else, his foot found yours and pressed once, deliberate and warm, before he pulled back and opened the floor to logistics.
Hana leaned in while the others scrambled for notes and whispered, wicked and delighted, “Thin walls, Y/N. Thin. Walls.”
You sipped your coffee and said nothing.
Across the table, Choi Seungcheol, CEO, architect of almosts, man who’d sneaked into your room and ruined you on hotel sheets and against shower tile kept his eyes on the agenda and failed, just barely, to hide the smallest private smile.
The contract would close by Friday.
Whatever this was between you had already started quiet, reckless, and entirely too loud for thin hotel walls.
› pairing┆boxer seungcheol x reader
› genre┆fluff romance
✎ word-count .ᐟ 3k
⌁ summary┆Seungcheol's cute goth girlfriend is getting all his attention and showing off a whole new side of him to the world.
✎ author's note┆dug that fic from the grave, hope you enjoy it nonetheless - kinda thinking of making a pt2 with more... mature content ?
Choi Seungcheol is a renowned boxer. Due to his career choice, he spends most of his time training at the gym. While his intimidating presence usually scares people away, he has a soft spot for his girlfriend, an adorable, goth songwriter who often drops by to visit him as he trains.
He is considered one of the best fighters of his generation, if not the best — an achievement he’s worked incredibly hard for. He built himself a strong and ruthless reputation; everyone respected him. Although he is tough to the rest of the world, behind closed doors, he is the clingiest, cutest, and most affectionate teddy bear with his partner – something that would shock the other members of the gym.
You’re the perfect polar opposite of Seungcheol; sweet, timid, and a little childish at times. Above all, you're terrified of fighting and roughhousing, preferring quiet afternoons writing poetry, playing your guitar, and watching Ghibli movies.
Seungcheol fell hard for you the very first time he saw you walking down the street, holding a bouquet of flowers in your arms. It was practically love at first sight. Since that day, he made it his mission to win you over — and he succeeded, landing the sweetest and most supportive girlfriend he could ever ask for.
The tough guy is very protective and careful with you, often worrying that you are too gentle and precious for this world. But minor worries aside, he absolutely loves his personal sunshine cheerleader. Naturally, your soft charm won the hearts of all Seungcheol's friends and training partners, leaving more than a few people looking on with envy.
Seungcheol cherishes every moment spent with you. From the quiet times you wrap bandages around his blistered knuckles with your pretty, black-manicured hands, to lazy days spent cuddling in bed. Whether you’re watching a movie, softly singing a song, or simply enjoying the presence of the other, one thing is certain: the love between you is undeniable.
The gym smelled like sweat, iron, and determination.
Choi Seungcheol, also known as “S.Coups,” stood in the center of the ring, muscles coiled like springs, sweat glistening across his sculpted frame. His fists were a blur, slicing through the air with rhythmic precision, the sound of gloves hitting the bag echoing through the cavernous space. Every man and woman in the gym either admired him or feared him — often both. There was no denying he was a beast: a born fighter, the best of his generation.
But at exactly 3:00 p.m., the entire atmosphere of the gym shifted.
“Yo, it’s cutie girl o’clock,” Mingyu muttered with a grin, nudging Joshua, who’d already perked up.
The heavy metal playlist cut through the air as the front door creaked open. You walked in — a vision in black lace high socks and platform boots, a delicate bouquet of daisies in your arms, although you always said you disliked how delicate things contrasted with your style. Your nails were painted black, as always, and your soft eyes scanned the gym until they landed on him.
And Seungcheol – the man who hadn’t smiled once during his long training session?
He lit up like the sun.
“Baby!” he called out, hopping down from the ring with the agility of a cat. His voice, usually a low, sharp command, turned warm and honeyed just for you. “C’mere, I missed you.”
The reactions were immediate. Someone dropped a dumbbell, almost crushing their toes. Jeonghan blinked like he’d seen a ghost, while Jihoon actually choked on his protein shake.
You giggled shyly and made your way to him, cheeks a little pink. “You saw me last night.”
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t miss you,” he replied, already wrapping his strong arms gently around your waist, careful not to get you dirty with sweat. He looked at you like you were made of glass – scratch that – glass would be too harsh a comparison. You were made of starlight and silk, and in his eyes, you didn’t belong anywhere near this harsh world of bruises and blood. But he was selfish, and he needed you close.
“I brought flowers,” you said sweetly, and held them up. “And some lyrics. Thought you might want to read them later.”
“Only if you sing them to me tonight.”
Head low, you nodded shyly, fiddling with the hem of your sleeves. “Okay. But only if you cuddle me properly this time. Properly. No, ‘my shoulder hurts, so I can only use one arm’ excuses.”
“I’ll use both arms,” he promised, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, uncaring of the eyes on him. “I’ll even be the little spoon if you want.”
“No one’s gonna believe this,” Seokmin whispered from behind a locker door.
You sat on a bench while Seungcheol went back to finish a few sets, your sketchbook open across your lap, scribbling lines of verse as you watched him move. He was beautiful, in that brutal, untamed way — all power and control. And yet, he looked back at you every chance he got, blowing kisses like a teenage boy trying to impress his crush.
Later, when the gym cleared out and the evening light slanted through the high windows, you were bandaging his knuckles.
Your fingers moved gently, the black polish on your nails a striking contrast to his blistered hands. You hummed softly, a lullaby you'd written just last week. Seungcheol didn’t say a word — just watched you, his eyes impossibly soft.
“You’re too good to me,” he said eventually, voice low.
You looked up, confused. “Why?”
“Because you’re the only person who sees me like this. Everyone else sees fists and scars. You see... me. The real me.”
You paused, laying a hand gently over his chest. “I see your heart, Cheol. It’s a very good one.”
The gym was quieter now, the kind of quiet that only came after hours of sweat and strain. The remaining lights cast long shadows across the worn floor, and a soft hum of music played faintly in the background. Seungcheol had finished his last set for the day, but you were still here — a habit of yours. You’d taken up residence on the small bench by the ring, one of your favorite spots.
Glancing up from the lyrics scribbled in your notebook, you caught him wiping his brow with the back of his taped hand. His body was still tense from the workout, but the moment his gaze met yours, all that hardness seemed to melt right away.
"I think it’s time for your reward, isn’t it?" you teased, tapping the spot next to you on the bench.
Seungcheol smirked, the cocky fighter’s grin curling at the corners of his lips. But it didn’t take more than a second for him to wipe it away and move toward you with the grace of a panther.
“You always know what I want,” he murmured, settling down beside you. He draped his arm around your shoulders, his muscles still warm from the workout. Leaning into him, you pressed your cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt, taking in the familiar scent of his sweat and mint that always made you feel safe.
"Is this really a reward?" you teased, your voice muffled by his shoulder. "You’ve been so clingy lately. Don’t you need to train more? You’re starting to lose your ‘tough’ reputation."
Seungcheol chuckled, shaking his head. "Who cares about my reputation when I'm with you? You know I’m only tough because I have to be. I don't need to prove myself when I’m with you; you're my peace."
You raised your head to look at him, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You'd never get used to how differently he spoke to you. To the world, he was a ruthless machine, a force that was always ready to take any challenge, but to you? He was the biggest softie you’d ever met.
"And you’re mine," you said, the words slipping out so naturally that it made your heart flutter.
Seungcheol looked at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before his lips parted into a rare smile, soft and full of affection. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your forehead.
“Stop saying stuff like that,” he murmured, his voice gruff but fond. “You’re gonna make me fall even harder for you.”
You laughed quietly, leaning into his touch, basking in the comfort of his arms around you. “I think it’s already too late for you.”
He didn’t deny it. He never did.
For a long while, the two of you just sat there in silence, the kind of silence that only came when two people were completely at ease with one another. You were watching the fading light from the windows, the golden hue spilling across the ring and casting a warm glow over everything.
"Do you ever think about retiring?" you asked suddenly, feeling the weight of your question in the air between you.
Seungcheol was quiet for a moment, as though he hadn't expected that question. But then he shrugged slightly, as if it didn’t matter.
"Sometimes,” he admitted. “But boxing is all I know. I have no idea what I'd do if I stopped. Besides," he added, glancing at you with a playful glint in his eyes, "I think I’d get bored. I wouldn’t be able to keep up with you if I didn’t have all this energy to burn."
You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder again. "Well, I’d still love you, even if you did retire. But if you ever do... maybe we can spend more time in the garden. And you can read poetry with me."
“Deal,” he said with a nod, squeezing your shoulder. "But only if you promise to sing the poems you write. I need a soundtrack to my life."
Before you could respond, the door to the gym opened again, and the voices of Seungcheol’s gym buddies floated through. You couldn’t help but smile when you heard the familiar banter of Mingyu and Jeonghan.
"Little one!" Mingyu's booming voice called, already halfway across the gym. "You’re still here? I swear you’re always hanging out with this guy. Don’t you have a life?"
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but laugh as Mingyu flopped down beside you, putting his arm around your shoulders like he’d done a hundred times before.
"Don’t listen to him," Seungcheol growled in mock annoyance, pulling you closer to him. "I’m the only one who gets to steal your attention."
"I get plenty of attention from you," you teased, poking Seungcheol’s side. "Just look at you, always hovering over me. I swear, I’m the one who’s gonna get suffocated."
Seungcheol shot you a sideways glance, a playful scowl on his face. “I’m just making sure no one else gets any funny ideas.”
Mingyu grinned, nudging you with his elbow. “See, I told you. The Reaper has a soft spot for you.”
You stuck out your tongue, but before you could respond, someone from across the room caught your attention.
There, standing by the door, was a woman you’d never seen before — tall, striking, with fiery red hair and an air of confidence. She was watching Seungcheol with a kind of intense admiration. You couldn’t help but notice the way she lingered, her eyes tracing the muscles in his arms as he jokingly argued with Mingyu.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
Seungcheol, on the other hand, was oblivious, too caught up in his conversation with Mingyu to notice the woman’s gaze. You weren’t usually one to get jealous, but something about the way this stranger looked at your boyfriend made an uncomfortable knot tighten in your stomach.
Mingyu seemed to notice the shift in the air. His usual playful grin faltered, and he glanced over at you, his expression shifting to one of concern.
“Hey, little one,” Mingyu said in a quieter tone, “don’t worry about her. Seungcheol’s... well, you know he’s always been your guy, right?”
You nodded, forcing a smile. But you couldn’t shake the feeling in your chest.
Seungcheol finally turned, catching sight of the woman by the door. He froze, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
But before you could worry any more, Seungcheol was already walking over to her, his usual intimidating aura returning in full force.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice suddenly all business.
The woman blinked, clearly taken aback for a moment, before flashing him a charming smile, right hand starting to swirl her hair around. “I was just admiring you, the great Choi Seungcheol,” she said smoothly. “Such a skilled fighter. You’re quite the legend around here.”
Seungcheol’s expression softened, but only marginally. He had no interest in the flirty stranger, but there was a part of you — deep down — that wanted him to come back to you, to remind everyone who he belonged to.
Without hesitation, Seungcheol shot a glance at you. His eyes softened immediately when he saw you sitting there with puppy eyes, but the slight tension in your shoulders gave away how much that woman’s presence bothered you.
“I’ve got a girlfriend, actually,” Seungcheol said, his tone leaving no room for interpretation. “And she’s waiting for me. So, no offense, but I’ve got to go.”
You couldn’t help but smile at the way he handled it. His protective side was always there, lurking beneath the surface, ready to fight for you — not just in the ring, but in life, too.
As Seungcheol returned to your side, he leaned down and whispered in your ear, “You okay?”
You nodded, still a little shaken but mostly relieved. “Yeah. Just… felt weird.”
“I’m all yours,” he said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “And you’re mine. Don’t forget it.”
You smiled up at him, your heart swelling with affection for the man who was everything you never expected, and exactly what you needed.
The gym had quieted down again, but now, it felt like it was just the two of you — your world, your love, your safe space. And well… Mingyu.
The following days felt like a gentle rhythm, like the soft strum of your guitar mixed with the hum of Seungcheol’s training. You’d drop by the gym most afternoons, bringing lunch or sometimes just staying to watch him train. The men at the gym had gotten used to you by now — your soft, quiet presence was a stark contrast to the sweat and grunting that usually filled the air. They all adored you, seeing the way Seungcheol’s hard edges melted when you were around.
But no one knew just how much of a soft spot Seungcheol had for you. It wasn’t just about being protective — he was a different person when you were close. He would bring you coffee in the mornings, would ask you to pick out his outfits even though you always gravitated toward black hoodies and baggy pants. He liked that you saw beyond his fists, beyond the public figure he’d built himself to be.
And he, in turn, adored everything about you — the way you scribbled lyrics on napkins when you were deep in thought, the way your laughter could light up a room, the way your fingers gently strummed chords on the guitar as you hummed songs in the quiet of the night.
One evening, after a long day at the gym, Seungcheol invited you over to his apartment for your favorite routine: movie night. He’d recently bought a projector to set up in the living room, and tonight, he had picked a Studio Ghibli film, knowing you could never get enough of them.
“Tonight’s movie is Spirited Away,” Seungcheol announced, flopping onto the couch next to you, his head resting on the backrest, his hands softly moving your legs onto his lap. You settled against his warm body with your favorite blanket draped over you.
“Perfect,” you murmured, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I’m so glad I can always count on you for a Ghibli night.”
Seungcheol chuckled, reaching for the remote to start the movie. “I’ll never pass up an opportunity to watch Chihiro and Haku. But only because I know how much you love it.”
The movie began, and you both fell into the familiar routine of watching in comfortable silence, except for the occasional whisper of dialogue or your soft giggles during certain scenes. Seungcheol’s hand moved to yours, interlocking your fingers with his. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, a simple gesture, but it sent warmth through your entire body. It was those small moments of tenderness that you lived for.
…
As the credits rolled and the last notes of the soundtrack faded, you were still resting on him, eyes half-lidded.
Seungcheol turned to you, his expression serious for a moment. “Do you ever feel like… we’re too different? Like you’re too soft for this world? For me?”
You blinked, looking up at him with confusion. “What do you mean? You’re the strongest person I know. You fight for everything you want.”
He shook his head, the faintest shadow crossing his face. “No, love. I mean, the world I live in… it’s rough. I’m rough. I’m not used to this. You’re… delicate. You live in a world of softness, creativity, and beauty. And I’m just trying to protect that. Sometimes I wonder if I’m enough.”
You squeezed his hand gently and switched to sit on his lap so you could look him in the eyes. “You’re more than enough, Seungcheol. You’ve been more than enough for me since the day we met. I love you because of the way you are — strong, determined, protective. I never expected someone like you, but I’m so glad it’s you. You don’t have to change a single thing.”
Seungcheol’s lips quirked up at the corners, and for a moment, he looked like he was going to say something else — something deeper, something more vulnerable — but instead, he simply nodded. His arm draped over your shoulders again, and he pulled you in closer, resting his chin on the top of your head.
“I’m glad it’s you, too,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve you, but I’ll never let you go.”
Weeks went by, and life returned to its easy rhythm. You continued to write your songs, most of which were inspired by moments you shared with Seungcheol. And Seungcheol continued to train — no less dedicated to his craft than ever before. But something had changed. He was softer now, less likely to hide his emotions behind that stoic mask. Whenever you were near, his eyes softened, and his hands were always reaching out for yours. It wasn’t just about love anymore; it was about companionship, about being two halves of a whole.
But, as with all good things, the calm couldn’t last forever.
It happened during a major fight, one that everyone knew would cement Seungcheol as the undisputed champion of his generation. It was a dangerous match — a title defense that had everyone on edge. Seungcheol was facing an opponent who was known for being as ruthless as he was quick. It was the kind of fight that could make or break a career, and the pressure weighed heavily on Seungcheol’s shoulders.
You were there, of course. You’d never miss one of his matches. You sat at the edge of your seat, his friends by your side, all watching him in the ring with bated breath. Every punch Seungcheol threw had your heart pounding in your chest, but you knew he could do this. He was Seungcheol. He was the Reaper.
But then, it happened.
A right hook. A punch that landed just wrong. You saw the way his opponent’s fist connected with Seungcheol’s jaw, and for a split second, you thought you saw his eyes lose focus. His body staggered, and then— crack. The sound of his head hitting the canvas was sickening.
“Cheol!” you screamed, jumping to your feet. The crowd around you seemed to freeze as Seungcheol lay there, his body unmoving for just a moment too long.
The referee was already counting. “One... two... three...”
Seungcheol groaned, his hand lifting off the mat, and the room exhaled in relief. You were still standing, your hands clutching the edge of the railing, eyes wide, heart in your throat.
It was hard to describe the raw panic that overtook you when you saw him struggle to regain his footing. He looked up at you, and there was that familiar spark in his eyes — even now, even after being knocked to the ground.
And then, just as the ref was about to count to ten, Seungcheol pushed himself up from the floor with a roar. His opponent barely had time to react before Seungcheol landed a devastating uppercut, knocking him out cold.
The bell rang.
Seungcheol had won.
But the celebration was muted. You rushed to the ring, pushing past every spectator and security, ignoring the chaos around you. You just needed to get to him.
Seungcheol was already sitting on the stool, his coach dabbing at his face with a towel. When he saw you, though, his whole face lit up. "My darling," he murmured, a small, tired smile tugging at his bruised lips.
Without a second thought, you rushed over to him, cupping his bruised face in your hands, inspecting the cuts along his jaw.
“You’re okay, right? Please, tell me you’re fine,” you asked, voice trembling as your fingers brushed over his cheek.
Seungcheol chuckled softly, his hand reaching up to rest on yours. “I’m fine, baby. Just a little beaten up, but I’ll be okay. You worry too much.”
“I just.. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.
He looked at you with such warmth, such tenderness, that for a moment, it was just the two of you in the chaos of the arena.
“You’ll never have to worry about that,” he promised. “I’ll always come back to you, love. Always.”
...
The ride home from the match was quiet. You were both exhausted, but the adrenaline still buzzed in your veins. Seungcheol kept glancing at you, his gaze soft, even as he was lost in thought.
When you finally arrived at his apartment, he pulled you into his arms, hugging you tightly. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll try not to get hit so hard next time.”
You laughed softly, your heart still racing. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, Cheol. You can’t keep pushing yourself this hard. I need you, okay?”
“I promise,” he whispered back, his lips brushing your forehead. “And I need you more than anything.”
The world outside might have been harsh, unpredictable, and dangerous, but in that moment, everything felt like it had fallen into place.
✧ feedback & reblog are highly appreciated!
› anonymous review form & join my taglist
✎ author's note┆i dug that fic from the grave, hope you enjoy it nonetheless - kinda thinking of making a pt2 with more... mature content ?
@ credits┆huge thank you @kyeomofhearts for beta reading the hell outta this fic, it was A WHOLE LOT ☆彡
@ dividers┆by @coldxperience
A week after disappearing for a "work trip," you return with a secret hidden beneath every waistband you own.
Seungcheol gives himself one guess to find your newest piercing. If he's wrong, he'll never ask again. If he's right… the rest of the night belongs to him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He found out the way he finds out everything that matters about you: sideways, late, with that little tilt of his mouth that says he’s already decided how this ends.
Group chat screenshot. Someone’s cousin. A blurry story from three nights ago—you in the chair, latex gloves, the flash of metal on a tray. Caption half-cut off. No location. No follow-up. Just healed clean, don’t touch yet and then radio silence while you went dark for a week of “work.”
Seungcheol cornered you in his kitchen the second you walked in, door still swinging, keys still in your hand.
“One,” he said.
You blinked. “One what?”
“One new piercing. Healed.” His eyes dropped—not to your ears, not to your nose. Lower. To the line of your throat, the collar of your shirt, the place fabric starts lying. “And you didn’t tell me where.”
Heat crawled up your neck. “It’s private.”
“Mm.” He stepped in until your back met the island. “Private’s fine. Guessing’s better.” His thumb hooked the hem of your top, not lifting, just holding. “Rules. I get one chance. I undress you. I name it. If I’m wrong, I stop. Hands off. Whole night.”
Your pulse kicked hard enough he had to feel it through the cotton. “And if you’re right?”
That smile. Slow. Mean in the softest way. “If I’m right, I play with it until you cry. Then I fuck you until you forget you ever tried to hide anything from me.”
You should have negotiated. You said, “Okay.”
He didn’t rush.
Couch first. You in his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, his hands under your shirt only enough to map the heat of your skin—ribs, waist, the underside of your breasts through the bra, never quite committing. Every time your breath snagged he paused, watched your face, filed the tell away.
“Ears are old,” he murmured against your jaw. “Navel you already had. Tongue—no. You talk too much for a fresh one.” A dry little laugh when you nipped his lip for that. “So it’s somewhere you cover. Somewhere that makes you walk different when you think about me finding it.”
You were already wet. He hadn’t even opened a button.
He peeled your shirt off slow, folded it once like he had all night, set it aside. Bra next—front clasp, deliberate, the cups falling, his mouth on one nipple and then the other, tongue flat, teeth a threat he didn’t cash. Checking. Ruling out. When his fingers rolled a peak and you only arched, no flinch of metal, he hummed, satisfied and hungry at once.
“Not here.”
Jeans. Button. Zipper. He made you stand between his knees while he worked them down your hips, thumbs in the waistband of your underwear, dragging both layers in one long slide until denim and lace hit the floor. You stepped out. Bare. The air in his apartment cool on slick skin.
He sat back. Looked.
You felt every second of it—the way his gaze snagged on your stomach, your thighs, the dark between them. His cock was a thick line in his sweats. He didn’t touch himself. Discipline like a wire under the skin.
His palm coasted your hip. Outer lip. Nothing metal. He didn’t part you. Just mapped, slow, and when you shivered he filed that away too without taking the bait.
“Not the obvious,” he said quietly. “You’re smarter than that.”
“Turn.”
You turned.
His palm coasted your ass first—cupping, spreading just enough to look, thumbs brushing the cleft, nothing. A low sound in his throat. Higher: the small of your back, between your shoulder blades. Smooth. Bare. Then lower again, deliberate, both hands framing the base of your spine where your waist dipped into the twin hollows above your ass.
He stopped.
You felt it—the exact second his breath changed. His thumbs settled into the dimples like they’d been carved for him. Left first. Right. And there, nestled in the soft depression of the left one, the tiny healed gleam of a curved barbell, ends flush and clean against pink skin that had long since stopped hurting. The right dimple held its match. A pair. Venus dimples, dressed in silver, hidden under every waistband you’d worn for weeks while he sat next to you and never knew.
His breath left him in a punched-out laugh that was almost a groan.
“There you are.”
You made a sound you didn’t recognize. His hands tightened on your hips, thumbs still pressed into the metal like he was afraid it would vanish if he let go.
“Back dimples,” he said, precise, like he was marking a vote. “Both. Healed. Hidden under everything. One chance.” His mouth brushed the left one, hot open air over cold metal. “Nailed it.”
“You—”
He didn’t let you finish. He dragged the flat of his tongue over the left piercing in one long, filthy stroke—metal and the shallow hollow of skin both—and your knees nearly went. His hands locked on your hips hard enough to bruise. He did it again—slower—circling the barbell, catching the curved end gently between his lips, tugging just enough that lightning ripped straight up your spine and down into your cunt.
“Fuck—Cheol—”
“Months,” he muttered against the dimple, voice vibrating through the metal. “You’ve been walking around with these and I didn’t know. Sitting in meetings. On stage. In my fucking car. Bending over in front of me like a goddamn criminal.” Another lick, pointed now, the tip of his tongue flicking the end of the barbell so it shifted in the healed channel. He switched to the right one, mirrored the same filthy attention, then went back and forth like he couldn’t choose. “Who saw these before me?”
“No one—ah—just the piercer, I swear—”
“Good.” He sucked on the left dimple, soft, then harder, the piercing clicking faintly against his teeth before he gentled. “Mine to find. Mine to play with.” One hand stayed splayed over both hollows, thumb rolling the left barbell in tiny circles while his other hand slid between your thighs from behind and found you soaked. Two fingers pushed into you without warning, thick, curling. “So fucking slick. Did guessing get you like this, or was it knowing I’d get it right?”
You couldn’t answer. Your hands were braced on the back of the couch, arms shaking. He fucked you open on his fingers while his mouth worked the piercings—tongue, lips, the tiniest scrape of teeth that made your thighs jump. Every tug on the metal sent a bright, dirty pulse straight through your core. He found a rhythm: suck left, curl, suck right, curl, until you were shaking apart standing up, begging in broken pieces of his name.
“Come on it,” he ordered, muffled against your lower back, mean. “I want to feel you soak my hand while I’m kissing these pretty little secrets.”
You broke. Hard. Vision whiting, cunt clamping his fingers, a raw cry torn out of you while he licked the left dimple through it, gentling only when you twitched too sharp, then going right back to dirty little circles around the metal like he was polishing a trophy.
When your legs gave, he stood, hauled you up, carried you the short distance to the bedroom and dropped you on the sheets on your stomach first—deliberate, so he could look. Clothes off in two violent motions—sweats shoved down, cock heavy and flushed, the head already wet. He climbed over you, knees bracketing your thighs, and bent to put his mouth on both dimples again, open and wet, while he stroked himself once against the cleft of your ass.
“Stay like this,” he said, rough. “I want to see them while I fuck you.”
He pulled your hips up, chest still down, arranged you how he wanted—ass high, back arched so the dimples sat proud and obvious. Lined up. Pushed in to the hilt in one slow, relentless drive.
You both groaned.
He bottomed out and stayed there, one palm spanning your lower back, thumbs resting in the hollows on either side of the metal. “Feel that? How deep I am while I’m holding these?” His hips rolled. Shallow. Filthy. Each grind made his thumbs press and release the barbells in tiny pulses. “Jesus. Every thrust—look at them move.”
“Yes—yes, don’t stop—”
He didn’t. He fucked you in long, deep strokes that turned short and nasty when you clenched, one hand braced by your shoulder, the other never leaving your lower back. His fingers found the left piercing again, rolled it carefully between thumb and forefinger in time with his hips, and you sobbed into the sheets.
“Too much?”
“No—more—”
“Greedy.” Praise and insult in one word. He pinched the skin gently around the metal, warm from his mouth and your heat, and snapped his hips harder. The wet sound of it filled the room. “Look at you. Took needles right here for me without even knowing I’d guess. Or did you hope I would?”
You nodded, wrecked, face turned on the pillow. “Hoped—wanted you to—”
“Fuck.” He leaned down, kissed between your shoulder blades, then lost the last of his control. Fucked you into the mattress, the headboard knocking, your ass bouncing back onto him. Every slam jostled the piercings under his palm; every grind made him press them like buttons. He talked through it—low, filthy, half Korean half English—how tight you were, how pretty the metal looked when your back flexed, how he was going to make you come with his cock and his thumbs on those barbells at the same time or he wasn’t finishing.
He made good on it.
Both thumbs pressing into the dimples, pressure exact, rolling the curved ends while his cock dragged over the spot inside you that made your voice crack. The orgasm hit like a wave breaking wrong—too big, too fast—your whole body seizing, cunt milking him in hard pulses while you cried out into the pillow. He followed with a broken groan, burying deep, spilling hot inside you in thick throbs, hips stuttering, forehead crushed between your shoulder blades, hands still splayed over the piercings like he was holding you together.
Silence after, except breathing.
He stayed in you. Softened slow. His hands never left the dimples—just rested there, thumbs stroking the healed skin beside the metal like he was still marveling.
“One chance,” he said eventually, wrecked-soft against your spine. “And you put them right where my hands always go.”
You laughed, hoarse. “Arrogant.”
“Correct.” He lifted his head. Eyes dark, satisfied, already thinking ahead. He eased out of you careful, flipped you onto your back, and immediately slid a hand under you again so his fingers could find the left barbell from beneath. Cum leaked warm down your thigh. “Next time you get something new, I still only get one guess.” A beat. His smile turned wicked. “But I’m checking these every day until then. Mouth. Fingers. Cock against them while I take you from behind. Scientific method.”
You clenched around nothing on purpose, still fluttering. He hissed, grinned, and kissed the corner of your mouth.
“Don’t move,” he murmured. “I’m not done saying hello to them.”
He flipped you again—gentle this time—spread you open with both hands on your ass, and put his mouth back on the left dimple like a man who’d won something he intended to keep. Tongue slow. Reverent and filthy in the same breath. Then the right. Then lower, tasting where he’d come out of you, then right back up to the metal as if the piercings were the whole point and the rest was just the prize that came with them.
You let him.
One guess. Perfect aim. And the rest of the night to prove how well he knew exactly where you hid the filthy things.
welcome to my dirty mind-
everything you’ll find here is written by me and only posted on tumblr, watty & ao3. I don't give consent for my work to be re-posted (in any language) onto any other platform, even if it is with credit. Thank you.
SYNOPSIS. You’re devastated to discover that your flower shop’s latest high-profile wedding booking belongs to Hansol’s family, your first love and deepest heartbreak. Believing he’s the groom, you silently endure designing the perfect romantic day, only interacting with the bride and the planner to protect your own heart.
PARING. Vernon x F!Reader
GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non idol!au, exes to lovers, second chance, comedy, angst, smut.
WC. 25k
RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).
WARNINGS. HEAVY miscommunication, the names Hannah, Angela, Leonor and Poppy are being used, small (tiny even) car accident, swearing, panic attack symptoms, mentions of parkinson's disease, light alcohol use, jealousy/mild possessive behavior, lots of making out, brief dry humping, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, oral (f. receiving), fingering, eating out, soft dom!hansol, body worship, hair pulling, multiple positions (only two but).
AN. 1. I chose to ignore the fact that Hansol has a pollen allergy. 2. I loved writing this. There's a lot of my personal life in this story, and I'm honestly really proud of how it turned out, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 3. The meanings of the flowers mentioned in this comes from a very, very old magazine that belongs to my great aunt (we're talking 2003), so credits to Editora Abril (i guess). 4. I'd also like to say that this is very late lol, but I'm happy it's finally here.
🎧 SOUNDTRACK. moving along - 5 seconds of summer, minto pra quem perguntar - anavitoria, love me again - v, a couple minutes - olivia dean, if you leave me - seventeen, i'm scared i’ll never sleep again - 5 seconds of summer, still - niall horan, come back to me - rm, lover of mine - 5 seconds of summer.
— This is written for @svthub' First Blooms Collab ! Thank you so much for hosting the collab and for letting me be a part of it!
Blue violets — melancholy of lost love and the pain of being forgotten.
The sheer, unadulterated irony of life is that it doesn't just kick you when you're down. It waits until you're wearing your favorite blouse, gives you a dazzling smile, and then shoves your face into a puddle of mud. Or, in your case, a puddle of very expensive imported white hydrangeas.
You're sitting on the edge of your office desk, starting down at a piece of paper that feels less like a financial lifeline and more like a beautifully calligraphed nightmare: a retainer check.
How can a retainer check be a nightmare, you ask?
Well, the number written on it is large enough to cover your shop's rent for the next nine months, pay your employees for the rest of the year, replace the temperamental walk-in cooler that has been threatening to freeze your hydrangeas to death since October, and still leave enough to tackle the thousand other expensive problems lurking in both your business and personal life.
But it's the last name signed in the bottom right corner that's making the room spin.
Chwe.
You see, New York City has over eight million people. It spans five massive boroughs, boasts thousands of blocks, and houses hundreds of high-end floral designers who would gladly sacrifice their firstborn child for a wedding budget this astronomical. If you want a floral arch in Manhattan, you're spoiled for choice.
Yet, out of every flower shop on the island, the universe decided to guide this specific bride right through the glass doors of Poppy's Garden.
It's hilarious, really. If you don't laugh, you're probably going to throw up.
"Y/N, sweetie, are you still with us?" Angela's voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts.
As one of Manhattan's most sought-after wedding planners, she's known for two things: flawless events and a bun the size of a pear, pulled so tight it could double as a facelift. It isn't the first wedding you've worked with her, and judging by her ever-growing client list, it certainly won't be the last.
"Yes! Sorry," you say, blinking yourself back to the present as you quickly force your lips into a bright, professional smile. A few quick blinks bring the two women seated across from your desk back into focus. "Just… marveling at the scope of this. It's an incredible vision, Hannah."
Hannah — the bride to be — beams at you. She is quite literally a walking angel. With glossy, shoulder length hair, a soft laugh, and eyes that crinkle at the corners whenever she talks about her upcoming wedding. She's impossible to hate. Over the last forty-five minutes of your consultation, she hasn't made a single bridezilla demand. She even brought you a latte from the café down the street because she remembered you mentioning it in your initial email thread.
She is lovely. She is kind. And you're currently fighting the deeply irrational urge to bolt out the back door because you're almost certain she's marrying the love of your life.
"I know it's a lot," Hannah ventures, leaning forward to rest her hands on her knees. A massive diamond ring nearly blinds you for a split second. "But the moment I saw your portfolio online, I told Angela this is it. Your style is so romantic, so organic. I don't want traditional arrangements. I want something that feels alive."
The corners of your mouth lift. "You came to the right place."
"And when I told my in-laws about you, they insisted we book you immediately. They said my fiancé and I deserved nothing but the absolute best."
Your stomach lurches violently. Yep, you might actually throw up.
When the initial inquiry form landed in your inbox two weeks ago, signed simply by Hannah's Events, you'd noticed the groom's last name buried in the details: Chwe & Yang. A knot of suspicion had settled in your gut right then. Hansol's last name wasn't exactly rare, but it wasn't particularly common in New York high society either.
Of course, you had brushed it off. Don't be ridiculous, you told yourself. You're just projecting. You hadn't seen or spoken to him in four years, and now you were convinced every Chwe in the tri-state area was him.
But seeing his father's full name printed right there on the memo line of the check was no coincidence. It was simply all the confirmation you needed.
You stare down at the signature again. The man who used to grill burgers for you on the rare weekends you and Hansol managed to escape your university schedules and visit his family home. The same man who had looked at you with concern during your final semester, knowing—just as you and Hansol had known—that the two of you were about to be pulled in opposite directions.
Did they know the shop belonged to you now? Would they have sent Hannah there on purpose?
You want to believe—and hope—not. There's no way they could have known. You changed the shop's name when you took over, renovated the whole space. Besides, Hansol's parents had never been unpleasant or cruel to you. If anything, they loved you like a daughter throughout your entire relationship.
"So…" Angela pulls you back as she taps her pen against her iPad screen, eyes narrowing slightly, clocking your sudden drop of energy. "The budget covers the rehearsal dinner, the full ceremony installation, the reception, bouquets for the bride and bridesmaids, boutonnieres, twenty-five grand in table centerpieces, and so much more. We need a firm commitment today, Y/N.”
Angela had never been one to beat around the bush. Time was money, and you knew that better than anyone, because it was for you too.
“So, if your shop can't handle a production this size, I have three other florists on standby."
Say no, your brain screams. Tell her you're fully booked. Tell her you have a sudden rose allergy. Tell her you're closing the shop and moving.
You look past Angela's shoulder, out in front window of your shop. A couple walks by, laughing, as they duck from a sudden drizzle. Inside, the shelves are beautifully curated, filled with imported vases, delicate terrariums, and the fragrant scent of eucalyptus and fresh-cut roses. This shop is everything you have sacrificed over the last four years.
When university ended, you knew Hansol was going to Los Angeles to chase his dreams in music. You had every intention of following him, hoping to land a position at a prestigious botanical conservatory, a future your degree in botany had made possible, and one you'd been working toward for years.
Then the bomb dropped, and just like that, the choice to take over the shop was made for you.
You loved each other fiercely. You had tried the long-distance thing, the late-night calls, the clashing time zones, counting down the hours just to hear his voice. But love, in the end, hadn't been enough to bridge the gap between you.
And the thing is… if you reject this contract, you might not be able to pay rent next month. The landlord has already sent his second warning. If you walk away to protect your bruised, fragile little heart from watching your first love marry someone as lovely and adorable as Hannah, you lose the very business you broke up with him to keep.
Talk about a cosmic joke.
"Y/N?" Hannah's voice pulls you back to the present yet again, her brows furrowing with genuine concern. "Are you okay? You look a little pale. We can totally scale back the thousand peonies if it's too much for your team—"
"No!" you blurt out, voice a little too high, a little too desperate. You quickly smooth down your apron, fingers pressing the fabric flat, and paste a reassuring smile back onto your face. "No, Hannah, I'm so sorry. I was just mentally calculating the flower orders."
Guilt needles at you for lying to someone so nice as her. But what else can you do? Tell her the truth? Yeah, absolutely not.
You swallow hard, then press on. "Summer is a busy season the Dutch auctions, and I want to make sure we secure the best batches for you. The thousand peonies are entirely doable." You manage another smile, somehow steadier this time. "It's going to be breathtaking."
Hannah lets out an audible and visible sigh of relief, her shoulders dropping. "Oh, thank goodness. You really scared me for a second. I've been dreaming about this since I was a little girl."
Another wave of guilt settles into your chest. Looking at Hannah, you feel like a monster. She's sitting there, entirely innocent, sharing her dream wedding with a florist who used to blow her fiancé under the table when he was working from home. She doesn't know. To her, you're just a vendor helping build her fairytale. To you, she's the woman living the life with Hansol that you had to let go of.
And you can't ask about him. You seriously cannot bring yourself to say his name out loud in this context. Where he is the groom and you're not the bride.
Angela claps her hands together once, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare happening inside your head. "Excellent!" She slides a thick, leather-bound contract across the table toward you. "If you'll just sign on the dotted line, we can lock in the timeline. We'll be handling all communication through my office, of course. Hannah is very busy with dress fitting, and the groom is currently out of state, so you won't have to worry about coordinating with him at all. It'll just be us."
He's out of state right now. Of course he is. You'd bet you even know the address.
"Perfect!" Your fingers tremble slightly as you pick up the pen. In your ears, your voice seems to belong to someone else. "That sounds perfectly fine."
You don't look at Hannah as you press the pen to the paper. You don't think about Hansol's laughter, or the way his brown hair looked when you ran your fingers through it, or the promises you made in a cramped dorm room, ones that neither of you could keep. You just focus on the blue ink flowing onto the page, binding you to the biggest contract of your shop, and the absolute worst nightmare of your life.
Pink eglantines — a wound that will not heal.
Nothing says out-of-body experience quite like standing in your ex-boyfriend's parent's backyard, clipboard in hand, discussing the placement of fifty thousand dollars' worth of imported white hydrangeas for his wedding to another woman. Forget roller coasters. If someone asked you for a guaranteed adrenaline rush, you'd recommend this instead.
You didn't even have so much as the luxury of a warning. One minute you were plugging the address into your GPS, convincing yourself it was just another private estate in Scarsdale, and then next, your beat-up delivery van was rolling past a set of wrought-iron gates you had driven through a thousand times before.
Your feet automatically steer around the loose stone on the third step of the grand patio as you walk in, guided by nothing more than muscle memory. You know better than stepping on it. Hansol used to trip over it every single time you were here, despite knowing it was there. You know they've probably fixed it by now, but your body avoids it instinctively.
Beyond the patio, the massive, rolling insanely green backyard stretches out before you, looking exactly as it did in your memories. Only now, it's being measured for Hansol's wedding.
Considering everything, you're not surprised your heart is currently performing a full Olympic gymnastics floor routine inside your ribcage instead of simply skipping a few beats.
On the bright side, Angela and Hannah had both mentioned that Hansol was out of state, which meant he didn't have time to be here. And really, that was the only thing keeping you from climbing back into your van and driving to literally any other state instead of heading back into the city.
"Y/N, look at this space." Hannah's voice bubbles with pure excitement as she sweeps her arm toward the perfectly manicured lawn. "We're thinking the main floral arch should go right between those two ancient oak trees. What do you think?"
You swallow the dry lump in your throat the size of a golf ball. You were there for a topographical venue preview, florist speak for scoping out exactly how much rigging you'd need to suspend thousands of dollars' worth of foliage around the space and turn it into something out of a fairytale
"It's… it's beautiful, Hannah," you manage to squeak out, your throat drier than the dehydrated fern on your left.
You grip your clipboard a little tighter, holding it like a shield against the ghosts of your own past trying to hunt you down.
You know exactly how the light hits those oak trees at sunset. You know that because Hansol kissed you breathless against the trunk of the left one the first time he brought you here, exactly at sunset. So yes, professionally speaking, it's a perfect location. Every photograph taken beneath it will be breathtaking.
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to force the memory away as you pretend it's just the sunlight bothering them.
Professional. You are a professional. Look at the perimeter. Measure the archway. Leave.
Before you can spiral any further, you take a deep breath, raise your laser measuring tape, and aim it at the lower branches of the oak tree.
You're focused on measuring and writing everything down when, a few minutes later, the distinct scent of a jasmine perfume drifts through the small boxwood hedges. Every survival instinct you own kicks into overdrive. You know that perfume very well because it belongs to Hansol's mother. It's the same one that used to linger on the hugs she'd pull you into whenever you arrived for Sunday dinners. You know it by heart.
"Hannah, dear, you have to see the caterer's mock-up for the champagne tower!"
Her voice slices through the air, sweet and melodic as ever. Your entire body locks up, pencil freezes against the paper, blood draining from your face so fast you actually feel dizzy.
Hannah waves happily toward the veranda. "Oh, there's my mother-in-law! Eomeonim, this is—"
You don't think. You just act.
"You know what?" you cut her off. "I need to go measure the clearance on the side gate really quickly. I just want to make sure our delivery carts can fit."
The lie slips out effortlessly, punctuated by nervous laughter, your feet already carrying you backward.
"I'll just be a minute!"
Without waiting for Angela or Hannah to reply, you duck behind a massive, towering trellis covered in ivy, pressing your back against the wooden slats. You hold your breath, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest. Through the gaps in the leaves, you watch Mrs. Chwe glide down the stone steps, looking immaculate in a polka-dot dress.
She's gesturing toward the very spot you were standing thirty seconds ago as she speaks, "It's going to be placed right over there, near the rose garden," Mrs. Chwe explains to someone you can't see.
"It's perfect, eomeonim," Hannah says, her voice carrying genuine excitement. "You've been so incredibly helpful. I know how much this must be."
"Nonsense," Mrs. Chwe replies, stopping just a few feet away from your hiding spot. You hold your breath for what feels like the hundredth time since you got here, terrified that the erratic thumping of your heart might give you away. "It is my absolute pleasure."
You watch her gently stroke Hannah's arm, and something pinches in your chest. You can't stop thinking that you've stood in that exact spot in her life before.
Mrs. Chwe continues, turning her attention to Angela. "Our family has hosted many events here, but this one is different. It has to be flawless."
"It will be," Angela answers smoothly. If she's intimidated, she doesn't show it. "That's why we assembled the best team possible."
She nods once, satisfied. "It is my son’s big day, after all." Her gaze sweeps across the lawn, taking in the measurements, the sketches, the carefully marked plans. A smile softens her features. "He deserves nothing but absolute perfection."
My son's big day.
You brain desperately claws for an alternative—any alternative—but your own memories immediately slam the door shut.
It couldn't be his brother. It simply couldn't.
You vividly remember sitting at their family dinner table, listening as Seungcheol raised his glass and toasted to his freedom after his latest brutal breakup. He'd declared, loud enough for the entire family to hear, that he was going to remain a bachelor for life and leave Hansol and — ironically — you to carry on with the family name.
In your memories, Seungcheol was a cynical and independent corporate workaholic who viewed marriage as nothing more than a bad business merger. Hansol was the romantic one, even if he had his own, very particular, way of showing it. So, if a Chwe son was finally standing beneath a floral arch in the backyard, the math pointed to only one devastating conclusion.
You cannot stay here. You cannot spend another second scouting this property without throwing up your breakfast all over their perfect lawn.
You wait through agonizingly five long minutes until Mrs. Chwe links her arm through Hannah's and guides her back toward the sweeping doors of the sunroom. The moment the doors click shut behind them, you practically sprint toward the front of the house, this time tripping on the third step of the grand patio but barely registering it.
You throw yourself into the driver's seat of your cargo van at record speed, slamming the door shut behind you, hands shaking so violently you drop the keys twice before finally jamming them into the ignition. You put the van into reverse, back out of the side lot, and start down the long driveway, making a mental note to text Angela and apologize for the sudden escape.
You just want to get back to the safety of your flower shop. To bury yourself in your flowers and customer invoices and pretend none of this is happening.
You don't even realize you're crying until you feel the wet streak on your cheek, your vision starting to blur with frustrated tears, mind a swirling tornado of grief and panic. You press your foot harder on the gas, reversing the van far too fast down the gravel path, so consumed by the panic that you barely register what happens next until it's already a disaster.
See, the house has a long, winding driveway lined with ancient, thick-trunked oak trees—just like the ones in the garden—forming a blind curve near the iron gates at the entrance. On the drive out, the only thought in your mind is that you just need to reach the street, back to the safety of city asphalt.
You even check your rear-view mirror for a fraction of a second, clearing the blind curve. But apparently, whoever is watching over you isn't on your side today.
BAM.
It isn't a tap, much less a gentle bump. It's a bone rattling, deafening crunch of metal on metal that throws you forward against your seatbelt, the strap locking painfully across your collarbone. The van lurches to a violent halt shattered plastic, screeching tires, then the sickening hiss of a damaged radiator.
"Oh my god," you gasp in horror, the wind completely knocked out of you. "No, no, no, no."
Great. Perfect. Just what your terrible, horrible day needed: some rich delivery driver—or a catering scout, whatever—rear-ending your bumper. Rage, hot and bubbling and fueled entirely by heartbreak, surges in to replace your panic.
"Are you fucking kidding me?!" you yell at the empty cabin.
One of your hands flies to your face, rubbing your temples as a shockwave of adrenaline floods your system. You throw the van into park, your legs feeling like overcooked spaghetti as you shove your door open and step out onto the gravel driveway, ready to absolutely lose your shit on whoever hit you.
Directly behind your delivery van, its front bumper aggressively crumpled against your rear doors, is a sleek, dark, expensive-looking SUV. Smoke, or maybe steam, curls lazily from the cracked grille of the black car.
It doesn't take a genius to realize the accident might have been your fault after all. Of course it has.
You let out a small whine, an incredulous sigh escaping you.
"I am so sorry!" Your voice crackles as you rush toward the driver's side of the SUV. "I was backing up too fast, I didn't see you coming around the—"
The driver's door swings open, and within seconds it takes the person to step out of the car, your breath hitches so sharply you choke on the crisp air.
Hansol.
He's much taller now. How is he possibly taller? Aren't people supposed to stop growing at a certain age?
Even though years have gone by, he still looks as boyish as ever, complemented by the sharp angles of his jaw and his naturally relaxed shoulders. His eyes are exactly the same kind of brown, only even more beautiful under the sunlight, currently widening in absolute, unadulterated shock as they lock onto your face.
His hair is shorter than you remember, still graced by the most perfect shade of brown you’ve ever seen, and goddammit, how did the hell get more handsome?
The silence that settles between you bothers you more than you care to admit. The universe seems to pause somehow, and for a second, you think even the birds stop singing. Even the hissing radiator seems to hold its breath.
You stare at each other across the three feet of gravel separating you, neither blinking, nor entirely convinced the other is real and not just a stress-induced hallucination.
God, you're going to throw up.
"Y/N?"
His voice is deeper than you remember. A rough, gravelly sound that sends a shockwave straight down your spine.
"Hansol…" you breathe out, unsure whether you didn't pass out minutes ago and are now hallucinating.
You wrap your arms around your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of your dirt-stained slacks and the messy ponytail piled on top of your head.
He stares at you like he's seeing a ghost, eyes scanning your face as if trying to confirm you’re actually standing on his parent's driveway. "What… what are you doing here?"
You swallow against the dry sand in your throat, forcing your spine completely straight as you point a trembling finger toward your vehicle.
Do not cry, you scold yourself.
Hansol's eyes quickly dart from your face to the massive vinyl logo plastered across the side of your battered van, and then up toward the sprawling estate behind you. A look of deep confusion still washes over his features, his eyebrows pulling together.
"I, um. My shop. We're… I'm doing the wedding. The flowers."
He blinks once, then twice, the confusion slowly melting away and being replaced by something else. You might be hallucinating, but you swear you see the faintest trace of a proud smile tug at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remain clouded with something you can't quite read.
"Oh. So… things are going great for you, then."
"Yeah," you lie, voice tight and brittle. "It's going great. Really great."
"That's… that's amazing, Y/N. Truly. I always knew you'd make it happen."
He keeps nodding slowly, hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket. He rocks back on his heels, gaze sweeping over you enough to make your skin burn. He doesn't mention Hannah. He doesn't mention the wedding. He doesn't bring up the fact that his family home is being transformed into a bridal wonderland, and you certainly aren't going to congratulate him on finding your replacement.
You just want to run.
"Your hair," he murmurs, eyes lifting to your long messy ponytail and the stray pieces framing your face. For a second, you almost think he's going to touch it by the way he pulls his hands from his pockets. But he doesn't. "It's long now."
Your hand twitches, a desperate urge to reach up and touch your hair, to hide behind it.
When you were dating, your hair never fell past your shoulders. You liked keeping it short enough that it never got in the way, especially considering your hands were constantly buried in soil and plants. But after the breakup, you barely had time for a haircut, so you simply let it grow, cutting the ends whenever they started getting too long, and—
Why is he looking at you like that?
"It grew," you say stupidly, your brain unable to form a reasonable thought with him staring at you. You take a step back, gesturing frantically toward the smashed bumpers of your cars. "Look, Hansol, I am so sorry about the car. It was completely my fault, I was distracted. But I really, really have to go."
More like you really, really need to run and hide.
Hansol frowns, finally glancing down at the wreckage as if he'd completely forgotten the reason you were standing here in the first place.
"You can't just drive off. The bumper is completely caved in. We need to exchange insurance information. I need to get this fixed for you—"
"It's fine, Hansol, really. It's a work van. It already had a few dings," you rush to assure him, backing up toward the driver's side door. The urge to escape becomes almost overwhelming.
You had rehearsed this moment in your head countless times. Different versions where you would meet again, realize the breakup had been stupid, and decide you should spend the rest of your lives together, growing old and gray-haired side by side.
None of them involved a wedding to someone else, and definitely not a wrecked bumper.
"Y/N, please. Don't be stubborn," he insists, stepping closer. The proximity is dizzying. "I—"
"No, no, it's fine!" you interrupt, panic rising in your chest again. You can't be here. You can no longer stand three feet away from him, smelling his cologne underneath the strong scent of crushed radiator fluid.
"At least give me your number. Or your contact info. I'll have my insurance handle it, or I'll just write you a check directly. Please."
Realizing he isn't going to let you leave until he has a way to resolve it, you reach into your pocket, fingers trembling as you pull out a pink business card. You hold it out, careful not to let your fingers brush when he takes it. You're sure you'd melt right there if they did, and you've already had enough emotions for a day.
"Here. This is the shop’s card," you stammer, hesitant, because you don't really want to give him access to you, especially not now that he's tying the knot with your most expensive client. "My cell phone number is on the back. Just… send me the bill for your car. Whatever the mechanic says, I'll pay it. I have insurance."
He looks down at the card, his thumb tracing over the name printed in gold. "Poppy's Garden," he reads quietly.
You just nod.
"I really have to go," you blurt out, frantically checking your bare wrist as if you're wearing a watch. "I'm on a super tight schedule. I'm supposed to pick up Poppy from school, and if I'm late, she'll never let me hear the end of it."
"How's Poppy?" Hansol looks up, a genuine spark of curiosity breaking through his expression. "Wow. She must be, what, fourteen now. Tell her I said hi."
You ignore what him correctly guessing your sister's age makes you feel inside. "I will," you lie, knowing there's no way on earth you're going to tell your little sister that you've run into the guy who broke your heart and hers.
You grab the handle of your van door and pull it open, ready to climb back into your safe, insulated bubble. But as you set one foot on the running board, the crushing weight of the situation catches up to you.
The unfairness of it all twists in your gut.
You stop, knuckles turning white as you grip the edge of the car door, turning your head to look back at Hansol—who is still standing in the same spot where you left him, looking like he saw a ghost—over your shoulder. The sun filters through the trees, casting shadows across his face.
Your eyes burn, but you force yourself to hold his gaze.
"I didn’t know, Hansol," you say. A half-truth. A half-lie. Your voice cracks just a little, betraying the tough exterior you've tried so hard to hold up. "I didn't know this wedding was for your family. If I had known, I would have said no."
Hansol stands frozen on the gravel, your business card caught in his hand so tightly it's starting to bend. The wind rustles the leaves of the old oak trees behind him, pushing strands of his hair across his face.
He stares at you for a moment too long. Finally, his shoulders drop by a fraction of an inch, sadness washing over his beautiful features, making you want to do something—anything—to take it away from him. Only to realize that it is not your job anymore.
He doesn't argue, though. He just swallows and gives you a small, gentle nod. "It's fine, Y/N," he finally says, stepping back from the van. "Drive safe."
You pull the door shut, shift the van into drive, and pull away, leaving Hansol standing in the small wreckage of your brief collision, utterly oblivious to the fact that he's breaking your heart all over again.
Lilac — the magic of first love and youthful innocence.
The university greenhouse smelled strongly of damp potting soil and fertilizer. You sat on the edge of a metal workstation; your high Converse braced against a bag of perlite. Across your lap a battered, leather-bound copy of The Dictionary of Flowers.
It wasn't assigned reading for the botany peer tutoring session you were supposed to be running, but it was a Tuesday evening, and no one had walked through the doors in the last forty minutes—which wasn't unusual. Botany wasn't exactly a popular subject, and most people weren't interested in spending their free time studying plants.
Well... except you.
You flipped to the section on purple hyacinths, tracing a finger down the yellowed page. Sorrow. Please forgive me. It was a contrast to the bright, cheerful marigolds on the previous page, which apparently symbolized grief and cruelty despite looking like little bursts of sunshine. The book was ridiculous, highly unscientific, and entirely captivating.
A metallic screech echoed through the greenhouse as the heavy glass door was shoved open.
You looked up quickly, closing the book over your thumb to keep your place.
A guy stepped into the humid room, stopping past the threshold. He was wearing an oversized grey hoodie with the university logo faded across the front and carrying a single, battered-looking notebook under his arm. His hair was a bit messy, falling into his eyes as he looked around the rows of hanging ferns and tables covered in starter pots. He didn't look like the typical biology majors who came in to whine about memorizing the Krebs cycle; he just looked completely out of place.
"Is this the botany tutoring thing?" he asked. His voice was so calm and unhurried it seems to bounce off the glass walls.
"If you're here because you're trying not to fail your midterm, you're in the right place," you said, hopping down from the workstation. Your sneakers hit the floor with a dull thud. "I'm Y/N."
"Hansol," he replied, walking over with an unhurried stride.
He didn't seem stressed about the fact that the exam was in forty-eight hours at all. He stopped on the other side of the metal table, dropping his notebook onto the zinc surface.
"My advisor said if I don't pass this elective, I'll lose my studio hours next semester. Apparently, music production majors still need to know how photosynthesis works."
"A very important subject for sonography." You smiled at him sympathetically, pulling a stary piece of dried eucalyptus out of your hair and tossing it toward the trash can. "Okay, Hansol. What are we struggling with? Plant anatomy? Taxonomy?"
He sighed, leaning his hip against the table and shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. "All of it." He wasn't frantic or embarrassed; he was just stating a fact. Then, his eyes drifted down to the leather-bound book you were still clutching. "Damn, is that a book just about plants?"
From the calm, even way he spoke, you couldn't tell whether he was making fun of you or not. You hoped he wasn't.
"Ah… not really. It's a Victorian flower dictionary," you said, feeling a sudden, slight flush of embarrassment. You set it down on the table, the cover flaking a tiny bit of leather onto the metal. "It assigns emotions and messages to different plants. It's completely useless for your test."
Hansol tilted his head, looking at the ornate, gold-foiled scrip on the cover. He reached out with two fingers and flipped the book open to a random page. His eyes scanned the text for a second.
"Geraniums. Gentility?" He looked up, an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth. "People actually used to send these to each other instead of texting?"
You giggled. "Yep," you said, pulling the biology textbook from your backpack to get down to business. "If you sent someone a yellow carnation, it meant you disdained them. Total rejection. It was the original left on read."
Hansol lets out a quiet laugh, the sound genuine enough to make you wonder whether he was actually interested or simply being polite. He didn’t immediately turn his attention to the textbook. Instead, his eyes lingered on your face, watching the way you animatedly explained the ridiculous historical trivial. There was a calm, observant stillness about him, a total lack of the usual frantic energy most college students carried.
You didn't know it then, but Hansol found the whole thing mildly entertaining. More importantly, he found you interesting.
"What about those? " he asked, nodding toward a tray of bruised, slightly wilted purple flowers sitting in the corner of your workstation. They had clearly been discarded from a lab session earlier in the day, their petals torn and dark at the edges.
You glanced over at the sad little pile. "Those are cyclamen. In the dictionary, they usually mean resignation or goodbye. Like something that's already broken."
Hansol looked at the bruised petals, then backed up at you. His expression didn't turn overly sentimental; he just nodded slowly, absorbing the information.
"Cruel," he murmured smoothly, finally pulling his notebook toward him and clicking open a pen. "Alright, teach. Show me the stuff that's actually on the test so I can keep my studio space."
For the first forty minutes of the session, you helped Hansol with everything he needed to know for tomorrow's exam, giving him practice exercises along the way. Surprisingly, he breezed through every single one of them. His eyes stayed fixed on you as you explained each concept, following every word with attentiveness that made you think he really wanted his studio time back—which could only meant he really needed a good grade.
"Damn, you're really into plants, aren't you?" It wasn't really a question. It was an observation, delivered as he leaned back against the stool with an amused smile.
You gave him a small, sheepish shrug. "Are you making fun of me?"
Most people usually did.
His eyes went impossibly wide, and for the first time, Hansol looked genuinely shaken, as though the idea that you might think he'd make fun of you genuinely bothered him.
“No, no—God, no,” he rushed out, his voice suddenly frantic as a stream of frantic no's tumbled from his mouth.
He dragged a hand through his brown hair, the tips of his ears turning an unexpected shade of pink. It was the absolute first crack in his cool, unbothered facade.
"I wasn't making fun of you," he clarified, his voice back to its usual low pitch, though there was a sudden earnestness there. "I think it's cool. You actually care about this stuff."
You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding, the defensive tension completely draining from your shoulders. "Oh. Well... thanks."
"Yeah." He cleared his throat and picked up his pen. "Now, show me how these plant cells work so I don't fail."
The rest of the session went smoothly. By the time the clock hit nine, he had aced the practice midterm. You started zipping up your backpack, fully expecting him to grab his notebook and bolt back to his dorm like every other student would do.
Instead, Hansol slid his notebook into his bag and casually started helping you close. He grabbed a broom to sweep up some spilled potting soil while you wiped down the zinc tables. He even helped you heave the heavy bag of perlite back into the storage closet, completely unfazed by the white dust getting on his hoodie.
"You didn't have to stay to do that," you told him as you locked the glass doors of the greenhouse.
"I know." He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Which way is your dorm?"
He walked you back across campus. The walk was quiet, but it wasn't the awkward kind of silence you usually had to fill with small talk. It was just easy. You pointed out a stray campus cat sleeping on a retaining wall; he told you a little bit about the bassline he was trying to fix in his latest mixtape. By the time the bricks of your dorm building came into view, you realized you didn't actually want him to leave yet.
You stopped at the bottom of the concrete steps, turning to face him under the overly bright yellow porch light.
"Well, thanks for the help cleaning up." You smiled at him, shifting your backpack onto your shoulder. "Good luck on the midterm tomorrow. I think you're gonna ace it."
"Thanks to you."
He didn't immediately turn around to leave. Instead, Hansol rocked back on his heels, his eyes studying your face in the dim light. There was that calm, observant stillness again.
"So," he began, his tone becoming something incredibly casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. "It's probably too soon for me to ask you out. Like, logically."
Your mouth snapped open. You stared at him, your hand freezing halfway to the handle.
Usually, guys spend three weeks hovering around the tutoring desk, making terrible jokes, or sliding into your DMs at 2 AM before making a move. They didn't just lay their cards face-up after exactly one study session.
"I—what?" you stammered.
Hansol didn't even blink. He didn't look embarrassed or flustered by your obvious shock; he just offered a small, thoroughly amused shrug.
"I'm just being efficient." He gives another easy shrug, a small grin following close behind. "Saving us both some time. I know I want to take you out, so there's no real point in waiting three weeks to say it." He pulled one hand out of his pocket, gesturing slightly toward the building. "So. Coffee tomorrow after my exam?"
The unfiltered honesty of it gave you mental whiplash. He wasn't playing a game. He wasn't trying to be overly smooth or intensely romantic. He just liked you, knew what he wanted, and figured there was no logical reason to wait around.
You would later learn that this was simply how Hansol moved through life. He never beat around the bush. When he wanted something, he said so. He didn't believe in games. It was one of the many, many things you liked about him.
You looked at him standing there under the bad lighting with his messy hair and his calm eyes, and you couldn't stop the genuine smile that broke across your face.
"Coffee," you repeated, your voice finally steady.
"Coffee," Hansol confirmed, a slow, incredibly satisfied smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He took a step back, melting into the shadows of the sidewalk. "I'll text you. Have a good night, Y/N."
Bleeding hearts — my heart is open and unguarded.
The three weeks leading up to the wedding become a masterclass in sleep deprivation and manual labor. Your fingers are perpetually stained a faint, grassy green from stripping rose thorns, your cuticles are destroyed, and you’re certain your bloodstream is now composed of roughly seventy percent caffeine.
Sleep deprivation, of course, has less to do with the flowers and more to do with the fact that you're reliving the biggest heartbreak of your life, crying yourself to sleep whenever the weight of it all becomes too much to bear.
Seungkwan and Seokmin—your two employees, who also happen to be your best friends—at times, and practically on their knees, begged you to walk away from this wedding, while insisting you were torturing and driving yourself crazy.
They weren't wrong, but you couldn't back out. You're not a twenty-two-year-old college girl anymore. You don't have the luxury of making business decisions based on your feelings. And even if you lied to them and told them you were over Hansol, he was still just a memory from a different lifetime. This shouldn't matter.
Which is why you channel every single ounce of your heartbreak, regret, and resentment straight into the foliage. If you keep your hands busy, your brain won't have the bandwidth to spiral.
That is the theory, anyway.
"Y/N, seriously, look at this texture. It's like holding a cloud."
Hannah's voice is bright as she stands by the main display table, brushing her fingertips against a plush cluster of white peonies. She looks effortlessly chic, her diamond ring catching the shop's warm pendant lights a little too eagerly. Standing right beside her is a tall woman, introduced to you twenty minutes ago as Leonor, the maid of honor from LA.
You force your lips into your practiced smile of professional vendor.
"They really are perfect, Hannah," you say, stepping out from behind the counter with a bundle of silk ribbons over your arm. "They're imported from Holland, so they'll be at maximum bloom right when you walk down the aisle. For your bridesmaids, I was thinking we tie them with this muted sage ribbon to match their dresses."
Hannah gasps, clapping her hands together. "Oh, I love that." She turns to Leonor, her eyes practically sparkling. "Didn't I tell you she was a genius? Look at how it brings out all the undertones in the fabric."
Leonor nods in agreement, making a quick note on her iPad. "It's stunning, Hannah. Your man is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you walking toward him with these."
"Ugh, don't make me cry," Hannah laughs, leaning her shoulder against Leonor's. A tender expression washes over her face. "Honestly, he's so stressed with work right now, but every time I bring up the wedding details, he just smiles and tells me to get whatever makes me happy. He's just… he's so perfect."
Hannah continues talking about how he stayed up until midnight helping her assemble the welcome baskets for the guests, even though he had a call meeting at six this morning, how he keeps telling her he just wants the day to be exactly what she's always dreamed of.
You let it wash over you, only half listening. And then you tune it out completely.
The last thing you want is to hear how good Hansol is at being someone else's perfect fiancé. It doesn't matter how kind Hannah is, or how happy she sounds; you still don't have the emotional bandwidth for that particular kind of detail.
"Stop, you're making me nauseous," you hear Leonor teasing, smiling warmly at her friend. "The man is obsessed with you. We get it."
Yep, you certainly do.
"Anyway!" Hannah turns back to you, completely oblivious to the emotional devastation she's casually causing you. "I have my final dress fitting in fifteen minutes, so we have to run. But the bouquet mock-ups look absolutely incredible, Y/N. Thank you so much."
"Of course," you manage to say, your voice steady through sheer, desperate willpower. "Have fun. I'll see you Saturday."
You watch them gather their bags, exchanging bright goodbyes as the bell above the shop door chimes softly behind them. The moment the door clicks shut, the silence of the shop rushes back in and swallows you whole.
You let out a long, shuddering exhale, your shoulders dropping as you lean your weight against the wooden counter, and look down at the beautiful white peonies, suddenly feeling incredibly small.
You grab a pair of shears and aggressively clip the end of a rogue stem, trying to shake the heavy weight from your limbs. You need a distraction. You need to wash out the plastic buckets in the back. You need to do anything that doesn't involve thinking about Hansol's midnight basket-tying sessions.
The bell above the front door chimes again.
"We're actually closing for lunch in ten minutes," you call out without looking up, your focus fixed entirely on slicing through a stubborn branch of eucalyptus. "But feel free to browse the front display if you're just looking for a quick—"
"I'm not looking for a quick bouquet, Y/N."
The shears slip from your fingers, clattering loudly against the tabletop. Your heart does a violent back flip. You raise your head slowly, eyes widening as they lock onto the figure standing just inside your doorway.
Hansol.
He's standing there looking very layered for a summer day, and far too cute for your own good. Rugged yet relaxed, he looks so achingly familiar that your chest tightens with an emotion you can't bring yourself to name. So much that, for one terrifying split second, you forget you aren't twenty-two anymore.
"Oh…" Your voice comes out breathy. You quickly wipe your damp hands against your apron, trying to ground yourself. "You… you just missed Hannah. She left literally two minutes ago. If you run toward the corner, you can probably catch her—"
"I didn't come here looking for Hannah," Hansol interrupts quietly, looking rather confused.
He doesn’t move from his spot by the door. His eyes sweep over the front of the shop, taking in the exposed brick walls, the dangling fairy lights, and the floor-to-ceiling shelving stacked with geometric ceramic pots and lush, thriving monsteras.
"The place looks great," he murmurs, voice low. He finally takes a few slow steps forward, stepping deeper into the shop. "A lot different than when your parents ran it."
Your fingers grip the edge of the zinc counter tightly. "We did some renovations when I took over." You don't know why you feel the urge to update him on this, but you do. "It… it took a lot of work."
The shop hasn't always been Poppy's Garden. For twenty-five years, it had been a neighborhood staple run by your parents. Your dad was the business brain, and your mom was the visionary, the heart of it, her hands constantly covered in dirt. You had grown up hiding under these prep tables, watching them build a life from the soil up.
But life, as you were rapidly learned, didn't care about your plans.
Right around the time Hansol was packing his bags to move back across the country, the tremors started. At first, your mom just thought she was tired. Then she started dropping vases. Then came the doctor's appointments, the sterile waiting rooms, and the devastating diagnosis. Parkinson's.
It moved faster than any of you anticipated. Within a year, your dad—a man who had never missed a day of work in his life—had to step away from the shop entirely just to become her full-time caretaker. The medical bills piled up within months. The physical therapy, the home modifications, the specialized medications, it was a financial avalanche.
The shop started drowning. They were weeks away from selling the business to a commercial developer who wanted to get the building and turn it into a trendy vape lounge when you stepped in. You took the degree you had just earned, swallowed the bright, shiny dreams you had of working in California, and anchored yourself to this shop.
The bright side is that you don't regret the decision you made, and at the end of the day, you're happy and love working here.
"It suits you."
Hansol reaches out, his long fingers casually tracing the rim of a vintage terracotta vase sitting on the display table. He runs his hand over the textured surface with a slow pace, his gaze dropping briefly to the floor before lifting again to lock onto your face.
From where you stand, the air feels charged with a suffocating tension that makes it hard to draw a full breath. He's standing in your shop again, the shop he knows you stayed in New York for. The shop that had essentially acted as the final barrier between your relationship four years ago.
"What are you doing here, Hansol?" you ask, dropping the vendor tone entirely. Your voice is a little defensive, a little raw. Whatever reason brought him, it certainly wasn't to catch up or talk about the place.
He let his hand drop from the vase, sliding both hands into the pockets of his jeans. He shrugs one shoulder. "I came because of the van."
Of course.
"I tried calling, but it kept going straight to voicemail, so I figured the line was just busy since things are going so well."
The shop's phone is not a particularly busy line. Seokmin does a great job handing online and phone orders. But here's the thing: Hansol hasn't changed his number in the last four years, and when it started popping up on your screen—dozens of times, at least—you chose to ignore every single call, telling, or rather ordering, Seokmin to do the same.
You let out a dismissive breath, crossing your arms over your chest. You really don't want to go over this again, so you lie. "I told you, it's fine." Never mind that your van isn't currently working and you had to bike across the city to make a delivery earlier. "I already handled it. The damage is completely taken care of."
Hansol stares at you, his expression flatlining into a deadpan look that you recognize instantly. It's the exact face he used to make whenever you tried to convince him that your social battery hadn't run out and that he didn't need to leave the gathering early on your account, both of you knowing you were already halfway to exhaustion.
He slowly turns his head, looking out at the large glass front window of the shop. Directly across the street, parked perfectly in a loading zone, is your delivery van. The rear bumper is still aggressively caved in, a massive, jagged silver dent gleaming proudly in the afternoon sun, looking exactly like it had three weeks ago.
Hansol turns his gaze back at you, raising a single eyebrow. "Right." He drags the word out slowly. "Taken care of. Is that a new avant-garde design choice for the bumper, or are you just waiting for it to magically heal itself?"
A stubborn flush of embarrassment creeps up your neck. You lift your chin, refusing to back down. "The mechanic is backed up, okay?" you say, harsher than you intend. "The parts are on back order from Germany. It takes time."
"Y/N, it's a delivery van. The parts are made in—I don't know—Buffalo?" he counters, taking a step toward the counter. "I know you're trying to avoid sending me the bill because you don't want to owe me anything."
"Well, I don't owe you anything!" you argue, your voice rising a fraction. "I was the one who backed into you! If anything, I should be paying for your smashed SUV grill."
Knowing Hansol, there's no way he'll let you pay for it. But there's also no way you'll let him pay for anything, either. You don't want your ex-boyfriend and first love—who will soon be a married man—doing you any favors.
"My insurance covered it," he says evenly, his tone completely unflappable against your rising panic. "And yours should cover this, but you haven't filed the claim because you know your premiums will skyrocket, and the shop ledger can't handle the hit right now."
You open your mouth to shoot back a fierce, biting lie, but the words die in your throat. He knows you too well. Even four years after the breakup, he can still read through your defenses like a children's book. It's infuriating.
"You don't know anything about my ledger," you mutter, looking down at your green-stained fingers.
"I know you," he simply says.
You like to think he doesn't.
Because despite everything, there are things he doesn't know. He doesn't know that your father called you yesterday because your mom's physical therapist is recommending a new intensive program. He doesn't know it's an extra three days a week, and that it isn't covered by their insurance. He doesn't know your father sounded tired, and that he didn't ask you for money, but he didn't have to, you simply know.
And then there's Poppy, your smart-ass little sister, somehow both annoyingly and brilliantly smart. She's pulling straight A's in honors classes while surviving the absolute nightmare of being a fourteen-year-old girl, all while dealing with the fact that her mom can't even braid her hair anymore.
He doesn't know that your parents' savings are gone. Drained. Every spare dime the shop makes goes into a high-yield savings account for her, and it's still barely a drop in the bucket. Because if Poppy wants to go to Stanford and enroll in their pre-med program, she will. You'll make sure of it.
"No, you don't anymore."
He lets out a humorless laugh. "Yes, I do. I know that you'd rather work yourself to the bone than ask for a single dollar of help. Some things don't change, Y/N."
"A lot of things change," you snap, finally looking up to meet his gaze. Your chest rises and falls too quickly, like you've been running instead of standing still. "People change. We haven't spoken to each other in four years. So don't stand there and act like you still have me figured out."
Hansol's eyes darken, his jaw tightening as though the thought of not knowing you anymore bothers him far more than he'd ever admit. He shifts his weight, his hands clenching inside his pockets. For a moment, he looks like he's about to say something about that, but the words never come.
"I'm just trying to pay for the bumper, Y/N." His voice drops into a careful, measured tone. "It's a standard transaction. You don't have to make it an emotional battlefield."
"Everything with you is an emotional battlefield," you whisper before you can stop yourself.
He takes another half-step forward, closing the distance between you until the clean scent of his cologne completely overwhelmed the fragrance of the sweet-pea bundles on the counter.
Hansol opens his mouth to answer you, but before he can say anything, the shop's front door swings open, the bell chiming loudly overhead.
"Sis! The farmers' market was hell. If you ever make me, go with these two again, I am going to—"
Poppy marches in dressed in her school uniform, two paper bags clutched in her hands, while Seokmin and Seungkwan trail after her, bickering about something you can't quite make out over the noise of the traffic outside.
She stops dead in her tracks, whatever complaint she'd been about to make dying on her lips as her eyes land on the man standing in front of the counter. Her jaw drops, and the bags fall onto the hardwood floor.
"Hansolo!" she shrieks.
Before you can even open your mouth to stop her, Poppy launches herself across the floor. She doesn't walk; she literally runs, skidding to a halt right in front of him and throwing her arms securely around his waist, burying her face into his jacket.
Hansol's eyes widen in brief shock, but a second later, a smile breaks across his face—the first real smile you had seen from him since you parted ways. He pulls his hands from his pockets and wraps his arms around her, lifting her completely off her feet for a second and shaking her slightly.
"Hey, kiddo," he laughs, his voice instantly dropping into a warm, familiar tone that sends a devastating wave of nostalgia straight to your gut. "Look at you. You're huge. What happened to the braces?"
You see, Poppy loved Hansol. Your relationship began when she was very little, and considering how much time she spent around the two of you, it didn't take long for her to consider him an honorary older brother. He let her ride on his shoulders, helped her with her school art projects, even took her to Coney Island, buying her a whole lot of candy and gifts because he simply couldn't say no to her.
When she found out he was getting married, she seemed a little more heartbroken than you, her nose scrunching as she looked genuinely offended. "He's getting married? To someone who isn't you? I liked him. We liked him."
Seungkwan is the first to enter the store after her, his eyes almost popping out as he takes in the scene, and then you. Even from outside, you can hear Seokmin's exaggerated gasp as he follows inside. They're the perfect combination of two people who are anything but discreet, looking between you and Hansol and gesturing like two completely insane men who have just witnessed something they shouldn't have.
You simply sigh, signaling for them to move, and the two head straight to the back with a small nod of greeting to Hansol, who is still wrapped up in a very excited Poppy.
"I got them off last summer!" Poppy beams, stepping back but keeping her hands gripping tightly to his elbows. "Oh my god, you look so old! Why are you here? Are you back in the city? Did you bring me those pink tacos from the truck near your old apartment?"
Hansol lets out a booming laugh, reaching out to playfully ruffle her hair, completely ignoring her squawk of protest. "No pink tacos this time, Pops. And I'm not old, I just have a more distinguished face now."
He pauses, his smile softening as his eyes drift away from Poppy and lock onto yours.
"But yeah. I'm back in the city. Permanently."
The silence that follows is deafening.
"W-what?" The word falls out of your mouth before your brain can filter it. Jerky breaths stutter over your lips, your eyes widening despite your best attempt to hide it. "You're back?"
"Yeah. I moved back last week," he confirms, watching your face closely, eyes searching for a reaction. "The production company is opening an East Coast branch."
Your mind completely goes blank. Nada.
He's back. Here. In your zip code.
A sudden, treacherous spark of hope flares up in the center of your chest. Why now? After all this time, why would he uproot everything to come back to the city? The thought comes uninvited, dangerous that could he have missed—
Hannah.
The spark is violently extinguished, replaced by a cold, heavy dread that settles in the pit of your stomach like a stone.
Of course. Hannah. The beautiful, sweet fiancée who was just standing in this very shop fifteen minutes ago, gushing about the man of her dreams. Hannah, whose family is rooted in New York. Hannah, who has been talking about looking at brownstones and loving the autumn weather.
"Wow," you finally manage to say, forcing your rigid facial muscles into a polite, hollow smile. You take a step back, putting the physical barrier of the counter between you and the crushing reality of his new life. "That's... great. I'm sure your family is thrilled."
"Are you moving back to West Village?" Poppy interrupts, completely oblivious. She leans against the counter, looking at Hansol with wide, hopeful eyes. "Because if you are, you still owe me that trip to the Natural History Museum. The one we were supposed to do before you moved."
Hansol stops. He looks at Poppy, then back at you, his eyes catching on the frantic, jerky movements of your hands as you start to scrub the counter surface like your life depends on it. He lets out a heavy, defeated sigh, running a hand through his hair.
"Brooklyn, actually," he tells Poppy, though his gaze never leaves yours. "And yeah. I know still owe you that trip."
That's when Poppy starts rambling about her own life, her face glowing with the same adoration she's had for him since she was a little kid watching him help her build a volcano for the science fair. But then, as if a switch had flipped inside her brain, Poppy's smile suddenly vanishes. Her eyes dart from Hansol, over to your stiff, pale face, and then back to him.
You can see the realization hitting her.
Poppy drops her hands from his arms as if his clothes have suddenly caught fire. She takes a massive step backward, her expression twisting into a fierce, protective scowl. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, mimicking your previous posture exactly.
"Wait." Her voice drops into a dramatic, frosty tone. "I forgot. I am currently mad at you. You are on my banned list."
Hansol blinks, looking entirely amused but trying to hide it, eyebrows rising. "Your banned list?"
"Yes," Poppy declares, lifting her chin with an immense amount of teenage drama. "You broke up with our family, Hansol, which is a major violation of the honorary big-brother protocol. So, I am rescinding my hug. Goodbye."
You slap your forehead, taking a deep breath. "Poppy, back room. Now."
Poppy gives Hansol one last, lingering glare that's slightly ruined by the fact that she still looks like she wants to ask him for help with her arts homework, before she spins on her heel and marches behind the curtain, letting it slam shut behind her.
The silence returns infinitely more awkward than before.
"She... she hasn't changed much," Hansol murmurs, looking at the curtain with a faint, nostalgic smile.
"She has biology homework to do," you say stiffly, hands flat against the counter.
You can't look at him anymore. Seeing him with Poppy—seeing how naturally he could still fit into your life for those brief minutes—is entirely too much to bear.
"Look, Hansol. I appreciate you coming by, but I really am very busy. The wedding is on Saturday, and I have a massive shipment arriving from the auctions. You need to leave."
Hansol stares at you for a long, agonizing moment. You can see Adam’s apple rise and fall as he swallows hard, his eyes searching yours for something you're determined not to let him see.
He lets out a quiet, defeated sigh. "Fine. I'll leave."
But instead of turning toward the glass door, Hansol takes one step closer to the counter. He reaches inside his denim jacket, pulling out a small, neatly folded rectangular slip of thick blue paper. He doesn't hold it out for you to take. He just slides it across the surface, coming to a stop right next to your discarded floral shears.
He looks up, and it almost shocks you that you can still recognize the exact moment his guard drops completely.
"I didn't just come here to argue about a bumper, Y/N," he says, his voice becoming a whisper only loud enough for you to hear. "I came because I wanted to see you. I just... I needed to see you again."
The air is sucked from your lungs. Before you can formulate a single word—before your brain can even begin to process the confession—, Hansol turns on his heel. The little brass bell chimes wildly against the glass as he pushes the door open and steps out.
You stand entirely frozen, staring at the empty space where he had just been standing. Your chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow gasps before your legs finally move. You walk over to the wicker table near the door, your heart pounding against your ribs.
Slowly, your eyes drop to the counter, your fingers trembling as they reach for the folded paper. You unfold it to find a personal check. The amount printed is astronomical, more than enough to replace the bumper, repaint the van, and probably buy a second transmission just for fun.
On the memo line, in his familiar, messy scrawl, are five simple words: For the van. Please.
"Sis?"
You look up to find Poppy standing in front of the curtain, her voice small and uncertain. You immediately force on a bright smile, swallowing back tears that appeared out of nowhere.
"Yes, honey?"
"If I help you load the delivery van on Saturday, am I allowed to kick him in the shin for breaking up with you, or does that violate the vendor contract?"
You walk over and press a kiss on her forehead. "Pack up your things, Pops," you murmur, grabbing her empty lunchbox from the counter. "I'm buying you tacos for dinner. And no kicking the clients, please. I'm a professional."
"That sucks."
Pink camellias — my longing for you is endless.
Four days later, dead center of Hansol's family back lawn, you're wearing an unbothered, I've-got-this smile for six hours straight, with your cheeks are already starting to hurt.
Underneath the black apron, your spine has been making its best impression of a question mark ever since hour four, while the three layers of concealer working overtime under your eyes are trying their absolute best to hide the fact you're running on two hours of sleep.
That, and the fact that you spent the entire night crying.
You cried into your pillow until the memory foam was soaked. You cried in your perfectly-fixed-bumper delivery van while Seokmin navigated the early morning traffic, pressing your face against the cool glass of the window with him and Seungkwan tactfully pretending the radio news was fascinating, and completely abandoning their usual morning sing-along.
And, most pathetically of all, you cried while assembling the bridal bouquet.
It was supposed to be a joyous task. Instead, standing in the cold walk-in cooler at two in the morning, you had systematically bound together pristine white peonies, trailing sweet peas, and delicate lilies of the valley, while hot, bitter tears slid silently down your cheeks and dripped onto the zinc prep table.
You were making the perfect bouquet for the perfect girl who would walk down the aisle and marry the only guy you ever loved—and he, too, was perfect.
"Y/N, we need eyes on table fourteen!"
Seungkwan's voice snaps you back to the present. You blink rapidly, forcing the stinging heat behind your eyelids to retreat. You plaster on a smile so bright and unbothered it makes your jaw ache. For a moment, you wonder if people are actually buying that smile, or if you just look like a raving lunatic.
"The centerpieces are slightly off axis," you call back, walking swiftly across grass, dodging catering staff carrying towering trays of crystal glassware.
You reach table fourteen and gently rotate the massive, cascading arrangement of white hydrangeas and orchids by two inches. You've done countless weddings. None of them had been as big as this one. And none of them needed to be this perfect either.
"The cascading orchids need to face the entrance, not the head table. We want the guests to feel pulled into the space, not blocked off by the foliage."
"Got it, boss!" Seungkwan salutes as if he were reporting to a general, even though his eyes keep darting over your face with concern. He reaches out, gently brushing a stray leaf off your shoulder. "Are you okay? You look like you're about to either faint or commit a felony."
You shake your head. "I am a vision of zen," you lie, grabbing your clipboard and checking off the reception tables. "I am practically levitating with inner peace. Now, where's Seok?"
"He is finishing the floral aisle for the ceremony. Everything looks incredible, Y/N. You outdid yourself."
You swallow hard, the knot in your throat feeling thicker than a fist. "Good. That's good. Everything has to be perfect."
You take a deep, shaky breath, looking down at the small tray resting on table thirteen. Sitting on the top of the velvet lining are five meticulously crafted boutonnieres, featuring a single white ranunculus blossoms accented with trailing greenery.
"I'm going to run these up to the main house," you announce, voice sounding too hollow for your liking. "If Angela comes looking for me, tell her I am delivering the boutonnieres to the groom's suite and will be back in ten minutes to do the final sweep of the aisle."
Seungkwan opens his mouth to offer to go in your place — you can see the pity forming in his eyes — but you grab the tray before he can formulate the words.
You can't let him do it. If you're going to survive today, you must face the worst of it. You have to look Hansol in the eye on his wedding day and cut the invisible cord that has kept your heart tethered to him for years.
When you walk in, the inside of the house is quiet compared to the bustling chaos of the backyard. The Persian rugs swallow the sound of your sensible flats, creating an eerie silence that only amplifies the frantic, terrified hammering of your heart.
You walk up the staircase toward the second floor, your hands gripping the edges of the tray so tightly your knuckles are stark white. The air up here smells like lemon polish, layered with the familiar scent of the house you used to spend your weekends during your university days.
You mentally rehearse the script in your head, over and over. Congratulations. Have a wonderful wedding. Clean. Professional. Devoid of the fact that you want to scream until your lungs give out.
First, you hand out the groomsmen's boutonnieres one by one, not recognizing a single face among them. It makes you wonder what happened to Hansol's friendship with Minghao and Chan—his two best friends—and whether these men belong to this new chapter of his life, one you are not part of.
They're all nice, of course, and one of them even flirts with you, giving you the certainty that they don't know who you are. The one who introduced himself as Mingyu flashes you with a beautiful smile and asks if he'll be seeing you at the reception later.
Not a single chance. Not even over your dead body.
Finally, you reach the double doors of what used to be his father's study, now converted into the groom's holding room for the day. You raise a trembling hand, preparing to knock. But before your knuckles can even graze the wood, the handle clicks loudly and the door swings open, violently knocking the air straight out of your lungs.
Hansol steps out into the hallway, and your brain immediately flashes the mental equivalent of a TV with no signal.
He isn't just handsome — he's absolutely, devastatingly breathtaking. He's wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo, but the jacket is nowhere to be seen. His crisp white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, exposing the long line of his throat. A black silk vest molds perfectly to the expanse of his chest, though it's still unfastened, and a black satin bow tie hangs loose around his neck, completely undone.
He looks flustered, his hair slightly ruffled as though he's been running his hands through it in frustration. "I swear to God, if they put one more safety pin in this collar…" Hansol grumbles to himself, looking down at his cuffs.
He looks up, and the moment his eyes lock onto yours, he freezes.
The silence is absolute as you stare at each other, both of you forgetting, if only for a minute, what you were supposed to be doing.
You force your eyes away from his face, lowering your gaze to the tray holding the only two boutonnieres left in your hands, because if you look at him for one second longer, you're going to fall apart right here against the wainscoting.
Surprise colors his voice as your name leaves his lips. "Y/N."
"I brought the boutonniere," you rush to explain before he even has a chance to ask, the words coming out almost mechanically. "For the groom and the groomsmen. I didn't want to leave them with the caterers' downstairs. They… they need to stay fresh."
Hansol doesn't look at the tray. He looks at your face, his gaze sweeping over your carefully applied makeup, catching on to the subtle, undeniable puffiness around your eyes that the concealer couldn't quite hide. A long exhale slips past his lips as his hands drop from his cuffs to hang at his sides.
"Right. The flowers."
He seems almost disappointed, looking down at his unfastened vest and the tangled silk of his bow tie. A helpless almost boyish look crosses his face—a look you haven't seen since you were nineteen and he was trying to figure out how to fold a fitted sheet in his dorm room.
"My hands are too shaky to do the tie," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. When he looks back up at you, there's a vulnerability in his eyes. "I can't get the knot right. And these fucking buttons on this vest are microscopic."
He hesitates. He doesn't have to say it, you can already see the question in his eyes.
"Could you… do you mind?"
He shouldn't ask. You shouldn't even consider. This is the absolute definition of crossing a line. You're nothing but the florist here, and he's your first love and potentially the love of your life, and he's getting married in an hour. You already know that when you tell your friends about this, they're going to call him anything but pretty for asking you — of all people — to do this.
But the panic in Hansol's eyes overrides every single rational thought in your brain.
You nod once, a jerky movement. You carefully set the tray down on an antique half-moon table sitting flush against the hallway wall. You take a breath, commanding your legs to work and step into his space.
Closing the distance between you is like stepping directly into the blast radius of a bomb. The moment you're inches from him, the scent of his perfume wraps around you. Your hands are trembling so badly you have to clench them into fists for a second before you reach up.
"Turn toward the window," you whisper, your voice barely audible, gesturing to the sunlight streaming in from outside.
He turns lightly, his chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breath. You reach out, your fingertips grazing the crisp cotton of his dress shirt. The heat radiating off his skin is impossible to ignore, and it takes the strength of a saint to keep your focus on the tiny black buttons of his vest instead of letting your gaze drift above his collarbone.
You slip the first button through its hole, your knuckles brushing against the firm plane of his stomach. The contact is fleeting, but you feel his muscles instantly contract under your touch.
Show no emotion. You are an unfeeling, emotionless void, you chant in your head.
You move up, fastening the second button, then the third. You see his breath catching just enough that you feel it under your knuckles. Neither of you says a word. Your fingers linger on the fourth button longer than they need to, and his pulse keeps thudding against your wrist.
Damn. Wedding jitters really were a thing, you think, trying to ignore the ache that thought leaves behind.
Once the vest is secured, you reach for the black satin tie draped around his neck.
"Lift your chin," you instruct.
He obeys, tilting his head back slightly. You step even closer, the toes of your flats pressing right against the leather of his dress shoes. You loop the silk around his collar, your wrists hovering just millimeters from the skin of his neck. There you can still feel the rapid, thumping beat of his pulse right beneath his jawline.
It's now racing just as fast as yours.
"You look tired," he declares, with no trace of doubt in his voice.
You shrug slightly. "I've been working," you reply stiffly, pulling the loops of the silk bow taut. You adjust the edges, making sure they are perfectly symmetrical. "Weddings are exhausting."
A quiet scoff escapes him, his mint-scented breath fanning across your face. “Your eyes are red, Y/N,” he says flatly.
You smooth your hands down the lapels of his vest, giving it one final, unnecessary adjustment.
"Allergies. The ranunculus is aggressive this season."
He looks like he wants to say something, but you step back so suddenly it almost startles him, forcing a massive, unbearable distance between you. The sudden loss of his body heat leaves you feeling hollow and inexplicably freezing cold.
"There. You're done. The tie is perfect."
Hansol lowers his chin, his eyes locking onto yours, searching for something in your face. If you didn't know better — if you weren't standing here because he was about to get married to someone else — you would think he looks like he wants to grab your hands and pull your right back into his chest from how utterly torn apart he seems.
It's too much. The intimacy, the proximity, the crushing reality that within an hour, he is going to stand under the floral arch you built and pledge his life to someone else. You can't do this anymore. The dam inside you is cracking, and if you don't leave right now, you're going to sob hysterically at his feet.
You turn quickly, grabbing the tray from the table, and picking up the small box containing the most elaborate boutonniere: the one that belongs to the groom. You turn back to him, lifting your chin, forcing every ounce of professional detachment and fake bravery you possess into your posture, and hold the box out to him.
"Here…" You convince yourself your hand is trembling only slightly. "This is for you. The other one is for the best man."
He looks down at the box, making no move to take it.
"Have a wonderful wedding, Hansol," you force the words out, each syllable tasting like ash on your tongue. "I mean it. I want you to be happy. And Hannah is… she is a lovely girl. You guys are going to have a beautiful life together."
Hansol freezes almost comically. The intense gaze he had fixed on you vanishes entirely, replaced by a look of profound, absolute bewilderment. He stares at you like you have just started speaking entirely in a whole new language. He looks at the box in your hand, then back up to your face, his brow furrowing so deeply it creates a crease between his eyes.
"What?"
"I said, have a wonderful wedding," you repeat against your will. You just want him to take the box, so you can flee. "Just take the box, Hansol, please. I have to go back to the yard."
Before you can shove the box into his chest and run, his hand shoots out. His fingers wrap gently but firmly around your wrist, interrupting your movements completely.
"Y/N…" Your name comes out like it costs him something to say it, incredulous, laced with a sudden, dawning realization.
Hansol steps closer, paying no attention to the tray between you or the two boutonnieres resting on it. His eyes search your face frantically, as though it might be the last face he'll ever see.
"It's Seungcheol's wedding."
If your brain had been a TV with no signal, now it's a frozen screen desperately trying to reload.
You don't even blink. You just stare at him in complete astonishment. "What?"
"Seungcheol," Hansol repeats slowly, as if speaking to a deeply confused child. "My brother. It's his wedding. I'm just the best man."
You're pretty sure the hallway does a full three-sixty around you.
You feel stupid. You feel utterly ridiculous. The ground could — and should — open and swallow you whole. Heat floods every inch of your body, your face burning with embarrassment so intensely you can feel spreading through your face in different shades of red.
Hansol's not the groom.
The relief that crashes over you is instantaneous. It feels like a literal boulder has been lifted off your chest. Your lungs expand, drawing in the first full, deep breath you've taken in almost a month.
He isn't marrying Hannah. He isn't marrying anyone.
How deep in denial had you been to dismiss the possibility of Seungcheol getting married the very moment it crossed your mind?
Hansol's eyes flutter shut briefly, and when he opens them again, confusion is written all over his face, brows knit together. "Wait," he breathes, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. "Wait a second. The whole time… you thought I was getting married?"
He steps fully into your space, his grip on your arm shifting as his hand slides down to lightly grasp your fingers. You stare at him, mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish, brain so empty you're completely incapable of forming a coherent lie.
"Yes," you admit, your face burning with a fresh new wave of fiery embarrassment. "Your father's name was on the check. And… and you were at the driveway. And I… I just assumed."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because!" you blurt, sounding distressingly like a child throwing a tantrum. "God, that explains why Minghao and Chan aren't here."
"Why would they be at my brother's wedding?"
"I thought we'd just established that I believed this was your wedding."
Hansol lets out a breathless, stunned sound that is half a laugh and half a gasp of disbelief, shaking his head. "I haven't even spoken to a woman with those intentions in years. And you thought I could plan a wedding? You thought I would not mention my impending nuptials to you, of all people?"
"I don't know, Hansol!" you squeak defensively, taking step back enough so his hands drop to his side, though the loss of his touch instantly makes you crave it again. "You were acting weird! And your mom said something about her son's big day and I just thought—"
"She has two of them!" Hansol cuts you off, running a hand through his hair, looking stressed.
"But Seungcheol said once that he was staying single for the rest of his life!"
"That was before Hannah." He looks at you, his eyes dancing with a chaotic mix of amusement and shock. "God, no wonder you've been looking at me like I peed in your sunflowers. You thought I was making you decorate my wedding to another woman."
You look down at the vintage rug, mortified beyond belief. "It seemed entirely plausible at the time."
Hansol takes a step closer, the amusement in his voice and eyes fading into something intensely serious like you’ve only seen once before—when the two of you broke up. His hands are on your shoulders again.
"Y/N. Look at me."
You don't want to. You want the hardwood floor to open and swallow you. But you slowly lift your chin, meeting his gaze.
"If I was getting married, you wouldn't be just the florist."
Your heart stops. You swear you can feel it flatline right there, lurching from a frantic rhythm to nothing at all before kicking back to life in a wild, panicked sprint.
Before you can even process the magnitude of what he just said, before you can formulate a response, the doors of the master suite down the hall fly open with a violent BANG.
"It's catastrophe! It is an absolute disaster!"
Hansol and you instantly jump apart, the bubble between you popping instantly.
Two seconds later, Angela bursts into the hallway like a one-woman tornado in a tailored pantsuit. Her signature tight pear-bun is beginning to fray, and she's clutching her iPad to her chest as though it's the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
You're certain you've never seen her like this before.
"Angela, what's wrong?" you ask, feeling Hansol's gaze reluctantly shift from you to her.
"Is it Seungcheol? Did he hyperventilate again?"
Angela gasps, marching down the hallway. "No, the groom is fine. He's with your mother." She stops short in front of you, her wild eyes sweeping over you from head to toe in frantic assessment. "It's Leonor. Her flight was grounded because of a massive freak storm. She's not going to make it."
"Okay…" Hansol says, calm as ever. "That's unfortunate. But I can just walk down the aisle alone, and—"
"You don't understand!" Angela interrupts, her voice shrill. "Hannah is inconsolable. And the symmetry is ruined. I cannot have an uneven bridal party. It's asymmetrical. I do not do asymmetrical weddings!"
Watching her spiral makes you — though unwillingly — step far away from Hansol, slipping back into your role as the florist, and just another professional hired to keep this wedding from falling apart.
"Angela, breathe," you say, resting a reassuring hand on her forearm. "It happens. If you want, I can adjust the floral arch to cover the empty space on the bridesmaids' side—"
"No!" she snaps, pointing a manicured finger directly at your face. "We don't need more flowers. We need a body. And Hannah specifically asked for you."
There's no way you're hearing her correctly. "I'm sorry… what?"
Angela steps directly into your personal space, her eyes so wildly determined that even Hansol takes a step back.
She points a finger squarely at your chest like she's just solved the world's biggest problem. "You. Hannah loves you. And you know the schedule. You're young, you're objectively very good-looking, and more importantly, you look like you can fit in Leonor's dress."
A cold, creeping dread starts to pool in the pit of your stomach.
"Angela, no. I'm the florist. I'm wearing a black apron covered in sap."
"Leonor's dress is in the master suite," Angela barrels on, completely ignoring you. She grabs your arm with an iron-clad grip. "It's a silk slip. It requires zero tailoring. We have the hair and makeup team on standby. They can fix…" she waves a hand vaguely at your face, "whatever happened to your eyes."
"I cannot walk down that aisle!" Your voice comes out in another panicked squeak as you struggle to keep it from turning into a full-blown shout, desperately trying to pry your arm free from her vice-like grip.
You turn to Hansol for help.
"Tell her this madness! Tell her I'm just a vendor!"
Hansol stares at you for a moment before slowly turning to Angela. A dangerously slow grin spreads across his face.
"Well…" he drawls, crossing his arms and leaning into the hallway wall like he has all the time in the world. He looks entirely too relaxed for a guy whose brother's wedding is supposedly imploding. "The symmetry is very important, Y/N. We wouldn't want to ruin Hannah's day."
"I will kill you," you hiss at him.
Angela yanks you forcefully toward the master suite. "C'mon! We have exactly forty-nine minutes before the prelude music starts!"
You stumble after her, your brain desperately trying to catch up with the absurdity of your life. You're about to be forced into a bridesmaid dress for a woman you spent the last three weeks deeply resenting because of a misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that, in hindsight, was a spectacular problem of your own making.
You dig your heels into the carpet, forcing Angela to a sudden halt. You twist your body around, looking back down the long stretch of the hallway.
Hansol is still standing exactly where you left him. The tray sits abandoned on the table beside him. The grin is gone. Instead, he's watching you, his brown eyes blazing with that same complicated emotion that had brought your heart to a complete standstill only moments ago.
He raises a hand, adjusting his cuffs, and even from twenty feet away, his voice carries perfectly down the quiet corridor.
"I guess I'll see you at the altar."
Primrose — a sweet bond and young love.
Marriage only came up once during your entire relationship with Hansol.
Not because you didn't want to marry him, or because you thought he didn't want to marry you. It was more like you didn't think he wanted to get married at all.
It wasn't that he didn't love you, you never doubted that he did. It was just that marriage had never seemed like his thing—the idea of legally binding himself to someone for the rest of his life. Meanwhile, you had always seen marriage as little more than a social contract, a legal institution created to interfere in people's private lives and, sometimes, pressure them into bringing more children into the world, as if the planet wasn't already populated enough.
You loved each other deeply, and neither of you believed a piece of paper could strengthen what already existed between you. Love was enough. As long as he was walking through life beside you, you never needed anything else.
But as you watched Chan, the youngest in your friends group, marry the love of his life at barely twenty-one, you couldn't help wondering throughout the ceremony whether Hansol had ever given that possibility any thought.
The reception was very loud, the exact kind of thrown-together party you'd expect from a couple still finishing their sophomore year. Minghao was DJing for the night, blasting early 2010s club anthems alongside an impressive amount of Michael Jackson. The open bar consisted entirely of cheap vodka and aggressively sweet cranberry juice, both of which you were avoiding religiously.
You were leaning against the edge of a sticky high-top table, watching Chan and his new wife attempt to drop it low on the dance floor without tearing her rented tulle dress.
Hansol was standing next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. He had already ditched his suit jacket, tossing it over a nearby chair, and had rolled the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt up to his elbows. He looked entirely too good, which unfortunately had your mind wandering straight to the private after-party you definitely weren't supposed to be thinking about.
He was nursing a can of beer, nodding along to the beat of On the Floor.
"I give Chan a lot of credit," Hansol said, tipping his can in the Chan's direction. "He's twenty-one and he just signed away his right to file single on his taxes. That's brave."
You let out a small laugh, peeling the lid off your plastic cup filled with ginger ale. "You think he even knows how to do his taxes yet?"
"Absolutely not." Hansol shakes his head, taking a slow sip.
You watched his throat work as he swallowed, your thumb now tracing the condensation on the cup. You took a breath, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the chaotic dance floor, trying to make your voice sound as casual as humanly possible.
"Have you ever thought about it?" you asked, the words coming out a little too quickly for someone trying to sound nonchalant.
Hansol didn't flinch. He didn't choke on his drink or tense up. He just turned his head, his eyes studying the side of your face. "Thought about Chan's taxes?"
"No," you corrected, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. You bumped your shoulder against his, a defensive little reflex. "Getting married. The whole thing."
He looked at you for a long moment, and your heart rises into your throat, almost making you regret asking the question at all. He didn't look panicked by the loaded question, though. He just looked like he's processing it, turning the thought over in his mind like a piece of information he wants to understand before answering.
"Not really," he finally said, resting his elbows on the table. "Never saw the appeal of paying the government to validate a relationship."
It was exactly the answer you expected. It aligned perfectly with his practical, logic-driven brain, and yet, a tiny, irrational silver of disappointment snagged in your chest.
You nodded, going back to picking at your cup. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense."
Hansol shifted his weight, closing the small gap between you. He bumped his shoulder back against yours, his voice dropping slightly so you could hear him clearly over the music.
"But," he added, his tone entirely conversational, "if it was with you, I'd be down."
You froze, your fingernail catching on the edge of the cup. You looked up at him. "You would?"
"Yeah." Hansol nodded, confirming it with a small shrug. He didn't look like he's making some grand, theatrical declaration. He looked like he's stating a completely obvious fact. "I'd do the whole thing. The legal paperwork, the expensive rings, the house with the yard in Westchester. Two kids."
You abandoned your plastic cup on the sticky high-top table, turning to face him completely. Stepping into his space, you reached up, lacing your fingers together behind the nape of his neck.
"Two kids, huh?" you asked, a teasing smile breaking across your face.
His hands settled naturally on your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer over the pounding of the music. "Yeah," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "The first one is going to need company."
You let out a genuine, breathless laugh. The image was entirely ridiculous. "Babe, you don't know the first thing about kids. Last week at the grocery store, a toddler waved at you in the cereal aisle, and you froze up and gave him a stiff salute like he was a foreign dignitary."
"I'll figure it out," he stated, completely unfazed by his own total lack of qualifications. He leaned in a little closer, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against your hip. "I'm a fast learner. If it's with you, I don't really care about the rest of it. I'm in, babe."
He didn't make a big deal out of it. He just stood there holding you in the middle of the chaotic reception, entirely unfazed by the fact that he had just casually rearranged your entire internal universe.
You stared into his eyes, a ridiculous warmth spreading from your chest all the way to your fingertips. You couldn't stop the huge smile that broke across your face, so you buried it against his chest before he could catch you grinning like an absolute idiot.
Snowdrop — hope and the warmth of a heart waking up.
You're shoved, zipped, and sprayed into a bridesmaid status in precisely forty minutes and twelve seconds. The makeup artist-slash-hairstylist worked like a woman possessed, wielding a canister of strong-hold hairspray in one hand and powder puff in the other, muttering something about miracles under pressure while aggressively taming every flyaway.
The sage green satin slipped over your hips with a satisfying rustle, the fabric molding effortlessly to your figure. The softly gathered sweetheart neckline settles perfectly across your chest, draping exactly as it's meant to, as though the dress had been made for you instead of Leonor.
You barely had time to send a message to the group chat with Seokmin and Seungkwan, telling them you'd explain everything later and that they were okay to leave. They even offered to pick you up afterward, but you turned them down, knowing that would only delay the inevitable conversation waiting for you later.
You're still fastening the strap of your left heel when Angela grabs you by the elbow and practically catapults you out of the room.
You burst into the back hallway just as Hannah is finishing her final veil adjustment. She looks breathtaking, a vision delicately off the shoulder lace, her dark hair falling in soft waves around her glowing face. The moment she sees you, her eyes light up, completely devoid of any panic.
Hannah squeals, entirely ignoring Angela's horrified gasp as she steps forward and wraps her arms tightly around you. "Y/N!"
The scent of her expensive orange blossom perfume surrounds you. She leans back just enough to hold you at arm's length, her expression shifting into a radiant—and conspiratorial—smile.
You can't help but wonder how much she knows about... well, everything.
"Thank you so much for doing this!" Hannah whispers in your ear, her voice bubbling with excitement. "You look so beautiful!"
You smile back at her, tilting your head. "Me? You look like a literal goddess," you say, voice breathy with genuine awe. Your fingertips lightly graze the delicate lace of her sleeve. "You look gorgeous, Hannah."
Hannah smile gets even bigger, a soft, very knowing sparkle dancing in her eyes as she gives your hands another squeeze.
"Thank you. I really hope we can be great friends after today. And, you know…" She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. "Maybe someday sisters."
Your heart breaks into a violent tap dance against your ribs. But before you can process—let alone question—the implication of her words, Angela is already dragging you away again, steering you toward the grand staircase.
"Positions! Now!" Angela hisses.
At the bottom of the staircase, the groomsmen are all lined up. And there, standing at the very front of the line, is Hansol.
The moment your foot touches the bottom step, his eyes find yours. Every trace of his usual relaxed posture vanishes, replaced by a sudden stillness. His gaze follows the line of the sage green silk, lingering at your collarbone before finally returning to your eyes. You hold your breath.
Hansol steps forward, offering you his arm. His black tuxedo jacket is fully buttoned now, his bow tie perfectly straight. You thread your hand through his arm, and even through the fine wool of his jacket, the warmth of his body seeps into your skin, sending a flush creeping across your cheeks.
He clears his throat. "Nice dress," he murmurs, teasing tone in his voice as you both step into queue behind the other couples.
"Don't start, traitor," you grumble, keeping your eyes fixed forward as the double doors leading to the backyard swing open. The warm summer breeze carries in the sound of a string quartet playing what sounds like a cello-and-piano rendition of You're Still the One.
"I'm serious, though. You look beautiful."
You do your best to ignore what his words do to you—how the sound of his voice settles deep in your chest—because, at that very moment, the two of you step out into the ceremony. Hundreds of guests turn their heads, their eyes sweeping over you both as you walk down the aisle towards the massive archway you spent all morning constructing.
"I still can't believe you thought I was the one getting married," Hansol whispers, keeping his stride perfectly in time with yours. There's humor in his voice again.
You wave subtly at distant relatives of Hansol's you recognize. "I don't want to talk about it," you mutter through a frozen smile.
He doesn't seem to care, though. "To Hannah? Really?"
Hansol doesn't sound dismissive of Hannah when he says it—far from it. If anything, he sounds as though the very idea is the most absurd thing in the world.
Then, his shoulders start to vibrate.
You glance sideways to find Hansol biting his lower lip, his jaw clenched in a desperate attempt to maintain his composure. But it's a losing battle. A moment later, a breathless snort escapes him, completely shattering the solemn, elegant atmosphere of the processional.
"Hansol, stop it," you hiss, smile tightening into a grimace. "People are looking."
"You—" he starts, but his voice cracks, and he has to stop, clearing his throat, his chest heaving. He looks up at the sky, trying to blink back tears of amusement. "You actually thought… oh my god, Y/N."
"I had a momentary lapse in judgment!" you whisper-yell, cheeks burning with a heat that has absolutely nothing to do with the burning sun above you.
Another wave of silent laughter hits him, making his shoulders roll, and this time you're laughing with him. A lady in the third row, wearing an enormous, feathered fascinator, gives you a highly disapproving look, Hansol barely notice; he's too busy trying to draw a breath without snickering.
"It completely blows my mind that you actually thought I could ever stand at an altar with anyone else."
Your chest does a funny thing, stomach currently doing a dizzying free-fall.
"Shut up," you breathe, staring straight ahead.
As you pass the front row of chairs, your eyes catch his mother. She is sitting in the place of honor, looking like a queen in her dusty rose gown. Seeing her son recovering from a literal laughing fit while walking you down the aisle, she offers you a smile, raising her eyebrows an inch in a silent, conspiratorial smile that makes your own brows knit together in confusion.
What the hell is going on?
You reach the altar and you release Hansol's arm, stepping to the left to take your place exactly where Leonor was supposed to stand.
As you settle into place, you look up and lock eyes with Seungcheol. He—standing stiffly in his suit—looks at your face, then down at the dress, and then back at your face. His thick brows furrows in absolute, comical bewilderment. He raises a hand gives you a small, incredibly confused wave, his mouth twisting into a silent, What on earth are you doing here? expression.
You offer him a helpless, apologetic little shrug in return.
Hansol steps to the right, taking his place beside his brother, who immediately nudges him with an elbow, whispering what can only be a frantic question that Hansol shuts down with a quick entertained shake of his head.
You stand rigidly, clutching your small bouquet of peonies. You have absolutely no idea what you are doing. You don't know when to hold Hannah's train, you don't know when to take her bouquet, and your mind is entirely consumed by the fact that Hansol is standing directly across from you, his eyes not leaving you for a second, watching your every move.
The music swells. The guests stand. Hannah walks down the aisle, a radiant beam of light, and the ceremony officially begin.
But as the minister starts to speak, the words wash over you in a blur. Your focus is entirely pulled to the guy standing across the floral-draped altar. The space between you feels incredibly small, charged with unsaid words, missed phone calls, and the lingering sting of a sunny July afternoon.
Seungcheol clears his throat, taking Hannah's hands as they prepare to exchange their vows.
You would have thought that, not knowing their story, the vows wouldn't affect you all that much. You are proven wrong the moment Seungcheol opens his mouth.
"I don't promise you a life without hardship," he begins, his voice clearly emotional, not even trying to hide. "I know there will be days when the road is steep, when the answers aren't clear, and when life asks more of us than we think we can give. But what I do promise is that you'll never have to face those days alone."
Across the altar, you can see the exact moment Hansol's expression changes, darkens, even. Any lingering traces of laughter that had been in his gaze moments ago completely disappear, replaced by a raw vulnerability that cuts straight through you.
You wish you didn't know him well enough to understand what was going through his mind. Even if parts of you tried to deny it, your heart already knew. His gaze, his expression, they were telling you the same thing.
Hansol was thinking about you.
"I promise to stand beside you when the world feels too much, to hold your hand when you're afraid, and to remind you of your strength when you've forgotten it yourself. And if distance ever separates us, my love won't. Whether there are miles between us or life pulls us in different directions, I'll keep choosing you, Hannah. I'll always find my way back to you, because home has never been a place for me, it's wherever you are."
Seungcheol's vows shouldn't feel like a brutal mirror, reflecting every single piece of your unresolved wreckage back at you while Hansol and you make unbroken eye contact—but they very much do.
You can't stop the hot, fat tear that spills over your eyelashes, tracing slowly down your cheek. An overwhelming mix of emotions crashing over you all at once. The sudden relief of knowing he isn't marrying someone else tangled with the aching regret for all the years you wasted, sitting in your own separate silences, waiting for the other person to break first.
But most of all, you're feeling hopeful.
Because as you wipe the tear away with a trembling finger, Hansol doesn't look away. He watches you, his own eyes shining with a faint, watery warmth, even if you know he’s not going to cry, his gaze holding something so that fuels that feeling. He is looking at you exactly the way he did before he left—like you're his home, and he is finally ready to walk through the door again.
Forget-Me-Not — true, undying love.
The battery percentage on your screen ticked down to fifteen percent, but you barely notice. Your eyes remain fixed on the digital clock in the top corner of the screen marking 7:42 PM, wondering what acceptable time would be to leave.
The reception in the backyard is a mix of a live jazz band, clinking glasses, and people laughing happily under canopy of warm fairy light strung between the trees. In the last three hours, you watched the newlyweds' first dance, the bouquet toss, and a dozen other wedding traditions, yet you still couldn't find a moment alone with Hansol.
You barely caught glimpses of him through the crowd.
So now you just sit by yourself at a table near the edge of the dance floor, staring at a plate with a half-eaten slice of wedding cake.
It didn't help that a few of Hansol's relatives had already made a point of coming over to speak with you. His great aunt had stopped by your chair to pat your shoulder with an agonizingly happy smile, telling you that she had always known you and Hansol would find your way back to each other. Meanwhile, his older cousin had asked if you were seeing anyone new yet, her eyes scanning your face for any sign of a breakdown.
You had just smiled until your cheeks cramped, nodding through the thinly veiled interrogations while aggressively shredding a paper napkin under the table.
"The cake is actually terrible, isn't it?"
You jump slightly in your chair, startled.
A guy is standing next to your table, and you recognize him immediately. He's the same one that flirted with you earlier while you pinned a white ranunculus boutonniere on his lapel: Mingyu. He's tall, with a really nice smile, and he's already ditched his tuxedo jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and loosened his black bow tie so it hangs casually around his neck.
"Never said it was terrible," you reply, offering a polite smile.
"You didn't have to," Mingyu laughs, pulling out the empty chair next to you and sitting down. He rests his elbows on the table, holding a glass of club soda with lime. "I watched you push that same piece of frosting around for a solid two minutes. It's okay to admit it. Fondant is basically edible plastic."
"It really is," you admit, relaxing a little. "I think people just buy wedding cakes for the pictures. No one actually expects them to taste good."
"Exactly. I'm hitting up a diner for a real burger the second this is over," Mingyu says, setting his drink down. He leans back in his chair, looking at you with a thoughtful expression. "I thought I wouldn't be seeing you here tonight."
You thought that too. But you don't tell him that. You pick at the edge of your paper napkin, instead, offering a small smile. "Small change of plans."
"Well, it's a really nice thing you did for Hannah." Mingyu gestures toward the dress and the surrounding floral setups with a smile. "Seriously. The flowers look incredible."
"Thanks, Mingyu," you reply, feeling a small wave of relief at his easygoing demeanor.
He gestures toward the centerpieces this time. "Hannah told me you own a shop in the city. Poppy's Garden, right?"
"Yeah, that's me."
"That massive flower arch thing during the ceremony?" Mingyu continues, shaking his head in mild disbelief. "I have no idea how you built that without it falling over on the minister."
He sounds like he means it. He isn't giving you a sleazy line. He’s just a genuinely nice guy making conversation.
"A lot of zip ties and silent prayers," you explain, letting out a real laugh for the first time in hours.
Mingyu smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He takes a sip of his drink, then sets it down again and looks at you. "So, you've been sitting over here by yourself for the last forty minutes. I know because I've been trying to figure out an excuse to come talk to you."
You blink at least three times, slightly taken aback by how straightforward he is. "Oh. You didn't need an excuse."
"Good to know." He leans back in his chair, tilting his head toward the dance floor. "The band is actually pretty decent. I know you've probably been on your feet all day dealing with the setup, but I was wondering if you’d want to dance."
"W-what?"
"I mean… you're definitely the most beautiful girl here, and it seems like a shame that you're hiding in the corner."
It's a nice compliment. It's polite, it’s flattering, and Mingyu is objectively very handsome. You open your mouth, fully intending to say yes, just to get out of your own head for a few minutes.
Before you can even form the first syllable, a shadow falls over the white linen tablecloth.
"She's actually taking a break right now."
The voice is low, flat, and completely devoid of inflection.
You look up to find Hansol standing right behind Mingyu's chair.
He still has his tuxedo jacket on, though it's unbuttoned. His hands are shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He isn't glaring, and he isn't puffing his chest out. He just looks incredibly, intensely solid—and hot. His eyes fixed on Mingyu, and his jaw is set in a rigid, immovable line.
Mingyu turns around, looking up at Hansol in surprise. "Oh. Hey, man. I was just asking Y/N if she wanted to hit the dance floor."
"I heard." He doesn't move an inch. "She has company, though."
Mingyu blinks, looking back and forth between Hansol and you as he pieces it together. He's smart guy, it only takes him two seconds to reach the tension rolling off Hansol in waves. He let out a short, incredulous laugh, raising an eyebrow at Hansol.
"Wait... I thought you guys broke up."
"We're handling it." Hansol's tone isn't aggressive, but it's final. He doesn't offer an explanation. He just holds Mingyu's gaze, projecting an aura that very clearly says this conversation is over until the message lands loud and clear.
Not even you knew what exactly you were handling, let alone Mingyu.
"Got it," Mingyu finally says, holding his hands up in easy surrender as he stands up from the chair. He picks up his drink, giving you a slightly amused wink. "My bad. I'll leave you two to it. Catch you later, Y/N. Great job on the flowers."
You offer him a small wave. "Thanks, Mingyu."
Mingyu walks away, disappearing into the crowd near the bar.
You sit frozen, staring at Hansol. Your heart is suddenly beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. Seeing him act like this is entirely jarring. In all the time you dated, Hansol was the king of nonchalance. He never got jealous. If a guy ever hit on you, Hansol would just laugh, wrap an arm around your waist, and shrug it off. He was always so ridiculously secure in himself. And most of all, he always trusted you.
But right now? He looks very territorial. And you absolutely hate that the only thing you can think about is how incredibly hot it is.
Hansol watches Mingyu walk away until he is completely out of sight. Then, he pulls his hands out of his pockets. He takes a step forward, closing the distance between you, and holds his right hand out to you, palm facing up.
"C'mon."
You stare at his hand. "Come on where?"
"Dance floor," he clarifies, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It isn't.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Hansol, you don't dance. The last time we went to a wedding, you literally hid by the buffet table for three hours eating crab cakes so my aunt wouldn't drag you out there."
"I know." He shrugs, not withdrawing his hand. His eyes lock onto yours, completely serious. "But I want to dance with you."
The lack of hesitation in his voice leaves you totally speechless. There is no joke, no sarcastic deflection. He is just standing there, waiting for you.
You reach out and place your hand in his, his fingers closing around yours immediately. His grip is warm, firm, and familiar. He pulls you up from the chair, and the silk of your dress rustles against his trousers as he leads you way from the table, navigating through the maze of guests and empty chairs.
You step onto the dance floor just as the band transitions into a Frank Sinatra song.
Hansol doesn't ask how you want to hold him. He just steps in close, sliding his right hand firmly onto the small of your back, right at the dip of your spine. The heat of his palm seeps instantly through the thin silk of the dress. You rest your left hand flat against his chest, right over his heart, and your joined hands settle comfortably between you.
It leaves you breathless how you fit together exactly the way we did years ago. Your heights match perfectly. The muscle memory is so immediate, so natural, that it actually makes your chest ache in the best way possible.
For the first minute, you just sway. You don't say a word. You move slowly to the song, ignoring the dozens of couples swaying around you. You keep your eyes focused on the knot of his bow tie, acutely aware of his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against your spine.
"You shouldn't have been rude to Mingyu. He was just being nice," you say eventually.
"I wasn't rude," Hansol states, his chin brushing the top of your head. "I just stated a fact. You were busy."
"I was sitting by myself staring at a napkin."
"You were busy," he repeats stubbornly.
You shake your head, looking up at him. "I'm only here because of your sister-in-law, Hansol."
"Mhm." His lips twitch. "Not even a little for me?"
"You're asking that after I spent the last three weeks terrified because I thought you were the one getting married today?"
A laugh escapes him. "I think it's safe to say we had a pretty catastrophic case of miscommunication there."
You glance around the reception, only to find his parents watching from a nearby table, both wearing impossibly—and suspiciously—wide smiles. Across the dance floor, Hannah and Seungcheol wear that very same expression, their attention fixed on the two of you as well.
You tilt your head to the side, meeting Hansol's gaze without breaking your rhythm. “I suspect that was entirely intentional.”
Hansol sighs and looks away toward the band.
"I know." He looks down at you again, as though he's about to confess something. "My mother and Hannah planned all of this behind my back. They purposely booked your shop, so we'd run into each other again."
A corner of his mouth lifts shyly.
"It was all on purpose."
"They actually wanted me to think you were the groom," you gasp, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "They wanted a reaction."
"Did it work?" he asks, one perfectly lined eyebrow arching.
"I threw up in a trash can behind the loading dock this morning," you admit, deciding you don't care about preserving your pride anymore. "What do you think?"
Hansol's jaw clenches, and he stops swaying for a second. His hand tightens against your back, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer, as though the mere thought of having caused you that much pain unsettles him.
"I'm sorry. I never would have agreed to that. It was a stupid, manipulative thing to do."
You shrug, looking away. "It doesn't matter. The wedding is over. You can go back to your life, and I can go back to mine."
"But I told you I'm living in Brooklyn now," Hansol reminds you, his eyes searching yours. "I transferred my contract to the New York division. The rest of my stuff is getting shipped next week."
He sounds hopeful, and against your better judgment, you feel hopeful too.
You nod, the memory of what he told Poppy weeks ago still making your thoughts scramble. Even so, there's one thing you still need to know.
"Since when?"
You don't need to explain. Hansol knows.
"The day I saw you in the driveway."
An incredulous, breathy laugh escapes you. You shake your head, your mind scrambling to make sense of the timeline. “You decided to uproot your entire life and move across the country because we had one awkward conversation?”
"It wasn't just the awkward conversation, Y/N." His voice was losing the casual tone. "You looked at me like you hated me. And it bothered me so much I couldn't sleep for two days."
"But you were fine for four years!" you argue, your voice rising slightly over the music. The frustration is bubbling up, fast and hot. "You were completely fine, Hansol."
"I wasn't fine," he admits bluntly. "I hated it."
You hated it too.
Your break wasn't dramatic. It hadn't been a screaming match over who was right or wrong.
It was a random Tuesday afternoon, and Hansol had come over to your apartment to pick up the last of his winter coats before his flight back to Los Angeles after spending the weekend in New York again. You had been sitting at the kitchen table, buried under a pile of your mother's medical bills and past-due notices for the flower shop. You were exhausted, hair a mess, and you hadn't slept in three days.
When he sat down beside you, you both just looked at the paper mountain between you. There wasn't any fight left in either of you over whether you were going to Los Angeles anymore. You both already knew the answer; you were staying in New York. So, you looked each other in the eye and mutually agreed that pulling the plug was the only logical thing to do.
He had been so calm. So logical. You laid it out together like a business transaction, like two partners analyzing a bad contract and agreeing to walk away. Neither of you cried. Neither of you begged. You hugged goodbye, he picked up his bag pack and walked out the door. It was the absolute, shared coldness of it—the silent agreement to just give up—that had broken you.
Hansol lets out a sharp exhale. He drops his hand from yours, bringing it up to rub the back of his neck, looking incredibly frustrated. "I went along with the breakup because I felt completely useless, Y/N. I didn't push back because I knew I had nothing to offer you."
You frown. "What?"
"I was standing in your kitchen," he continues looking at you intently, "and you were drowning. Your mom was sick, you were working twelve hours a week, and you were stressed out of your mind. And I was leaving again. I couldn't pay your bills. I couldn't fix your mom. I couldn't do a single thing to actually help you."
He drops his hand, stepping closer to you again, forcing you to look up at him.
"I'm a practical guy, baby," he says, lifting his shoulder. "I couldn't fix your life, and I wanted to. So bad. When you suggested maybe we should end it, I went along with it because I knew if we stayed together, I would just be one more thing you had to worry about. One more person you had to text, one more schedule you had to manage. I thought letting us both walk away was doing you a favor."
Meanwhile, you believed you were doing him a favor by lifting the burden of your life off his shoulders with the breakup. And then you hated yourself for feeling hurt—for feeling almost hypocritical—that he hadn't fought against it.
You stare at him, your chest aching. "That is the stupidest logic I have ever heard."
"I know." He nods, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his mouth. "It was stupid. I was twenty-two, and I was an idiot. I thought we were being realistic. I didn't realize that being practical doesn't matter when you're miserable."
You stare up at him, the fairy lights blurring slightly as his words settle over you. For four years, you had convinced yourself that he walked way without a fight because it was the easiest thing to do. To hear him admit that he had been just as miserable—that he had broken his own heart out of some misguided attempt to protect yours—shifts the foundation of your memories.
"Have you dated anyone?" you ask, the question finally pushing its way out of your throat before anything else. You feel a little silly, yes, but you need to know.
"I went on a few dates," he answers, because of course he must be factually accurate. As always. "They sucked. All I could think about was how much I wished it was you instead. I couldn't do it." He gives the smallest shake of his head. "So, I just stopped trying."
The simplicity of his confession is staggering. There are no grand declarations, or poetic metaphors about stars and fate. It's just Hansol. The same you've always known. The same you've always loved.
"Why come back now?" you ask, your voice trembling. "My life is still messy, Hansol. The shop is doing objectively better, but everything is still the same. I still work crazy hours. None of the logistics have actually changed."
"I changed," he says simply.
He reaches out, resting both of his hands on your waist. His thumbs press against the silk of the dress, right over your ribs.
"Forget about logistics. I have a stable job. I have a car. I can drive your mom to her physical therapy appointments. I can come to the shop and carry the heavy buckets when you have a massive order. I don't need to fix your life, Y/N. I just want to be in it. I want to carry everything with you."
The tears you've been fighting back since the ceremony ended finally spill over, tracking down your cheeks and ruining whatever setting spray the makeup artist used.
"Are you seeing anyone?" Hansol asks, his thumbs brushing against your sides. "Tell me the truth."
You shake your head. "No."
He breathes out a sigh, and you can see the tension completely drained out of his shoulders. The rigid posture is quickly replaced by the relaxed, comfortable Hansol you know. "Thank God. I really don't want to have to fight another groomsman tonight."
A wet laugh escapes you. "You are an idiot."
"Yeah. I really am."
The next second, Hansol is closing the final few inches between you, and when he kisses you, it's like you've been trapped in a coma for four years.
A soft, involuntary moan escapes you, almost more of a gasp than a sound. He swallows as your hands slide up his chest and curl around the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck and holding on to him as though your next breath depends on it. Hansol's arms tighten around your waist, pulling you squarely against his chest so there's no space left between you.
His mouth moves against yours with grounding pressure, almost as though he's been waiting for this for years and has no intention of rushing it. You kiss him back just as hard, parting your lips just enough to meet him halfway, catching the cool taste of peppermint and the lingering hint of whatever he'd been drinking earlier mixed on his tongue.
The jazz band keeps playing, and the other guests keep dancing around you, but you barely notice them or when the music changes to another Frank Sinatra song. You just stand there in the middle of the crowded floor, holding onto him for dear life as though letting go would mean losing him all over again. All while letting him explore your mouth deliberately, sucking and biting deliciously.
For the first time all day, you aren't thinking about the time on your phone, the flower shop, or making a quick exit.
Hansol pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. He is breathing a little heavily, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
"I'll buy you a burger after this," he murmurs against your mouth. "Since you hate the cake."
"Okay," you whisper, smiling back. "Okay."
Except the burger doesn't happen.
Well, not right away.
Because two songs after the kiss on the dance floor, Hansol's hand is fisted in yours and he's pulling you through the crowd of guests, past a slightly tipsy Seungcheol who whistles at the sight of you, past his mother who pretends not to see the urgency her son is dragging you toward her house, past Angela who is too busy directing the sparkler send-off to notice her florist flipping away from the reception with the best man.
You laugh, stumbling over your heels on the stone patio. "Hansol, slow down."
You try to slow him down, but he only tightens his grip on your hand, glancing back at you with hungry eyes.
"Can't," he mutters, tugging you through the doors and into the quiet hush of the house. "I'm not waiting another goddamn minute."
The house is empty, since the staff are all outside handling the reception and the guests are gathered on the lawn. The only sound is the distant thumping of the bass from the band and the click of your heels against the hardwood as Hansol pulls you up the staircase, two steps at a time.
He leads you unhesitatingly to the last door on the left, exactly where you knew he would: his childhood bedroom.
The hallway passes you in a blur before he's pushing the door open and pulling you inside. The room is like a whole new wave of memories. The same navy-blue walls, the framed vinyl records above his old desk, the queen bed against the far wall with its rumpled white duvet. You can see that he probably slept here last night, because there's a duffel bag by the closet and a pair of sneakers kicked off near the desk.
The door clicks shut behind you.
And then Hansol is on you.
His hands cup your face, tilting your chin up, and his mouth crashes down onto yours with none of the careful restraint he'd shown before—if you can even call it that. This kiss is greedy and hungry. His tongue slides against yours, and you're, once again, moaning into his mouth, hands flying up to grip the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.
The way he kisses you— like he's been starving, like you're the only thing he's ever craved—makes your mind spin. You want nothing more than to be devoured by him.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, walking you backward until your shoulder blades hit the closed door. His hands drop from your face to your waist, gripping the silk of the dress. "Fuck, I forgot. I forgot how good you taste."
"Hansol—"
He kisses you again before you can say another word. One hand slides up the side of your throat to cup your jaw, tilting your head exactly the way he wants. His thumb presses against the corner of your mouth, and you open for him willingly, letting him lick into you with slow, filthy heat that makes your knees go weak.
Your hands are shaking as they push his tuxedo jacket off his shoulders. It falls to the floor with a soft thump, and Hansol doesn't even glance at it. He's too busy dragging his mouth down the line of your jaw, the column of your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the pulse fluttering wildly under your skin.
"Look at you in this fucking dress," he murmurs, voice a low rumble against your collarbone. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them possessively.
You gasp, arching into him as his teeth assault your throat. "It's not my dress."
He nips at your skin, and you feel it all the way down between your legs. "Don't care. It might as well be made for you."
His mouth is on yours again, and this time his hands start moving more frantic than before. They slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the silk, and you whimper shamelessly, feeling like you could melt right there.
Your head spins as he slowly draws back from your lips again, a fine thread of saliva stretching between them. He rests his forehead against yours for the briefest moment before nuzzling his face into the curve of your cheek, his lips brushing your ear in a teasing bite.
"You have any idea," he groans, breath hot against your ear as his hands skims down over your hip, gathering the silk of the dress in his fists, dragging the hem higher, "how many times I've thought about having you again? Every fucking night. Every fucking night for four years."
"Hansol—" His name breaks on your tongue as his palms slide under the hem of the dress, up the outside of your bare thigh.
"Tell me you thought about it too."
"I did," you whine. "So much."
His fingers trace the elastic of your underwear, and you feel him smile against your throat. "Yeah? Tell me, then. Tell me what you thought about, baby."
You can't. You can barely form words right now. His hands are inching up, thumbs pressing against your hipbone, and you're clinging to his shirt like you'll fall over if you let go.
Hansol seems to take pity on you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, and what he sees there makes his eyes darken to almost full black. A millisecond later he's kissing you again, and moving, and before you fully register what's happening, he's guiding you across the room to his old study desk.
In one smooth motion, he grips your waist and lifts you up onto it. You gasp at the sudden movement and the cool wood pressing against the backs of your thighs where the dress has ridden up. Hansol steps between your knees, forcing them apart with his hips, and cups your face again, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
Then he drops to his knees.
Your breath leaves your lugs. He's still in his tuxedo pants and his white dress shirt, sleeves shove up his forearms now, his bow tie hanging loose around his neck—the one you tied for him hours ago—and he's staring up at you like you're something holy.
"Hansol."
"Yeah, baby?"
"I—" You don't know what you're going to say. You just want to say his name again. And again, again, again, again.
He smiles, soft and slow. And then his hands are on your knees, spreading them wilder, pushing the silk dress up higher until it's bunched around your waist and you're bare to him except for the thin cotton of your underwear. For a moment, you wish you were wearing something prettier and nicer for this moment, but those thoughts are soon silenced by his voice.
"Fuck me."
His fingers trace the edge of the fabric where it meets your thigh, and your hips roll forward instinctively at the touch.
"You're already wet, baby. I can see it through your underwear."
You cover your face with your hands. "Oh God."
He immediately catches your wrist, grip gentle as he guides your hand away. "Don't. Don't hide. I want to see you."
Hansol then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and drags it down your legs, slowly, taking his sweet time, his eyes fixed on your core. You lift your hips to help him, and he pulls it off over your heels, then shoves them into his pocket.
"Hansol!"
He grins, and it's so wolfish, so filthy, that more heat floods between your legs. "Mine now."
He plants his hands on your inner thighs, spreading you wider. His breath ghosts over you, warm and unbearable, and you shudder.
"Look at that," he murmurs, almost reverent. "Look how pretty. Missed this. Missed you so fucking much, baby."
The first stroke of his tongue makes you cry out, your hips jerking forward, and he immediately clamps a hand down on your hip to hold you in place. Hansol drags his tongue up through your folds, slow and thorough, and you throw your head back so hard it thuds against the wall behind the desk.
"Oh fuck!"
"That's it. Let me hear you," he groans against your core.
Hansol knows exactly what he's doing. Most importantly, he remembers—God, he remembers—that you like it slow at first. Long, flat licks up your center, his tongue soft and unhurried, warming you up. His hand slide under your thighs, hooking your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.
You look down at him and almost combust. His head is buried between your legs, his dress shirt rumpled from your grabbing hands, and his eyes flick up to meet yours the exact second you look at him. He holds your gaze while his tongue drags a slow circle around your clit, and the sight of him—your Hansol, one his knees for you—is almost enough to push you over on its own.
A whimper escapes you, certain there's no air left in your lungs. "Baby."
You don't even know how it's possible, but his gaze grows darker. Hansol sucks your clit into his mouth, hard, and your back arches off the wall.
"Hansol!"
He hums against you, appreciatively, and the vibration makes your thighs shake around his head. He's making obscene, borderline pornographic noises, wet, filthy sounds that echoes through the room, and he's not slowing down, not letting up, his tongue flicking against your clit in fast, precise strokes that have you climbing embarrassingly fast.
"Oh god, I'm—already, I'm gonna—"
"Yeah, you are," he growls, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening. "Come on my tongue. Give it to me."
Hansol dives back in, and this time he slides a finger inside you, then a second, curling them up in that perfect way that only he ever figured out how to in all these years. There, you lose it. Your hand flies to his hair, gripping tight, and you come hard with a broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly into his mouth.
He works you through it. Slow, gentle laps of his tongues, his fingers sliding out of your and stroking soothingly along your inner thigh. When you finally slump against the wall, boneless and shaking, he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh and looks up at you with the most self-satisfied smile you've ever seen.
"There she is."
Your voice is wrecked but you manage to say, "Shut up."
"Missed that face."
"Hansol, I swear to god—"
He stands up, and before you can catch your breath, he's kissing you again. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it should be too much but instead it makes something hot coil low in your belly all over again. His hands cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, and he kisses you like he can't help himself.
"Bed," he says against your mouth.
"Please."
He pulls you away from the desk. Your legs are so shaky that you would have stumbled if he hadn't slipped an arm around your waist to steady you. Without letting go, he guides you backward to his old bed, dressed in navy sheets and topped with mismatched pillows, before easing you down onto the mattress as though you're made of glass.
Then he stands at the foot of the bed and looks at you like he can't quite believe you're real.
You're a mess. The dress is bunched around your waist, one strap slipping off your shoulder, your hair coming loose from the chignon. Your legs are bare, spread slightly, and you can feel yourself still throbbing from his mouth. You should be self-conscious, but the way Hansol's looking at you makes it impossible.
"Get up here," you practically beg.
"In a second."
His fingers move to his bow tie, tugging it loose the rest of the way. It drops to the floor. Then the buttons of his vest, one by one—the same vest you buttoned for him hours ago. Then the crisp white shirt, tugged out of his waistband and unbuttoned with maddening slowness.
You can't take it. You sit up, reach for him, and pull him down onto the bed on top of you.
Hansol laughs against your mouth, a real, warm laugh, and then he kisses you slowly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other sliding down to grip your hip. He rolls his body against yours, and you feel his hardness straining against the fabric of his pants, making your hips buck into his.
"Off," you gasp, tugging at his shirt. "Off, off…"
He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and then he's shirtless above you, all muscle and warm skin, and you drag your palms down his chest, over his ribs, memorizing him all over again. There's a tattoo on his ribcage, a small line of Korean script, that you don't recognize.
You trace it with your fingers. "What does this say?"
He looks down at you. His eyes are soft. "I'll tell you later."
"Hansol—"
"Later, baby."
He closes the distance between you again, and this time when his hand slides down your body it's to shove the bunched-up silk of the dress up over your head. You lift your arms and let him pull it off, and then you're lying beneath him in nothing but strapless bra and your heels.
He sits back on his heels, taking you in. His pupils are blown wide.
"You," he says, voice rough, "are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."
"Body worship later," you reply, breathless. "Pants off now, Chwe."
Hansol laughs, but he obeys. He stands off the bed just long enough to unbuckle his belt and shove his pants and briefs down together, kicking them off with his shoes and socks in one graceless motion, and then he's back on the bed, back on top of you.
You feel him against your thigh, hot and hard, and you gasp.
"Hansol, please…"
"I know, baby." He reaches down between you, wraps a hand around himself, and drags the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself. "I know. I'll take care of you."
He pauses right at your entrance. His forehead drops to yours.
"I don't have anything," he whispers. "I didn't—unlike my mother, I wasn't planning this."
You giggle briefly. "I'm on the pill. I'm clean, I haven't… it's been a while."
"Me too. It's been a while."
"Then don't stop. Please."
He kisses you as he pushes inside you.
You both moan. His forehead is pressed to yours, and his eyes are squeezed shut, and his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping. He sinks into you inch by inch, and it's been so long that it's almost too much, the stretch of him, the heat, the familiar-unfamiliar feeling of him inside your again.
"Fuck. Holy shit, you feel—"
"Hansol." You cup his face. "Hansol, look at me."
He opens his eyes.
"Hi," you whisper.
His voice cracks. "Hi."
You pull his mouth down to yours, and he starts to move.
Slow—so slow. Long, deep rolls of his hips that push him all the way inside you and drag him back out to the tip, and every stroke he groans against your mouth like it's killing him. His hand slides down to grip the back of your thigh, hitching your leg up higher around his waist, and the new angle makes him hit somewhere inside you that has you gasping into his mouth.
"That's it," he mumbles. "Feel that?"
"Yes!"
"I know. I know, baby. I've got you."
He kisses you again, and again, and again. Between every stroke. His mouth on yours, on your jaw, on the hinge of your neck. His hand slides up from your thigh to your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple through the bra, and you arch up into him with a whimper.
"Take this off," he groans against your throat, tugging at the strapless bra. "Wanna see all of you."
He slips it off your shoulders and tosses it over the side of the bed as though it has personally offended him, and then his mouth is on your breast, tongue circling your nipple as he continues to fuck into you with those deep rolls that are unraveling you thread by thread.
He's whispering something against your skin, but you can barely make it out, your mind clouded by everything he's making you feel with every stroke.
"Beautiful. Every inch of you. Fucking perfect. Made for me."
"Hansol…"
"Made for me," he repeats, biting down gently at the swell of your breast. "Say it."
"Made for you."
He drags his mouth back up to yours. "Yeah. That's right. That's fucking right, baby."
Hansol picks up the pace just enough that the pleasure that had been slow and unfurling suddenly starts to spark hotter. Your hand slides up his back, nails scraping lightly, and he groans and drops his forehead to your shoulder.
"Do that again."
You do. You drag your nails down his back, and he shudders, hips stuttering, and buries his face in your throat.
"Fuck, I'm not gonna last if you—"
"I don't care." You turn your face into his hair. "I don't care, Hansol, I want you to."
"No." He pulls back. Kisses you hard. "No. You come first. You always come first."
He slides a hand between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and starting to circle it in tight, precise little strokes that match the rhythm of his hips, and you feel it building fast, embarrassingly fast, that hot coil low in your belly winding tighter and tighter.
"That's it," he coaxes, watching your face. "I can feel you, you're squeezing me so tight."
You come with a cry, gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he fucks you through it with those same slow, deep strokes, his thumb still circling your clit until you're twitching and oversensitive and pushing his hand away.
"Good girl," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "Good girl. Look at you."
You can barely catch your breath before he's rolling you.
You gasp as he flips you onto your stomach, one big warm hand splayed at the small of your back, holding you down. He drags a pillow under your hips, tilting you up, and then he's pushing back inside you from behind and you're moaning into the pillow before he's even fully seated.
"You okay, babe?" His hand slides up your spine, gathering the loose strands of your hair into his fist. He tugs, gently, tilting your head back. "Fuck, this angle."
"Yeah, more. Please."
He drives into you, deeper this time—thanks to the new position—his hand in your hair keeps your head tilted so he can lean down and speak against your ear, and his other hand is gripping your hip so tight you know you'll have marks tomorrow.
"So good," he mumbles. "So fucking good for me. Taking me so well. You feel so goddamn perfect around me. Missed this. Missed you."
You whimper into the pillow.
"Yeah? You like this?" He tugs your hair again. "Talk to me, baby."
"I love it, Hansol, I love it, please don't stop."
His voice cracks. "Never. Never again. I swear to fucking god, never again."
He fucks you like he means it. Even deeper and harder, purposeful strokes that have you gripping the sheets, whimpering with every thrust. His hand releases your hair and slides down under you, finding your clit again, and you nearly sob.
"Hansol— Hansol, I can't— again, I'm gonna—"
"Yeah you are. That's three. Come on. One more."
His fingers work you in tight circles, and his hips don't let up, and you fall apart under him for the third time, your orgasm ripping through you so hard that your whole body shakes. You feel him falter, feel him groan into your hair, and then his fingers tighten on your hip.
"Holy fuck, I'm gonna—"
"Inside." You barely recognize your own voice. "Inside, Hansol, please."
Hansol curses again, and slams into you one more time. And then he's coming with a low, guttural groan against your shoulder, his hips jerking, his forehead pressed to your back, and you feel every pulse of him deep inside you.
For a long moment, neither of you move. His weight is warm and heavy on your back, and his breath is ragged in your hair, and you can feel his heartbeat pounding against your spine.
He kisses your shoulder. The nape of your neck. Behind your ear.
"Babe," he mumbles.
"Hmm?"
"Don't move."
Hansol carefully slides out of you, and you feel him, hot and thick, dripping down your inner thigh, and you make a small, embarrassed sound into the pillow.
"Hansol, oh my god!"
"Shh." His hand slides down between your legs, and you feel his fingers gather what's spilling out. "I've got you."
You feel him drag his fingers back up, pushing it back inside you, and you moan into the pillow.
"There we go. That's mine. All mine."
He does it again one last time, slow, deliberate. Then he turns you gently onto your back, and he's staring down at you with such open, wrecked adoration that your eyes prick with tears.
"Open your mouth, baby."
You do.
Hansol brings his fingers—slick with him, with you—to your lips, and slides them in. You close your mouth around them and taste him, salt and heat, and his eyes go completely black.
He bends down and captures your lips in another kiss, licking into your mouth, chasing his own taste on your tongue. The kiss turns wonderfully deep and messy, leaving you both breathless before he finally pulls back just.
"Fuck. You have no idea what you do to me."
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down against you. He collapses onto his side, gathering you into his chest, one heavy leg thrown over your hips, keeping you pinned to him.
There's a small silence, and you can hear the distant thump of the reception band, still going strong outside. Someone must have started the sparkler send-off; you can hear cheers filtering up through the window.
Hansol traces slow circles on your bare hip.
"The tattoo," he says quietly, after a long moment.
You lift your head from his chest. "Hm?"
"You asked what it said." He looks at you. "It's from that old book you had. The Dictionary of Flowers? The meaning of a forget-me-not."
You feel dizzy.
"I got it after I realized I was never going to feel it again unless I came back to you."
You don't have words. So you kiss him instead. When you pull back, he brushes your hair off your forehead. His eyes are impossibly soft.
"Still want that burger?" he asks.
You laugh. Wet, watery, real.
"Yeah, Hansol."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. But maybe in an hour."
"An hour." He grins, slow and wicked, and rolls on top of you again. "And maybe tomorrow we can take Poppy to the Natural History Museum."
"Sounds perfect to me."
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