☆ ┊・♡・❝saved series❞ (should contain masterlists/start of series)
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pairing﹢park seonghwa x fem!reader
genre﹢smut. headcanon format. dilf!seonghwa, teacher & student, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, seonghwa in his mid 30s), uni!au + reader studies fashion. cheating (disclaimer: i do not condone such actions in real life. everything here is entirely fictional and for the sake of the plot), power imbalance, corruption kink, manipulation, unprotected sex, creampie, praise + slight degradation, pet names (angel, sweet thing)
synopsis﹢in pursuit of being the perfect student, so close to fulfilling your goal, one of the professors did not give you the high grade you deserved. you wanted to be perfect, not a homewrecker. but if that's what he likes, whatever his type, you'll do it.
✦ RETURN TO THE EVENT
DILF!SEONGHWA is one of the best professors in south korea when it comes to fashion history. of course, first place technically belongs to your other professor, kim hongjoong, but that’s hardly the point when the two of them run a fashion line together under the name matz despite their young age.
DILF!SEONGHWA is strict, but never to the point of being cruel. still, if you want to be a designer, a model, or work anywhere near the fashion world. perfection is expected, and as a model himself, he knows better than anyone what the industry demands.
DILF!SEONGHWA has helped you more than once. he sees it clearly: you are perfect for this field, born for it even. your ideas are striking, undeniably brilliant. you’re studying under the guidance of matz — not everyone is lucky enough to get into this university, let alone graduate with outstanding grades and a guarantee of achieving their dream.
DILF!SEONGHWA'S final exam in fashion history was supposed to be just that: final. the last test before graduation, the last secured A that would look immaculate on your diploma. you were the student with the highest grades, the recipient of the highest scholarship. one grade lower, literally just one, would be enough to ruin everything you worked for.
DILF!SEONGHWA had already entered the grades into the system. your friends all knew theirs by now; they even asked about yours. you didn’t bother checking, didn’t need to, you told them, confidently, that you’d passed with excellence again. until evening came, alone in your dorm room, refreshing the site out of idle curiosity, only to see a lower score staring back at you. shock settles first, then panic as you refresh the page once, twice, and nothing changes.
DILF!SEONGHWA expects you to show up the very next day. you don’t even have class with him, but he lets you into his office. he’s seated behind his desk, attention fixed on his computer: so elegant and composed, that it makes your stomach twist at the thought that this same man graded your work so unfairly.
DILF!SEONGHWA gestures for you to sit in the chair across him. you don’t; instead, you calmly tell him, despite the anxiety that rushes through, “mr. park, i think you made a mistake with my assessment."
he looks up then, finally pulling his attention away from the screen. his chair rolls back slightly as he rests his arms on the desk. lifting his glasses, pushing them up onto his head, and you can’t help but take in his features … so beautiful in a way that feels almost like he came out of a fairytale. “miss (last name), please take a seat.” you obey this time, sitting while still staring at him, brows knitting together. “i understand your dissatisfaction. but if you received that assessment, then it was deserved.”
DILF!SEONGHWA watches you inhale slowly before speaking again, “i’m sorry,” you say carefully, “but there’s no way i earned that grade after knowing the material from start to finish. i couldn’t have made that many mistakes, and even if i did, can’t i at least see them?”
you expect a nod, professionalism and fairness. alas all you get is a big fat no.
DILF!SEONGHWA notices how your shoulders stiffen as you fight the urge to argue, or to beg. disappointment settles on you so quickly, and then his eyes drift to the matz skirt you’re wearing. your entire outfit is unmistakably from their spring collection. the white shirt and neatly tied necktie make it seem more sexual than academic.
DILF!SEONGHWA looks you in the eyes again, “miss, i know you are one of our honorary students. you’re at the very top of your major,” he says calmly, “but perfection doesn’t mean you’re exempt from mistakes. and i can assure you that a B is still a good grade.”
good, not excellent, that’s all you hear. resentment burns just beneath your ribs, tangled with the desperate need for his approval. you didn’t come this far to be good; you came to be undeniable.
DILF!SEONGHWA watches you swallow as you clench your hands, “what can i do to change it?” asking quieter now. “i still have time, so i’ll do anything. please, i can sew, i can design, or even model, if you need someone for that. just give me a chance, please mr. park, it’s important to me.”
DILF!SEONGHWA freezes when you mention modeling. “final grades aren’t something i compromise on,” he exclaims as your heart sinks. “however…” his fingers tap the desk. matz has an upcoming show, and they need one female model. if you’re willing to learn how to walk properly in rather high heels and perform like a pro, he could reconsider. practice would require privacy; his personal studio would do.
“the show is in a week and a half, if you would li–”
“yes,” you say immediately with no hesitation, or pride left to protect. “i’ll do it.”
DILF!SEONGHWA tells you to see him tomorrow to talk the details out. you nod, heart racing as you leave his office. he doesn’t clarify where to meet him, because he expects you to know exactly where to find him.
you arrive earlier than expected at DILF!SEONGHWA'S house. as you notice the signs of a family without them being present: small shoes by the door, a crayon drawing on the fridge, a bunch of make-up products that clearly aren't his.
he casually mentioned that his wife is still at work, his two kids won’t be back until the afternoon because of kindergarten and school. the sentence is innocent, the implication not so much.
DILF!SEONGHWA takes you to his studio, a building next to his house that feels more like a second home. he shows you the dress before you put it on, explaining how it embodies the show’s theme: angelic.
it’s a sheer ivory corset dress with visible boning that cinches the waist and sculpts an hourglass shape. the bodice hugs your torso perfectly, while the wrap-style skirt curves over your hips and opens into a high-thigh slit trimmed with soft feathers. sheer lace gloves are meant to match the delicate texture, completing the ethereal vision they aim for.
DILF!SEONGHWA guides you to the changing room, giving you privacy. when you emerge and step onto the small circular podium, he sees you fully for the first time, and is utterly speechless. glasses slipping slightly down his nose. the design fits you too perfectly; his gaze lingers, memorizing every line and curve.
he walks slowly around the podium, describing the theme: purity and light. his eyes never leave you as he quietly whispers, studying you like art. “it looks like it was made for you.” you don’t thank him, just meeting his keen designer eyes. remember, you’re here for the grade.
DILF!SEONGHWA adjusts your posture under the excuse of professionalism. hands settle at your waist, fixing the fabric at your hip. you wobble slightly, because the heels are higher than expected, instinctively reaching for balance. he catches your arm instantly, doesn’t let go until a few seconds have passed, correcting your walk by placing a hand at your lower back.
“careful, you should be comfortable before taking a step.”
DILF!SEONGHWA offers you water, something sweet, and hospitality above everything. then he suggests one more walk, another twirl, posing again with his hand still resting on your waist. he looks at you in the mirror as you meet his gaze there, too.
that’s when the realization hits. you’re not thinking about the grade anymore. you’re thinking about how you want his hands on you — you want your young, devastatingly hot professor to touch you, his fingers slipping beneath the skirt, feeling just how wet you are.
DILF!SEONGHWA steps up at the podium, his hand moves your hair over your left shoulder, exposing the right. he leans in, his head hovering close, and god, you look like an angel. a perfect, little pathetic angel willing to do anything to shine the brightest.
pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin to raise goosebumps, enough to steal your breath as he catches the hitch, and smirks. he notices how you don’t hesitate, don’t push him away or question him. if sleeping with your professor is what it takes to secure that grade, then sex is what you’ll have. and it’s not like he isn’t everyone’s crush, in your major and well beyond it.
DILF!SEONGHWA chuckles softly, pulling back only after leaving a second kiss. his hand slides beneath your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror, at your own eyes staring back. “so obedient, aren’t you, angel?” he murmurs. “willing to beg on your knees just to be popular.” all you manage is a soft, broken whine.
DILF!SEONGHWA slowly turns you to face him. you wobble again in your heels, but he catches you easily by the waist, pulling you closer. that same devilish smirk never leaves his face. “you’ll do everything i ask for that grade… right?”
you gulp: baffled, shocked, and so painfully aroused. “y-yes…”
it’s all he needs to have his mouth on yours, teeth catching your lower lip as you moan and gasp into the kiss. your hands fall uselessly to your sides because you don’t know what else to do.
DILF!SEONGHWA hooks the skirt up carefully, as he doesn’t want to ruin hongjoong’s hard work, but he wants to keep you in it. you look too beautiful like this, and seonghwa has always liked beautiful things. more than that, he likes getting his hands on them.
DILF!SEONGHWA sits back at the podium, jeans down, dressed only in his white tee and those glasses on top of his head. the surface beneath him is a little cold, but it won’t stay that way for long. you’re trying your hardest not to cry as you sink down on his length, and whether he helps you or you help yourself hardly matters, since you have to work hard for your grade. your hands grip his shoulders tightly because even if you’re wet and aching, it’s still too much: the pressure, not the size.
but once everything fits, you take him so well that you moan loudly. he breathes heavily, lets out a low grunt, then tells you to ride him. to show him how badly you want to graduate, how perfectly filthy a student you can be.
because the truth is, DILF!SEONGHWA has always liked you. but he liked you in ways that weren’t meant for teacher-student relationships. maybe it was love, or maybe it was lust for something young, pretty, and naive.
over the years, as your professor, he developed a nasty obsession — a fixation. what’s happening now is only one of many dreams he’s had about you. dreams where you wore something from matz, something made specifically for you. when he and hongjoong designed this angelic dress, you were his muse. he just lied and said he was thinking of his wife.
“come on, sweet thing,” he murmurs. “fuck yourself on me, yeah?”
DILF!SEONGHWA is in pure ecstasy as you ride him, bouncing up and down on his cock. you moan, whine, whimper as it feels so good fucking your devastatingly handsome professor as he watches and does nothing. your walls clench around him, squeezing him tight, eyes rolling back as you stop thinking of him as mr. park, the professor who denied you the grade you deserved, and started thinking of him as just seonghwa. the superstar model, sharp features and big cock.
he leans back on his hands as you dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging them down to his biceps. “mmm… feels good, doesn’t it?” whispering, and you can’t even process the words. “you’re always so… obedient. my perfect little doll.”
all you can do is mewl, hot tears spilling. even though you’re doing most of the work, his cock hits every perfect spot, and you feel like you might pass out. so he finally decided to fuck you.
DILF!SEONGHWA'S hands move to support you instead of himself as he slams into you, skin slapping loud enough to echo through the walls. you scream as the sudden intensity rips an orgasm out of you. you don’t know why, but you cling to him, arms wrapping around his neck, face buried in his shoulder as you cry, moans muffled against his skin.
DILF!SEONGHWA chuckles softly. aren’t you just magnificent? his hands slide up into your hair, stroking gently as he asks, “what was that, angel? hmm? can you repeat it for me?”
“m-mo…” you sniffle. “m-more, please… i want more.”
greedy angel. never knowing when to stop sinning.
DILF!SEONGHWA gives you more. he pulls three orgasms from you, one after another, the dress still intact because he’s careful like that. then he looks at your ruined face: tears spilling, mascara smudged, and it turns him on even more. slamming back into you harder, cock abusing your hole, kissing you when you’re about to scream as he finally comes, spilling himself inside you.
DILF!SEONGHWA wants to keep his cum buried deep, letting it leak out slowly, until you beg him not to pull out, having time before his family comes back. it’s disgusting, he knows, but at the end of the day, he’s just a man who appreciates beauty, inside and out.
DILF!SEONGHWA continues to fuck you on every surface of the studio, then throughout the house, until you end up in his bed — completely spent, his cum still inside you, some of it sticky on your thighs. eventually, he pulls you into the shower and sends you home, even paying for the taxi, telling you to text him when you arrive at your dorm.
DILF!SEONGHWA will keep you a secret as he later dines with his family. just as he’ll keep one secret from you as well: the grade you received was never a B. it was always an A. he just needed a way to catch the attention of the little angel with devil wings.
EVENT ONLY TAGLIST (comment or dm to be added) :: @matchahintonagar @pineapple-burgah @3nhyxx @zerefdragn33l @atz10248 @fixonjade @taytay-00 @kaleigh-2002 @spenceatiny18 @hellomynameis-jessica
thinking about matz fucking you in front of sangie
what started as a harmless and stupid—really stupid bet between the three boys ended with your poor boyfriend being tied to a chair, forced to watch as hongjoong and seonghwa completely destroyed you. now, what would this bet have been, you ask? well, you weren't even sure yourself. the three of them had kept it pretty under wraps, but you did know what the prize was if the two older males won…
you—more specifically, your sweet little cunt.
"still not gonna admit defeat, sangie?" seonghwa cooed at your dark-haired boyfriend as he pulled you back against his chest, parting your thighs so your glistening cunt was on display, "i mean, look how drenched your pretty girlfriend is."
"who knew she'd get off on making her boyfriend watch as other men fuck her?" hongjoong chimes in as he looks at yeosang before moving closer to your exposed body. your moans were muffled by the gag that they had placed in your mouth.
"mphh!" you moaned when the blonde's finger spread your folds, his middle finger finding your aching clit with ease. his movements were precise, working you towards your high with ease and incredible speed.
"she's got such a slutty pussy, doesn't she, joong?" seonghwa chuckles, moving one hand to your boob, pinching and rolling your perk nipple between his fingers while his other hand wraps snugly around your throat.
"of course she does, why else would she let us do this?" hongjoong smirks, plunging his middle and ring fingers into your fluttering hole, eliciting a muffled cry from your saliva-slick lips. your back arched against the pink-haired male who was sitting behind you when hongjoong found your sweet spot, abusing it until you were drenching his fingers.
this process repeated until hongjoong was driving his thick cock into your tight walls from behind while seonghwa's heavy length invaded your throat with each thrust. your mind had long since become hazy, focused on nothing but the pleasure you were receiving and the way your boyfriend's gaze was burning into your body.
yeosang watched with a heated gaze, his jaw tight and a very evident tent in his sweats as he watched. he knew what the stakes were, and at first he wasn't sure, but now? now all he wanted to do was join in on the fun.
YEOSANG has always been kind to you. he listens when you talk, remembers small details you mention in passing, and always smiles at you. but being nice and sweet is apparently the problem. you like him, have been crushing on him for a couple of months, and everyone, but him knows.
“you look really good today,” you tell him one afternoon, trying to sound casual as he walks into the room. the man pauses, surprised, before his lips curl into that soft smile you’ve memorized.
“thank you,” he says sincerely, then, without hesitation, “you too.”
you stare at him, as wooyoung snorts loudly from across the room. it’s enough to make you want to slam your head into a wall. yeosang doesn't try to get the meaning behind your words or your behaviour at all.
at first, you thought maybe he was just shy, or that he needed time. so you stayed near him, laughed at his jokes first, saved him a seat next to you, let your hand or knee brush accidentally against his. he never pulled away, but he never leaned in either.
and eventually, it becomes exhausting, so you stop hoping he’ll suddenly wake up and see you the way you see him. because confessing feels pointless when the other person doesn’t even realize what's going on. you don’t avoid him, but you don’t try anymore. he notices how you are one idea more distant, as he doesn’t fully understand why.
you laugh less around him, leave rooms earlier, or talk with someone else instead. you don’t look at him like you used to, and he doesn’t know why, but something about it leaves a strange feeling in his chest. wooyoung notices too, and he, unlike yeosang, is not dense. so later, when they’re alone, he just says it.
“you know she likes you, right?”
“what?” yeosang blinks at him, once, twice, not processing what was just said.
unimpressed, the cherry haired man stares at him. “(name) likes you.”
“i like her too,” he says, “she’s a very good friend.”
wooyoung exhales in disappointment, rubbing his temple. “yeosang, not like that.” the blonde just looks at him, face slightly frowning in confusion, “she likes you romantically, silly.”
“oh.”
“oh?” wooyoung watches the realization hit him, as he raises an eyebrow.
“oh…” yeosang says again, quieter this time. because suddenly, memories replay differently in his mind: the compliments, the way you looked at him, how you laughed at everything he said. the way you always stayed close, and where there for him.
wooyoung smirks slowly, actually proud for helping his best friend come to his senses. it's been so long, and everyone should be glad it's going to be over soon, with a happy ending, of course.
so the next time yeosang sees you, his heart is beating faster than usual. his palms feel warm, a little sweaty, showing how nervous he is. you smile politely when you see him. he swallows, fights the instinct to retreat into his comfort zone, but he steps forward instead.
“are you free this weekend?” he asks, and you tilt your head, “i am, why?”
“would you like to go on a date with me?”
and for the first time since he’s known you, yeosang realizes he doesn’t want to be just nice. he wants to be yours, and by how fast the spark returned to your eyes, he for sure will be, just as you will be his.
Synopsis: You had never ventured outside of your small town. Your mother had condemned you to omega only schools, wanting to shield you from the dangers of the world especially alphas. But if you were serious about becoming a nurse, you knew you'd have to learn to be around them at some point and going away to university was the first step.
Warnings: [DEAD DOVE] stockholm syndrome, Mc is very innocent & sheltered, kidnapping, non-con elements, power imbalance, non-con, HJ is possessive and cunning, rough sex, loss of virginity, dirty talk, restraints, dacryphilia, breeding, shibari, non-con drug use, blood, knotting, non-con filming, knife play, take a shot every time you read the word slick, extreme dub-con, non-con picture taking, breeding, non-con somno, pregnancy, pussy spanking, degradation, predator/prey dynamics, manipulation of pheromones, biting, marking.
Authors note: If you couldn’t tell already from the warnings, this story includes a lot of non-con, so if that or any of the other warnings make you uncomfortable, DO NOT. I REPEAT, DO NOT BOTHER WITH READING THIS STORY! If you choose to disregard these warnings and read the story anyway, only to leave a rude comment, you will be blocked. So don’t bother with commenting. Aside from that, I hope you all enjoy (:
PRESENT.
Red.
That’s all you can see before your eyes. Dots of red in the darkness of the room. Speckles of them cloud your vision. At first, you used to only see one of them. One tiny dot. You would keep your eyes trained on it in order to ground yourself. Making yourself calm down by focusing on the only spot of color in the pitch black room. It flickered on and off every few seconds. You would time it along with your blinking. A good few weeks passed before you realized what that red symbolized.
A camera. Installed right in the corner of the ceiling. What you started to find a small sliver of familiarity in, now became something you felt threatened by. That red dot haunted your every nightmare, making you scared of every one of your own moves, afraid of who might be watching. Why would they be watching? But most importantly—why wouldn’t they help?
You’ve been too afraid to look back at that red dot for a long time now. Ever since you realized what it symbolized, you’ve felt too ashamed of what the lens had witnessed. Your body, naked and displayed for viewing; your cries, loud and desperate, mostly pleading for help, but sometimes—to your utter shame—begging for pleasure as well. You don't like knowing that you’re being recorded. In the beginning it made you feel hopeful. Hopeful that someone will maybe see and come rescue you. But the more time that passed, the more your hope turned into helplessness. No one was coming for you. You were to spend the rest of your days here. Or, until the one who held you decided he had had enough of you.
But by the way things were going, that seemed like a day you would never get to see. The room you started to find familiarity in was filled with everything that was sure to muddle your brain. Pheromones; full of dominance, want and need. Power; guaranteed to make you submit, roll over and present. Sweet amber;that made your eyes roll back and your tongue loll out in pure desire.
Alpha.
An alpha that seemed more than adamant on taking everything from you until he left you with absolutely nothing. Your pride, your self control, your innocence. All of it had been stripped away from you the moment you set foot inside of this room. Or better said, the moment you got strapped to the bed in the center of the room. You don't know much about what’s happening or where you are, but if there is one thing you knew for certain, it was that the alpha that took you would always take care of you. That’s what he always says at least.
“Don’t fret, little omega. You’re safe right here with me.”
At first, the comments would make every inch of your skin bristle. How could you possibly be safe at the hands of someone so cruel? Someone who tortures and takes whatever he wants from you; who makes you cry and sob and beg to be let go of. But over time, you learned to find comfort in the same touch that tainted you. The hand that hit you would always caress you gently when it was all over. The mouth that bit you and spit cruel words would kiss your sore body from head to toe almost as if those lips had healing powers. And perhaps, in the sick and twisted reality of your mind, they did.
The knife that was held against your neck, as you were forced to arch your body until it faced the tiny red dot in the corner of the room, started to feel dull against your skin when small praises were whispered in your ear along with it.
“Such a good puppy. The prettiest omega. Sitting so still for me. I really taught you well.”
And that is one thing he did. Taught you how to behave. Showing you all the ways of surviving in this small little room, abiding by his rules and orders. All you needed to do was be good; that’s it. Just be the best omega anyone could possibly dream of—an obedient little thing, with big eyes only for your alpha, always at his beck and call with your arms and legs wide open, and holes on display at all times. Your alpha didn’t ask too much of you. And if that meant you would get to survive and evade your punishments as much as possible, well, that’s something you were willing to do.
As someone who’s stayed as far away from alphas as you could all your life, the sheer power and control that had taken over your body was overwhelming for you. You knew how small and meek of an omega you were in comparison;you could never fight against the big strong alpha holding you captive. You were more than aware of how easy it would be for him to put you in your place with a simple tilt of his head and a hint of a growl. But that still didn’t stop you from trying to fight back. At least in the beginning.
You would scream, cry and beg to be let go of until your throat closed up and your voice turned raspy. Your face used to be constantly sticky with tears and your head would always be pounding from all your crying. You would over exhaust yourself to the point of passing out, which is usually when the alpha would swoop in and you would find the last remainder of power in you to fight back. But your nails were too blunt to scratch him, your hands were too weak to push him away, and your teeth were not sharp enough to bite him until they could break skin. You were rendered completely helpless with one single pinch to your scent gland on the side of your neck and a snarled “Keep still”. That’s all it took.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re really pushing my hand, sweetheart.”
How could you ever escape the hell you had been so bluntly thrust into?
PAST.
All omega schools were very common. Your mother made sure to keep you as sheltered from alphas as she possibly could since you were born. Her daughter was too innocent, too pure, to be anywhere near the grabby hands of selfish alphas that lurked around for cute little omegas like you.
College, on the other hand, was a totally different story. Although you grew up surrounded by omegas only, if you wanted to study to become a nurse, you couldn’t avoid alphas anymore. Your mother was extremely upset when she found out, but she couldn’t keep you at home under her care forever. You wanted to be on your own. So, reluctantly, she let you leave to go study in the big city.
Which is where you finally became aware of everything your mother had kept you away from all of your life. Alphas. So many of them. Everywhere. Surrounding you from all ends, with pointed stares and strong scents, that filled your nostrils and traveled all the way through your lungs, intoxicating you. On your first day of college, you got so overwhelmed that you hid and locked yourself in a bathroom stall, where you cried your little heart out throughout the entirety of the first class you were supposed to be attending.
That’s also where you made your first friend. Jung Wooyoung. A cheerful and bubbly omega that had heard your sniffles and smelled your distress from outside the bathroom stall, and somehow coaxed you into coming out of there after offering his hand through the gap underneath the door, which you held for a long twenty minutes before daring to come out. And ever since that day, Wooyoung had kept you safe at his side at all times, never leaving you alone around any alphas for even just a second.
They were still everywhere around you though. Looking at you as if they wanted to eat you whole. Chests puffing out whenever you would pass them by, growling at each other, almost as if it was a competition of who could sway you first. But you weren't interested in any of them. You just wanted to focus on studying and keeping to your small group of friends.
In your first week, Wooyung introduced you to all of his friends that had welcomed you in immediately. You were a small group, consisting of two other omegas, Jihyo and Yeosang, and a beta named Jongho, but you were more than happy to have friends you could feel safe around.
You were more than content with how things were going so far into your first semester. Your mother, although still worried, became slightly more relieved whenever you would call and tell her that things were going well. Your anxiety only started to pick up again when your small group suddenly expanded with a new addition.
An alpha that Wooyoung met in his biology lab.
“I know how you feel about alphas, but I promise you, he’s the nicest person ever! You know I would never bring anyone around you unless I was certain they were completely harmless.”
Your number one flaw has always been being too trusting.
So, reluctantly, you agreed to meet him. You waited with big eyes and parted lips, hands trembling where they clutched underneath the table between your thighs, nose twitching as you sniffed the air around. And that’s when you felt it.
Sweet amber. So potent that you felt your head float somewhere off your shoulders and you had to hold your breath in order to ground yourself. And when you were finally able to get past the sudden haziness, your eyes met a pair of dark brown ones, staring pointedly at you. Like a prey being hunted. That’s when the alpha smiled, and you felt all the air leave your lungs.
“This is Hongjoong!”
PRESENT.
Your skin had grown accustomed to handling most things over the past few months, but rope was still something that felt too harsh for you. It’s hard and bristled and it turnt your skin red in most places if you moved around too much—which more often than not, you did. But it doesn’t take more than a stinging slap to your inner thigh to get you to stop huffing and squirming.
“Be good.”
Being good is something you have learned to master over time. And of course you had. It’s so easy for you to do as you’re told—you allowed yourself to be conditioned into the most perfect little omega. Obedient to your alpha’s every single order.
“Sit like this. Move your arm like that. Stop squirming so we can finish quicker. Very good. Give alpha a kiss.”
Tactile loops of long rope hold you in place, completely unable to move. At first, the feeling of helplessness would terrify you, but over time, you've learned to curiously admire the ways in which you’d get tied up. You could not move an inch even if you tried to, but that didn’t mean the knots were constricting. They felt oddly delicate actually.
This seemed to be the alpha’s favorite way of tying you. With your hands in front of you, a string of rope looped around your torso and over your arms, and your wrists held together tightly between your legs. You felt the strain of the position in your muscles when the alpha would make you arch your back so that your calves could touch the backs of your thighs, tying the two parts of your legs together. Your toes wiggled impatiently in the air, waiting for the next move. You were on complete display like this, with your front pressed into the mattress and your ass raised high in the air.
“Beautiful.” The alpha murmurs from behind you, running the palm of his hand over the swell of your ass, giving it a light squeeze, which made the fat jiggle. “Sit just like that for me.”
You turn your head to the side, cheek squished into the sheets, lips pouted outwards beautifully. It’s a little hard for you to breathe, but you don't make a single sound. You knew that if you behaved well this would be over quickly. You just had to sit pretty and be patient until the alpha was done doing whatever he wanted.
Today it looks to be pictures. You can see from the corner of your eye the flash of the camera going off as a picture is taken from above, most likely capturing the full display of your body. You shut your eyes and exhale shakily when a warm palm presses down on your spine, making your body arch even more, something that is sure to leave you feeling sore for the next couple of hours.
Pictures is something you can deal with easily. It’s what you dread the least. You just had to sit still for a few minutes and then you usually got to be on your own for the rest of the day. If you were exceptionally well behaved, you’d also be awarded candy, which is something you’ve been striving really hard for lately. The alpha gives you green apple lollipops, which are your favorite. They remind you of home, where you wish you could be instead. But the lollipops will do for now.
You think you’re doing well. Only whining once when your arms start to go a little numb, but you’re quickly shushed and offered a light nip to your left ass cheek, which promptly quiets you down. You’ve thought about asking what this was for before. Why are pictures being taken of your body? Does the alpha look at them afterwards? Are they only for him? Does he show them to other people? Could others know about you and where you are?
But the thought of asking is gone as soon as it comes, because you know you most likely won’t get an answer. The alpha is not very talkative, unless it’s to tell you what to do, to scold you for misbehaving, or to praise you for being good. You’d much rather prefer the latter. The only other time in which he seems to like talking, is when he’s saying cruel words that make your cheeks burn up in an instant. Things such as—
“Look at that pretty little pussy.”
You squeal, face pressing into the mattress, which muffles your sounds as rough fingers spread your ass cheeks apart, exposing both of your holes. You know you have no chance of resisting when the room starts to get pumped full of pheromones that make you submit in an instant, sweet amber travels through your lungs, making your tummy quiver and causes a sad dollop of wetness to gush right out of your cunt.
You whimper pathetically.
“Eager little omega. In need of a treat, aren’t you?”
You try to shake your head, but the position won’t allow you to. Your thighs can’t squeeze together either, even though you squirm to do so. The ropes hold you in place, firmly squeezing where they’re supposed to, rendering you immobile. You can do nothing but exhale shakily as you try not to focus on the fingers parting your folds, collecting the slick that had dribbled out.
“Alpha’s got you.”
When two fingers slide inside of you with ease, all you can think about is that this is not the kind of treat you had been looking forward to. You were craving a lollipop, not fingers shoved up your cunt, but that’s not really something you can complain about. So, you take it like a good girl, gushing slick until it runs warmly down the inside of your thighs, body spasming as the alpha fingers you with fervor. You keen high in your throat, brain muddled completely by the alpha’s scent, breathing it in from where it’s imprinted into the sheets, resulting in you cumming in no time with a loud cry as you splatter slick all over the other’s wrist and down onto the bed.
You breathe harshly as you slowly start to come down from your high, body tingling as hands that are still slippery with your slick start to untie the rope from around your body, letting your limbs free. You whine in distress when you’re rolled over onto your back, a quiet shush is exhaled right on top of your lips before you're being kissed softly, instantly calming down. You let yourself melt into strong arms that skillfully untie your wrists, your head falls back against a broad chest as your thighs get massaged by the alpha’s big hands, kneading the flesh with his fingers and making you exhale blissfully.
“Such a good puppy. You take everything I give you so well.” The words are whispered into your ear and your eyes fall shut, letting the deep voice that makes the alpha’s chest vibrate quell your restlessness.
Your legs still feel wet and sticky with slick, but you know that’s something the alpha will take care of. He always takes care of you. You never have to worry about anything. You think that’s nice. Not having to worry feels nice. If only worrying about how you were going to get away wasn’t pressing so heavily on your thoughts…
Breathing in the powerful scent of amber, your head lolls back onto the alpha’s shoulder, your body sagging completely against him. With a content growl vibrating against your back and a small nip to your scent gland, you are instantly put to sleep.
PAST.
Hongjoong is not like any other alpha you've ever met. Of course, he still has the intensity of an alpha that is sure to bring a tremor to your knees, but it’s by far more subdued.
Hongjoong is nice. He doesn’t hold any malice behind his eyes. He smiles wide and toothy—like a ray of sunshine. His voice is soft, like a warm blanket on a chilly day. He talks about writing and his dog from back home and he calls his mom almost every day during lunch time. His scent is soft for an alpha, yet still intoxicating.
You want to bathe in it.
Hongjoong is a good person. He’s a good friend. A good alpha. You look at him with stars in your eyes.
And Hongjoong knows it.
It’s way too painfully obvious for him not to.
From the way you try to avoid his gaze and the way you squeak whenever you do meet it, to the way in which your scent sweetens whenever Hongjoong is around, honeyed cherry blossom sickeningly potent, to the point in which it attracts looks. Hongjoong has to know. He has to know that you’re doing exactly what your mother had warned you not to do all your life.
Swooning for the very first alpha you ever laid eyes on. Getting lost in his scent and in his voice, replaying the sound of his laughter over and over again in your head when you’re all alone in your dorm, allowing your walls to break down for an alpha that hasn’t done as much as show you any intentions.
Hongjoong doesn’t look at you any differently than he looks at Wooyoung, or Yeosang, or even Jihyo. He’s polite in every sense of the word, and you think that that’s what makes even more hearts float around your head whenever he looks at you. It’s the fact that he’s everything an alpha shouldn’t be—and everything you have ever wanted.
Hongjoong is a reliable kind of alpha.
Independent and level headed. He’s the only one out of your friend group who lives off campus in his own apartment, unlike the rest of you that stay in dorms. He has good grades, yet never looks as if he struggles to achieve them. He’s always well put together, unlike you who has deep dark undereye circles and disheveled hair after nights of studying continuously for upcoming exams.
Hongjoong wears expensive clothes and eats healthy organic food that you know must cost a fortune. You haven't felt the taste of strawberries in months, even though they’re your favorite, because you simply cannot afford them. Hongjoong looks like he could provide everything a mate would ever need. You find yourself envious of the omega that will get to call him their alpha.
But Hongjoong has never shown interest in anyone so far; at least not in front of you. He never talks about any omegas, even though there are multiple that ogle at him every time he passes by. It’s easy to see why they would all want him. Hongjoong has eyes only for his friends though. He would much rather spend his evenings with you all in the library than go out and party to possibly take someone home. And you, well…you think that’s nice.
You enjoy having Hongjoong sit across from you at your study table much more than you’d ever care to admit. You like the soft heady scent of amber tickling your nose when you’re typing away at your laptop, trying to focus on your notes rather than on the person sitting in front of you.
But it’s hard.
It’s especially hard when you don't hear the sound of typing anymore and are rendered to sitting in tense silence. Wooyoung had left for the bathroom, so inevitably, leaving just you and Hongjoong. When you look up from behind your screen, you have to stop yourself from nearly choking on your lollipop at the sight of a dark pair of eyes focused solely on you.
You can’t help but think that Hongjoong has never looked at you like that. He’s never so blatantly allowed himself to stare you down, making you shrink into yourself that you try to make yourself as small as possible in your chair. You also take notice of another thing—this is the first time you’ve ever been alone with Hongjoong. There’s always been at least one other person with you, up until now. You think it might be because your friends were still wary about leaving you near an alpha all by yourself. They didn’t want you to freak out. But Hongjoong has been your friend for a while now. Hongjoong is a good alpha. Hongjoong can be trusted.
Hongjoong looks at you as if he wants to eat you.
“What flavor is that?”
It takes you a good few seconds and a couple long blinks before you realize that the quiet words are directed at you. It also takes you a while to realize what he means. Your lollipop. You pull the stick out of your mouth and try your hardest not to cough, swallowing thickly instead.
“Green apple.” You whisper brokenly, lips pursing together into a thin line.
You fidget in your seat, crossing and uncrossing your legs, but no matter what you do, the intense gaze settled upon you still makes you feel restless. It’s not until the soft scent that had been settled into the air around you suddenly spikes up, that your mouth drops open. You look up with slightly widened eyes, just like a deer caught in headlights. It’s strong, warm, musky, rich—it’s intoxicating. Your mouth waters.
“Is that your favorite?” You don't know how, but Hongjoong’s voice sounds deeper than ever before. It’s like a rumble, traveling through your ears. You think that if you were standing right now, you would definitely be getting weak in the knees.
“I–I think so.” You stutter out, trying your hardest to get yourself in check.
Don’t do it. Don’t make a sound. Don’t say anything.
It’s inevitable. The smallest of whimpers gets caught in the back of your throat, coming out as a measly squeak. You can feel yourself getting light headed. It’s so sudden and it’s so much, too much for you to handle. Why does Hongjoong smell like that, why is it so powerful, why is it making your legs squeeze together?
“Cute.”
The door to the library opens. And suddenly, the intensity is gone. You feel like you had been floating somewhere up above the clouds and you suddenly slumped back into your chair as if you had been dropped. You blink the haziness away, startling when Wooyoung plops back down next to you. The omega sniffs the air around and pulls a face.
“What the—” he pinches his nose, looking up at Hongjoong. “Are you close to a rut or something? It stinks in here.”
Hongjoong seems to finally peel his eyes up off of you. As if nothing had ever happened, he blinks and smiles sheepishly up at Wooyoung. His whole demeanor changes. A bashful laugh.
“I think so. Sorry.” He scratches the back of his head.
You look down at where you were still tightly gripping onto the stick of your lollipop. You urge yourself to relax and breathe as shallowly as possible. The earthy tones still prickle your nose with each inhale.
“Be careful, Hyung, jeez.” Wooyoung shakes his head and pulls a pencil out of his case, going right back to writing in his notebook.
You will yourself to look up once more. Leaning as far back in your chair as you possibly can when you meet Hongjong's gaze. A deep crimson red gets blinked away as soon as it comes. It leaves you feeling breathless.
“Yeah. I will be, don’t worry.”
PRESENT.
Sleeping is one of the only things you look forward to. Because when you sleep, you get to dream. And in your dreams, it’s just you. No one else. No alpha trying to lay their claim on you, no rules you need to abide by—only you. And you try to escape to that place as often as you can; or better said, as you’re allowed to.
You would nap all day long if you could. Your bed was comfortable, blankets warm and soft. You had more than enough pillows to surround your whole body with, with sheets that were purposefully scented for you to bury your nose into, against your better judgment. The scent that would bring a tremor to your knees and make your blood run cold was the same one you had to breathe in with each inhale, and allow it to muddle your every thought.
Everything you do was controlled by that scent.
The musky tone of amber that was always guaranteed to have you on your hands and knees, with your head lolling to the side and putting a strain in your neck as your body unintentionally struggled to present. Just the smallest spike of pheromones was enough to make you everything you never wanted to be—an omega controlled by the hands of an alpha you didn’t wish to belong to.
So, naturally, even in your sleep, you couldn’t escape the power that the scent possessed over you. It was everywhere around you—dictating your every move, controlling your every thought.
In your dreams, you preen at the feeling of being engulfed by sweet amber. It makes you sigh contentedly, a flimsy whine getting caught in the back of your throat from the way it makes you feel. Like an overwhelmed teenager after their first scenting—completely smitten. You roll around in it, coating your own scent glands with it, whimpering in need at the way it engulfs your entire being.
The dreams are inevitable and you have no way of stopping them. Not when the scent is so powerful. Not when heady pheromones tickle your nose, making you twitch in your sleep. And especially not when the alpha whose scent messes with your head is the one disrupting your slumber as well.
If you were aware enough, you would’ve been mortified by the thought of your captor barging into your dreams out of all places. But you’re not. You let yourself be completely at his mercy once again; controlled entirely by the pheromones dictating your every move, kisses are lathered all across your jaw and neck, and the hands holding your body down, gently caress over the points that were sure to make you keen.
You sigh and roll over into the arms that wrap tightly around you, soft whispers tickle your ears, and make you whimper out loud.
“Prettiest omega. You make your alpha so, so happy.”
“Gonna take such good care of you. Keep you pupped and bred so well.”
Under any other circumstance, you would cry and shake your head at the thought of birthing pups for the alpha holding you. But this is your dream. A dream in which you’re allowed to do as you wish; to nod your head and whine through the kisses being sealed into your skin. To think about your pussy being stretched around the knot that is sure to breed you good, and the swell that will be put in your stomach when you’re pumped full of cum. It’s your dream and you don't have to think rationally for once.
You can feel the stickiness, warm and wet, trailing down your inner thighs and soaking your entire backside. You can feel it gushing out of you like a faucet, your little pussy so warm and slippery, the glide of fingers through your folds produces nearly no friction, just a loud wet squelch that is sure to make your cheeks warm up. You allow yourself to be rolled over onto your front and have your legs spread, rough hands settle over both of your ass cheeks, parting them to reveal your sopping cunt.
You think you’re still dreaming when you feel your hole being prodded. The head of the alpha’s cock catches against your entrance and teases you until you’re soaking his entire length with even more of your juices. Your honeyed scent engulfs the air around you, almost overpowering the earthy amber. You feel your head lolling around, too heavy for your own shoulders. You sigh from between the pillows your nose is pressed into.
It makes your thighs quiver, and your pussy clench as he slowly opens you up. You can’t do more than whimper throughout content sighs, small noises leaving the back of your throat as strong hands hold your hips down, fingertips digging into your skin.
“Mine.”
The first powerful thrust is what breaks the fog that clouded your vision apart. His cock reaches deep into your tummy, breaching your cervix and making your stomach bulge. You choke around a wet gasp, weak hands trying to grasp at anything they can reach, but come up empty. Your neck strains when you try to lift your head, but a hissed snarl rumbling right by your ear is enough to have your cheek smashing right back into the pillows, a scared little mewl escaping through your lips.
Your hands are shaking. Your neck is exposed, struggling to present. You feel your entire bottom half completely soaked, a small puddle having formed underneath you, most likely seeping all the way through the mattress. Your eyes feel heavy in your head, struggling to blink them open. You feel yourself being held down, a hand tightly gripping your hip while the other pushes on the small of your back to make you arch beautifully.
Through a struggled gasp, your eyes snap wide open and realization dawns on you.
You’re not dreaming anymore.
You let out a moan as you feel yourself being plowed into the mattress, hands weakly scrambling to grasp for purchase. You twist the tousled sheets between your fingers, eyes watering up in an instant. You should scream and try to fight back. Beg to be let go of, to make this stop. You should cry out for mercy.
Your eyes roll back instead.
“Alpha!”
Your weak whimper is met with a resonating growl, your weepy little pussy gets split open on the girthy cock that has started ceaselessly thrusting into you. The nip at the back of your neck is enough to have you dripping all around the alpha’s cock, the warning of the claim to come makes you preen as he shoves your face into the pillows as you try to muffle a cry. It’s so good; opening you up so well, reaching so deep inside that you think your guts might be getting rearranged. You gurgle around your own spit when you feel your stomach distending, tummy bulging with every thrust. You wish you could reach down to feel it, but your wrists are grasped by forceful hands and held down behind your back.
“That’s right, scream for your alpha.” You positively sob when a hand slams down by your head, startling you. The alpha only leans in closer so he can grunt his crude words right into your ear. “You like this, don’t you? Like how good your alpha fucks you?” He’s not your alpha. You don't want someone like him to be your alpha.
You should open your mouth to tell him that but what comes out is a moan instead.
“Perfect little omega, made to take my knot.”
“Puh–please!” You squeal, biting down on your bottom lip until you draw blood when you feel the cock inside of you grow even bigger than before.
“Shh,” A gentle nip to the lobe of your ear and a kiss to your temple is enough to have you cease squirming, “it’s okay, sweetheart. Your alpha’s got you.”
You feel your walls spasming, squeezing tightly around the alpha’s cock as your neck gets thoroughly scented through your orgasm. Sweet amber clouds your every sense as you get fucked so good that it starts to hurt, the promising swell of a knot makes you shed little tears of need. You don't want to be knotted, but your omega never seems to agree with you. It has a mind of its own as it makes you submit, opening your legs even wider and lolling your head to the side even further as you beg for a claim as if you were lusted by heat.
But you’re not in heat. You’ve never even had a heat before. You've never gotten to know what the true desire of a claim during heat feels like. The alpha is not in rut either. You’re just in denial of your true needs. And your need right now is to get knotted and pumped so full of cum that your tummy is sure to swell from it.
The alpha is always there to fulfill each and every one of your wishes.
“That’s right. So good, so perfect.” Your throat feels thick with a purr that you struggle to hold back. “Pretty omega. Gonna make my rut come early.”
Your struggles are rendered futile as you scream when your pussy gets completely filled up, knot plopping right inside and locking you both together, long and warm spurts of cum instantly shoot out. You hiccup through the loud purr you’d been trying to contain, letting it all out at once. Your omega feels content after being fucked and pumped full of so much cum.
“Mine, mine, mine.” The alpha growls, burying his face in the side of your neck, licking and sucking in deep purplish bruises right over your scent gland, making you throb around his knot. Your teeth grit together weakly through another forced orgasm. The feeling of being so full to the brim becomes too much. “My omega. All mine.”
You whimper pitifully as you slump into the arms holding you tightly, almost as if you would crumble if the alpha were to let go. You cry out weakly when your body gets jostled around, cum swishing warmly in your tummy as the alpha turns you both onto your sides. Your hole feels puffy against the tug of his knot.
“Perfect. So perfect. Always do so well for me.” Tiny praises get whispered into your ear as your eyes start to roll to the back of your head, gentle bites and kisses are scattered across your neck and shoulder.
You feel your chest suddenly flood with warmth. Before you get to realize what that feeling could mean, your eyes struggle with a few last blinks before completely falling shut. The last thing you see is the tiny red dot in the corner of the room, flickering on and off and haunting the dreams you fall right back into.
PAST.
You didn’t mean to do it. At least not like you had. You definitely could have worded it better. You know how much an omega’s rejection to a alpha can sting. You spend days on end beating yourself up over it. You’re still trying so hard to get used to being near an alpha and learning how to act properly that you reacted on instinct.
It had been cold. The threat of a storm was quickly approaching campus when your last class ended. You were quick on your feet, thinking that maybe if you ran, you could get back to your dorm in time before the rain started. That’s when Hongjoong caught up with you, stopping you by the exit with a light tap on the shoulder that made you turn around sharply.
An inhale of sweet amber was enough to calm you down, before your brain went into a complete meltdown at the display of pearly white teeth as Hongjoong smiled at you.
“Hey, looks like it’s gonna storm pretty bad. Can I walk you to your dorm? Just to make sure you get there safely.”
Warm. Everything felt warm. Hongjoong’s smile, his scent, the lingering feeling of his touch, your cheeks. Way too warm. You felt as if you were going to explode. You looked around, but everyone was rushing past you to evade the oncoming storm, not sparing the two of you so much as a glance. Hongjoong waited. Patient. Way too patient. His eyes did not leave your face. You didn’t know what to say. So you just—
“N-No, thank you!”
And just like that, you bolted.
You didn’t stop to look back once. You didn't get to see the smile being wiped off of Hongjoong’s face. You didn't get to feel his scent souring from the sting of an outright rejection. You ran and ran through campus until you reached your dorm; your clothes were completely soaked by the time you made it. And then, you face planted onto your bed and just…screamed.
You avoided Hongjoong for almost a whole week after that. You’d duck behind every wall or trashcan you could whenever you saw him passing through the hallways. The rational side of you knew the one that would have to bear the embarrassment of that whole incident was Hongjoong, but you still felt mortified. The event replayed over and over in your head. You rejected the simple offer of a walk home from the alpha you had been blatantly ogling for the past couple months. How humiliating.
You thought about a way to fix things. Constantly wracking your brain for ideas about how you should apologize, but you came up empty-handed. You were not brave enough to bring it up with the alpha. But it seemed like you wouldn’t have to after all.
After your last lecture of the day, you headed over to the library as usual. Going to the same desk you always sat at, you were taken aback to see that it wasn’t empty. Maybe someone had gotten there before you. Disappointed, you go to turn on your heel and move somewhere else, until you do a double take. Walking closer, you clutched your hands to your chest as you leaned over the desk to look at what sat on top of it.
A note. And next to it, a lollipop.
Touching it with tentative fingers, you pick up the piece of paper to read the short sentence written on it.
Anatomy quiz on Tuesday, study with me?
And right underneath it, two check boxes. Your head whips up, instantly looking around until you spot him. Hidden behind a bookshelf, with just his head peeking out and a small smile on his lips. Hongjoong. You inwardly squeal.
Placing your backpack on the table, you unzip it to retrieve a pen. Your hand is a little shaky, but a smile pulls at the corners of your lips when you check the ‘YES’ box with no hesitation. Sitting down, you slide the note over onto the other side of the desk. Clearing your throat, you focus on unwrapping your lollipop, nervously picking up the sound of approaching footsteps.
You plop the candy into your mouth when the legs of the chair in front of you scrape the floor, a small content sound leaves you. Green apple. He remembered. Looking up, you feel your mouth water around the lollipop. Hongjoong smiles sheepishly at you.
“Hi.”
You like the sound of his voice. You feel your heart beat a little faster than before at the hushed word. Despite your nervousness, you smile. Hesitantly, you wave. And Hongjoong, well—Hongjoong grins wider than you have ever seen him do before.
Later, when your lollipop has long since melted and you’re left with nothing but the stick to chew on, you retrieve one of your own post it notes, hiding it behind your hand as you wrote a short sentence on it, you nervously look anywhere else but at Hongjoong as you pass it to him.
Walk me home?
You think you hear the alpha inhale sharply. You’re honestly prepared to be met with the same rejection you had offered a week prior. His eyes burn holes into the note sitting between you. And then, Hongjoong reaches for his pen.
Where you expected him to make a small check mark, he instead draws a heart in the box that marks yes. You absolutely melt into a puddle.
PRESENT.
You often get left alone during the day. Your alpha—a title you have surrendered to addressing the other with—is gone for a better half of the day. Which is good, because you get to nap a lot. You like naps and the silence of your room during those times, so you never complained once until now. The alpha would come in during the early hours of the morning to wake you up—either with a soft caress to your cheek or a knot shoved deep inside your cunt, depending on how he felt. Which always ended with him feeding you breakfast by his own hands, before leaving you to tend to yourself for the rest of the day.
Whenever he comes back home, you wait nervously. The other is always unpredictable. You never know what you’re going to get from him. You don’t know if you’re going to be greeted with a gentle kiss or a slap to the face. You don’t know if you’d be called “sweetheart” or a “fucking slut” until you get to see what mood your captor is in. It’s fair to say that you’d much rather prefer the former.
You've never been the type to enjoy harshness, which in a way explains itself, since you’re so soft to begin with. Always having been described as a delicate and sensitive omega. Words such as “filthy whore” and “useless cockslut” simply do not define you. That doesn’t mean you’re sheltered from the wrath of it though.
So, more often than not, you only get to find out what it’ll be when the alpha unlocks the door after having been gone all day. Or, in other rare instances, he’d do something else. Something like slipping you a note through the crack underneath the door.
After all the time you spent locked in here—maybe a month? You honestly can’t recall anymore—you’ve become extremely sensitive to even the slightest of sounds. Your ears pick up any creak in the floor and every gust of wind traveling through the house. It’s easy for you to hear the sound of footsteps approaching your door and stopping right in front of it. You wait with your heart stuck in your throat for it to open, but it doesn’t. Instead, there’s some quiet shuffling, and then something catches your eye.
You quickly scramble to your feet, nearly toppling off the bed when you see the white piece of paper slipping through the crack of the door and into the room. You know the alpha doesn’t like waiting. And you're not really keen on testing your luck. So, with trembling knees, you lower to the ground, and with shaky fingers, you pick up the piece of paper.
One question. Two check boxes. Your eyes instantly well up with tears.
Blue or pink?
You don't know what the options mean. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into by choosing one or the other, but you know you have to take your pick fast. With a sniffle, you get up to go over to your small desk in the corner of the room, picking up one of the crayons you’ve been allowed to have for your coloring book, and marking a wobbly X on the paper.
You’re feeling pink today. You don’t know what that option will bring, but you know you’re bound to find out soon enough.
Slipping the note back through the crack is probably the most nerve-wracking thing you’ve done in a while. You scurry back to your bed and clutch a pillow tight to your chest. And then, you wait.
Waiting is probably the worst part, because you don't know what you’re waiting for, nor what the outcome will be. You bite the skin around your nails and rock back and forth slowly, rooted in your spot until the steps returned, and with the twist of a key in the lock, your door swings open.
You stare wide eyed at the alpha leaning against the door frame. He gives you a tentative one over before a wave of pheromones tumble through the room, reaching you and instantly easing your anxiety. It’s pathetic how blatantly easy it is for him to hold you under his thumb. How easy it is to control you with a mere whiff of earthy musk.
“Hi, little one.” You sink into your blankets.
You don’t make a sound as the door gets shut and the alpha makes his way across the room towards you. You watch warily as you’re approached, curiously eyeing the alpha’s hands that are held behind his back. You can’t help but feel like that can’t be a good sign.
“Missed me?” The slight tilt to the alpha’s head has you squirming in your spot, bringing your pillow even tighter to your chest until your nose buries into it. “Of course you did.”
You don't want to say that you missed him. You most certainly didn’t miss the feeling of nervousness that thrummed throughout your body anytime he was near. But, perhaps, a small and distant part of you did miss the feeling of someone else being inside the house as well. You don't dare voice that thought.
“Come here.” He beckons with a small grin, the alpha’s cheery mood makes you extremely skeptical. “Y/N,” He doesn’t raise his voice; he almost never does, but the change in tone is evident, “I said come here.”
You scramble up to your knees in an instant, crawling across the bed until you reached the foot of it, looking up at the alpha with wide eyes, waiting. That seems to please him as he takes a hand from behind his back and uses it to caress the side of your face, knuckles stroking over your cheekbone tenderly.
“Very good.”
You whimper weakly when your chin gets tilted, already knowing what’s coming before it even happens. You close your eyes and exhale shakily when a nose is pressed to your neck, rubbing softly into your skin, making you wince from having your bruises prodded. They run all the way from your neck, up to your jaw, and down across your breasts, the deepest one always right over your scent gland, red and purple with hints of green in between. You never got to see yourself in a mirror, so you don't know the true extent of their severity, but you sometimes catch small glimpses of yourself in the window at night. The images are enough to give you nightmares.
You shudder through the first touch of a wet tongue over your skin, head rolling to the side to expose more of your neck, which the alpha shows appreciation for with a deep hum. You feel humiliation course hotly through your body, but your omega preens. You feel yourself tremble at the hint of a bite over the underside of your jaw.
“I got you something nice.” The alpha says next to your ear. “Close your eyes.”
You’re hesitant to do so. Every time you close your eyes, you’re scared that it’ll be the last time you’ll get to do so. A raised brow in your direction is enough to make you do as you’re told, eyes falling shut as a short exhale escapes through your lips.
“Arms up.” You don’t even get to lift your arms yourself before they’re being held up by warm hands, guiding them above your head.
You feel sweat break out over your forehead and gasp when you feel a piece of material being dragged over your arms and down your body. Clothes. You haven’t had any clothes on your body the whole time you’ve been here. You’ve slowly started growing used to being naked all the time. Your heart leaps all the way out of your chest at the feeling of finally being covered by something other than your blankets or another body on top of yours.
Your hair stands up as you slip your head through the collar of what you think is a shirt at first, until it falls down the rest of your body, and you realize it’s way too long for it to be just a shirt. When you're allowed to lower your arms and given the okay for opening your eyes again, you instantly look down.
A dress. It stops at the tops of your thighs, baby pink with white frills at the bottom, a line of bows starting from your waistline all the way up to your cleavage. When you notice the loose way it hangs around your chest, your boobs almost entirely spilling out, you realize it’s supposed to be tied in the back like a corset. You look up just as the alpha goes to sit behind you on the bed, his calloused fingers trailing down your spine, make you shiver.
You straighten your back when you feel the loops of string being tightened, breathing a little heavier as you stare out into space, the top half of the dress is secured tightly around your chest by the alpha’s skilled hands. So that’s what the pink was for. You still don't understand the purpose of the dress since it’s most likely going to be ripped off of you soon enough, but you’re not going to ask any questions.
“Come on,” the last part of the dress is tied into a neat bow before a kiss is pressed to the back of your neck, “up.”
Reluctantly, you allow yourself to be pulled up and off the bed, your legs wobble a little as you stand in front of the alpha. Looking down, you can’t take your eyes off of the way the bottom of the dress floats around you with every move you make. The alpha sits down on the bed, leaning back on his hands as he stares you up and down.
It makes you nervous.
“Give me a twirl, pretty.” You feel your cheeks instantly flush, reaching up to press your palms over them to try and soothe the burning skin.
You bashfully spin around, flowy dress twirling along with you, the ruffles at the bottom tickling the tops of your thighs. Your hands are still pressed to your cheeks when you’ve completed the full turn, looking back at the alpha whose eyes seem to have remained unblinking, bottom lip tucked between his front teeth. A small curse escapes his mouth.
“Look at you.” His chest puffs out, almost as if he takes pride in the way you look right now, all because of his doing. “Fucking beautiful. A downright doll.”
The hands that were previously resting on your cheeks move to cover your eyes, too overwhelmed by the sudden compliments. Your knees lock together from where you stand, and an embarrassed whine escapes you. You’re not used to being praised this much. At least not unless you’re being pounded into the mattress at the same time.
“Come on, now.” A tug on the bottom of your dress is enough to pull you closer, stepping carefully until you’re standing between the alpha’s parted legs, peeking at him through the gaps between your fingers. “Give alpha a kiss.”
Reluctantly, your hands lower until they’re resting at your sides. You know the alpha doesn’t like waiting. If he asks for something, you’re expected to do it. Fast. You only get to swallow once against the ball rising in your throat before you tentatively lean down, lips pressing softly on top of the other’s, so softly it can’t be considered as more than a hint at a kiss. You inhale sharply when your chin gets grasped by forceful fingers, balancing yourself by placing both hands on the alpha’s shoulders as he takes the kiss he had previously asked for right from you, sealing your lips together tightly.
Your fingers twist into the material of the shirt you grip, eyebrows furrowing together as you’re kissed thoroughly, your lips are parted by his tongue that easily slips into your mouth, prodding against your own. Kissing is still something you haven't managed to master. It’s not like you get to do it often. You’re more used to being knotted rather than kissed. Somehow, this feels ten times more intimate. Your tummy still overflows with butterflies whenever the alpha kisses you like this.
Before you realize it, you’re being pulled forward until your knees are resting on the mattress on both sides of the alpha’s body, a hand wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You think this must be the calm before the storm. A small moment of lenience that you’re being granted. You let yourself melt into it. Into the arms holding you.
You can’t help but think that this is nice. Dressing cutely after being offered the chance to pick the color of your outfit. Kissing until your lips start to tingle, swelling from the small nips and suckles the alpha offers you. You kind of like how small you feel like this. The alpha’s arm wraps so easily around your waist, hand resting on your hip as he holds you on his lap effortlessly. You shouldn’t, but you think you really like this. You almost lose yourself completely into the kiss.
Until you hear it.
A small swish right next to your ear. It’s so sudden that it makes you pull back sharply, spit still clinging to your lips. When your eyes snap open, a startled scream nearly rips from your throat. All you manage instead is a struggled wheeze. When your eyes fall onto the glint of the small blade by your head, you scoot back so fast that you nearly topple off the bed. The alpha catches you at the very last second, the arm he still has wrapped around your waist keeps you secure on his lap. You cry out loud when you’re tugged back onto the bed.
“Not so fast.” The alpha tuts. Your eyes instantly well up with tears.
“N—No, you can’t! Please, I—” you stutter, a wet sob slipping past your lips— “I’ve been good! I—I don’t deserve this, p—please—”
“Shh,” you instantly get hushed, calming pheromones begin to pump into the air, but they do little to ease your anxiety, “not gonna hurt you, little omega. Don’t worry.”
As you still struggle to push against the alpha’s chest and get off his lap, you can’t help but think about how much that sounds like a lie. How can he say that he’s not going to hurt you but have a knife pressed to your side at the same time? You gasp when you get easily manhandled until you’re turnt around, your back now pressed to the alpha’s chest, one hand resting on your belly, the other slowly making its way between your thighs.
You breathe in shakily as the blade is slowly lowered until it rests underneath the bottom of your dress. Your eyes nearly pop out of their sockets as you watch the tip of the knife lift the material until it uncovers the meat of your thighs. You feel hot tears instantly wetting your cheeks.
“Already crying?” The alpha mumbles curiously. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
Yet. The promise of something that is going to happen soon. You cry harder. “Please!”
“Shh,” He tries to hush you once more, nipping playfully on the side of your neck, resting his chin on your shoulder as he looks down at what he’s doing, “don’t wanna hurt you. Just wanna mark you, that’s all.” Your breath gets caught in your throat when the hand that had been previously resting on your belly slowly trails up to grab one of your tits forcefully. “Just a little bit.”
When the knife is turned so that the tip lays against your skin, you abruptly squeeze your eyes shut and twist your head away, not able to watch. Your whole body locks up, teeth gritting together as the first touch of the blade hits your thigh. Just like a baby, you weep.
You expect to be silenced. To get a threatening bite over your neck. Maybe even a squeeze around your throat. What you don't expect is a powerful slap right over your cunt.
“Stay still.”
You whimper, trying to squeeze your legs together, but you know better than to fight back. The blade returns. And then, with a short glide, it cuts into your thigh.
You cry and scream loudly, until you realize that the pounding in your head and the soreness of your throat hurt a lot more than the little lines that graze your skin, barely drawing any blood to the surface. When you go to reach for the alpha’s hand, you get slapped again. This time, it lands right over your clit. You whine out loud through the sting.
“You’re being bad, Y/N.” The tone is threatening enough to have you fall limp against the chest behind you, weakly sniffling in defeat. “I don’t like stupid brats.”
The next series of slaps are completely undeserved and makes you cry and beg for mercy until your throat closes up and snot runs down your face. It’s not a pretty image. You can do nothing as your cunt gets abused continuously, your clit being hit over and over until the pain slowly starts stimulating you, making you splatter slick all over the alpha’s palm. You think your pussy must be red and swollen by the time it all stops, and you get thrown on your back onto the bed.
You’re too dizzy to realize what’s happening until your legs are thrown over broad shoulders, your dress gets pushed up to your hips, and your sore pussy is being filled in no time with the alpha’s girthy cock. You sob through the pain of it, crying weakly as your body gets jostled up and down onto the bed, you grip the sheets to try and ground yourself.
“Stupid omega. I give you such nice things, and you can’t even sit still for me?” You struggle to take in huge lungfuls of air when you see the blade that had been previously carving into your thigh being pressed against your neck. “Useless.”
This time, your cry is one of genuine hurt. The aches in your body are sure to heal, but the tear in your heart is deep. Being called such mean words…It hurts you more than you’d like to admit. You sob quietly, moaning through every thrust that has your cunt gushing slick like a faucet.
You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. You did nothing wrong. This was not your fault. Your head screams at you to shut up and not open your mouth. But still—
“I—I’m sorry.” You sniffle pathetically, blurry vision trying to focus on the alpha’s face.
He stares you down as he fucks you thoroughly into the mattress. Your face twists up through another cry. In your despair, the alpha can’t help but think about how beautiful you look. The knife gets pulled away from your throat far enough for him to be able to lean down and capture your spit slicked lips into a powerful kiss, rendering you breathless.
Just like every other time, the same words get whispered over and over into your skin as if they were a mantra. “My omega.”
You’d never thought you’d see the day in which an alpha would be rammed balls deep inside your pussy, calling you his omega. And yet, now it is something that happens on the daily .
As you lie on your back, eyes swimming around in your skull, unable to focus, you can’t help but think about the reality you’ve started to live. The one in which getting fucked within an inch of your life with a knife pressed to your throat has become the norm. It’s all you have come to know while living here.
A small part of you tells you that it’s all your fault. You forgot the only rule. Just behave. Easy as that. You didn’t need to worry about anything else. You chastise yourself for being so stupid. Brats are truly good for nothing. And that’s exactly how you feel right now as your cunt is stretched impossibly wide around the knot swelling inside of you. Bad and useless.
Blinking through your tears, you look at the leg you have thrown over the alpha’s shoulder. The sight of two bloody initials carved into your skin is what sends you tumbling over the edge, orgasm so powerful it rips through you with a scream.
Blood trails down your inner thigh warmly. Your pussy pulses around the knot that’s being fucked inside of you. Fingertips dig into the carving on your thigh, the pain searing hot. Two letters.
“HJ.”
PAST.
Your walks home with Hongjoong have started to become a more frequent occurrence. After the first one, that was spent in comfortable silence, you found that you quite enjoyed crossing the short distance from the library to your dorm in Hongjoong’s company. It became a silent agreement between you both to do it every day since then.
The comfortable silence would sometimes get disrupted by Hongjoong’s curiosity, asking you short questions, almost as if he didn’t want to test his luck, but he was just too curious to not try. Questions about how your day had been, to what you had eaten for breakfast, melted into slightly more serious ones over time, such as why you seemed so afraid of him or why you avoided alphas on campus.
“Y-You just…” you struggled to find the words. “You make me nervous.”
Hongjoong blinked once at that, but it didn't seem to be a bad reaction. And it shouldn’t be. The fact that he makes you nervous should be a good sign. You hope that he would interpret it as such. It takes him a few long seconds to reply.
“Do other alphas make you nervous?” He asks instead, tilting his head curiously.
You feel a little taken aback by the question. Everyone is aware of your reluctance around alphas. It’s a well known thing. But Hongjoong is not asking if you’re afraid of alphas. He’s asking if they make you nervous. The same way he makes you feel.
“They scare me.” You whisper, finding it hard to hold eye contact with him, but your eyes don’t waver. “But you don’t.”
At that, Hongjoong inhales sharply, visibly trying to hold himself back from puffing his chest out. Your omega recognizes Hongjoong as an alpha that you shouldn’t fear. It is definitely something he has every right to be proud of.
“I’m glad.” Hongjoong nods. “You can trust me.”
You look down at your feet, eyes focusing on your dirty sneakers as you speak. “I—I do.”
The alpha’s grin can be heard through his voice as you stop in front of the dorms after having walked the short distance together, his smile lights up his whole face as he looks down at you. You can’t help but notice the fire that seems to be burning bright behind his eyes.
“Good. I want you to.”
Small walks had prompted the two of you to start spending more and more time alone together, just the two of you, without the rest of your friends. Wooyoung would watch you both warily whenever Hongjoong went to walk you back to your dorm at the end of the day, but his worries slowly started to melt away when he noticed that you seemed at ease around Hongjoong. He’s happy to see how close you've become.
You get to know Hongjoong better, until slowly but surely, you start sitting next to each other in your shared classes. Your seat at the library desk across from Hongjoong has been abandoned so you could plop down right next to the alpha instead, working closely until your shoulders would brush. You fidget around nervously during those times, playing with whatever you can find on the table.
It just so happens that sometimes Hongjoong’s things end up in your hands. And as you twist his pen through your fingers, you can’t help but notice the engraved initials of his name in them. Glancing over at Hongjoong, you take notice for the very first time that his initials are placed upon a lot of things. On the side of his pencil case, on the end sheet of his textbooks.
Hongjoong puts his name on everything he owns.
And that sparks your curiosity.
“Why do you have your initials on everything?” You ask out loud one day, twiddling once again with one of Hongjoong’s pens.
The alpha looks up at you from where he had been taking notes in his notebook, giving you a raise of his brow at the question. You don't say anything; you just sit quietly and wait for a reply. It feels almost as if Hongjoong’s eyes stare daggers into your face. You swallow thickly.
“I don’t like others touching what’s mine.” Your breath gets caught in your throat, pen slowly falling from your grasp at the confession. Hongjoong looks down and smiles. “You’re fine, though.”
That night, as you wrote down the last of your notes from your lecture, you couldn’t help but stare out into space and think of the time you spent with Hongjoong. As you still clutched the pen the alpha had given you, your eyes run over the gold initials. You think they look beautiful. Hongjoong is all you can think about.
Before you realize what you’re doing, your hand has a mind of its own as it scribbles something in the corner of your notebook. Small and pretty, right at the top of the page.
“HJ.”
With a heat spreading all the way from your cheeks to your ears, you rip the page and get to rewriting your notes all over again.
PRESENT.
For the first time in months, you feel the bite of the wind against your skin.
You haven’t left the comfort of your room the whole time you’ve been held captive. You’ve never even done as much as open a window (not like you would have been able to anyway, since they were bolted shut.) You haven't had the chance to smell much of anything but honeyed cherry blossom and sweet amber combined. When your nose sniffs around and inhales the crispness of the cold night air after so long, you nearly fall to the ground.
But you don't get the chance to, since there are strong arms wrapped around your waist to hold you up, but your knees still buckle. You breathe in deeply, heart threatening to beat right out of your chest. You’re so scared and overwhelmed, but so grateful for the first taste of fresh air in months. You feel your eyes well up with tears.
“Can you do something for me, sweetheart?” The alpha brings you back from your small daydream, lips trailing to your ear as he speaks.
You feel every hair on your body stand up. You look around, eyes rapidly trying to take in your surroundings. The alpha’s brought you to the front door of the house and you're astounded to see that you are completely surrounded by the woods. Of course, the constant silence had led you to believe you had been taken somewhere secluded, but you never would’ve predicted it would be in the depths of the forest, surrounded by nothing but tall trees and steep mountains.
You breathe rapidly, eyes struggling to stay open as you nod. A smile is pressed into your skin as your palms grow sweaty.
“Run.”
It takes you a moment to register the word. It was such a brief whisper that you start to believe it might’ve just been a gust of the wind, completely made up by your imagination. But when the arms wrapped around your waist leave you, and the body that had been previously pressed up against yours takes a step back, you’re left cold and alone for the first time in what feels like forever. And you don't know how to handle yourself.
You turn around, lips trembling as they try to form words, but nothing comes out. Your hands are clutched against your chest, fingers twisting into the smooth satin of the night gown you had been granted. You feel helpless, sitting at a crossroad, not knowing if you should walk ahead or go right back where you came from, to try to find comfort in the arms that finally set you free.
A small threatening growl is enough to make you spring into action. Against your better judgement, you do as told. You run.
The dirt feels cold and mushy underneath your bare feet, but you don’t get to think about that as you bolt down the steps leading up to the cabin, your arms flail around your body when you dash forward with no direction, and the sound of your heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears. You’re scared and completely terrified at being offered the chance to get away so easily. This must be a game. The alpha has to take some kind of twisted enjoyment in seeing you try to run away, knowing that, realistically, you stood no chance.
You run for what feels like hours, but it can’t be more than a few minutes. You run until your lungs start to burn and your thighs begin to ache, you weren’t used to putting in this much effort after not taking more than ten steps inside your room every day. You feel weak. So weak that you feel like your legs will give out from underneath you at any moment. Which they do.
You find yourself tumbling through dirt and grime as you fall, yelping loudly when you try to brace yourself on your palms. Small, sharp branches graze your legs, opening up the scars that had slowly started to heal on your thigh. At the sight of blood, you cry. Your knees and elbows feel battered and bruised as you struggle to get back up, your nightgown having torn at the bottom, revealing even more skin.
You don't want to run anymore. You want to go back. You want to cry and sob into the alpha’s chest as he picks you up and carries you inside the house to bathe you just like he does every night. You would much rather take the fingers squeezing and prodding at your body as you get soaped up than this.
Spoiled, your mind tuts at you. You’re one spoiled omega, desperately looking for comfort even in the arms that cause you harm. You’ve gotten so used to being completely provided for that now, being on your own, absolutely terrifies you. You cry out weakly for your alpha.
“Please…I—I wanna go back.” You sniffle pathetically, wincing as you step on tiny pebbles that dig into your heels sharply.
You know that this is what the alpha wants. You’re not stupid. You know he’s looking for a chase. If you were to actually stand a chance at getting away, he never would’ve allowed you outside in the first place. Plus, the scent trail you left behind would be extremely easy to follow for anyone, especially for an alpha that has grown as accustomed to the sweetness of it as he has. He could easily pick out your scent from a crowd. You were doomed from the very beginning.
The crunching of leaves somewhere close by is what gives you enough strength to finally get back on your feet, sniffling pathetically as you run again, blurry vision making it harder not to trip. You choke around a sob, almost screaming out loud when the steps behind you start to grow closer. You’re being chased, and your captor wants you to know that. He wants to let you know that he’s right behind you and he won’t let you get away. You push past the strain in your legs, wind blowing across your face and turning your skin tacky from tears.
You reach a steep drop. You dig your heels into the ground right before tumbling and falling all the way off, bracing your body against a tree trunk, fingernails breaking as you dig them sharply into the rough wood. Breathing sporadically, you look around. You have nowhere left to run. You don't spot the alpha, but you can hear him. His steps are loud and clear, echoing in your ears. Through a last desperate attempt, you go to hide behind the tree, making yourself small as you crouch down and slap a hand over your mouth.
He’s getting closer. Close, close, close—until he stops. Your eyes are so wide, you feel like they might pop out of your sockets as you keep your sweaty palm pressed to your mouth, breathing heavily through your nose. You struggle so hard to keep your scent under control, but you know it must be spiking like crazy. In a desperate attempt at trying to cover it, you slap both hands over the scent glands on the sides of your neck.
You feel him lingering around, the sound of leaves crunching makes every hair on your body stand up as the alpha circles the area you’re hiding in. You hear him sniff the air around, following up with a resonating snarl. Your eyes squeeze tightly shut, thinking that this must be it. You’ve been found.
Then, the steps start to slowly trail away.
Your eyes blink open, taking in a huge breath when you don't hear any more noise. Could this be it? Did the alpha really lose your trail? Would it be possible for you to have actually gotten away? You sit like that for what feels like forever, staring out into space, not daring to move until you deem it completely safe. With trembling hands, you push yourself up and peek out from behind the wide tree trunk. It looks clear. You exhale shakily.
You did it. You actually did it. You got away.
Your heartbeat echoes loudly in your ears when you slowly start to tiptoe away from your hiding spot. Your whole body trembles as you take your first step out. You keep on looking around, feeling as if this was too good to be true.
Which it was.
“Got you.”
You scream so loud that it pierces painfully through your own ears, the wind gets completely knocked out of you as you find yourself flipped upside down, and a hard shoulder digs into your stomach when you’re thrown over it. You yell desperately, trying to punch and scratch at the alpha’s back, but it’s futile. A painful bite right over the side of your ass makes you yelp out in distress, and your arms hang limp in the air as you get carried back up the hill you had stumbled from.
“Good girl.” You’re confused by the praise, sniffling weakly as you start feeling nauseous from being carried this way.
It’s when you arrive back that you finally realize what he praised you for. You did as you were told. You ran. The cuts on your legs and the dirt underneath your nails are enough evidence of the fact that you behaved. You get one last look at the woods outside, blinking through your tears as the door swings shut behind you.
You expect to be taken right into the bathroom to have your whole body scrubbed raw. Instead, you’re startled to find yourself being thrown onto the bed, body bouncing as it lands on the springy mattress. You gasp when your ankles get grasped forcefully, dragging you down to the edge of the bed where the alpha kneels, swiftly throwing your legs over his shoulders.
“Silly omega.” You cry out, startled when what’s left of your gown gets ripped right in half, exposing your entire body to the air of the room that had slowly gone cold while you were gone. “Can’t get away from me.”
You begin to see stars in your vision when the alpha dives right in, burying his head between your thighs and attaching his lips to your clit, sucking mercilessly until he has you writhing and gasping, slick falling out in wet dollops against his chin. You leave a trail of honey all over the lower part of his face and neck, not able to control yourself as the alpha’s tongue plunges right into your hole, greedily drinking up all the juices you have to offer him. You’re startled when he pulls away to dig his teeth into your inner thigh until he breaks skin.
“You’ll stay right here with me.” He threatens, eyes flickering red as he blinks up at you. “Forever.”
You sob through your orgasm, your whole body feeling weak after having run through the woods for so long. Your knees hurt too much to hold your weight up when you’re flipped over onto your front, flopping down pathetically with your head buried in the pillows. The air around the room is pumped full of powerful pheromones that have you cowering into submission, more than ever before. It smells different. It’s somehow more potent, if that’s even possible. It makes your body tingle all over, cunt clenching around nothing as you’re mounted from behind.
When you get thrust into, you gasp, mouth going slack as you’re filled up over and over again. Digging your blunt nails into the alpha’s wrists that slam right by your head, you can’t help but put the pieces together. It smells so good. Everything about it makes you want to get closer and clamp down around him even tighter, to make sure you get plugged up and knotted real good. It has a fiery heat simmering low in your tummy.
As promising whispers of ‘mine’ and ‘gonna breed you so well’ hit your ears, you think back on the alpha’s words from a few days ago. When his knot pops and cum starts flowing inside of you until it swells your belly, you realize he hadn’t been lying.
The alpha smells earthy and warm—and like the promise of an upcoming rut.
PAST.
The only parties you have ever attended have been the birthday parties of your classmates or neighbors. Of course, they were all held in the safety of someone’s home, where the parents could also attend and keep an eye on their children. You associate parties with confetti, cake, and kid-friendly mock champagne. What you don't associate parties with, however, is everything your friends are describing.
Of course, they’ve all been to parties before. The adult kind, where there is no cake, and the champagne contains real alcohol. Your friends have a life of their own outside of college, in which they do fun things, like going to parties, dancing with strangers, and forgetting about studying for the night. You have always been content with staying in until now. You liked being ahead of your classes and talking to your mom over the phone before bed. But you can’t deny that you feel a little left out.
The first and only time Wooyoung has asked you if you wanted to go to a party, you laughed at him awkwardly as if it were some kind of joke. The thought of being around so many strangers terrified you. You’ve seen the movies; you know how these things go. You watch Lifetime. Parties have no limits. Drinks get spilled, mouths become loose, and hands get sloppy. You didn’t want to risk having a stranger touch you. You know yourself and how you would react. It would only ruin everyone else’s mood. And what you don't want to be is a burden.
So you said no. And ever since then, it had become sort of common knowledge that you would never accept an invitation to a party where you didn’t know everyone. That’s why none of your friends ever asked again.
But Hongjoong likes parties. He used to always go out with the rest of your friends to all the parties that were thrown, even the ones that happened on weekdays. Up until a few weeks ago, he would never miss a single one. Now, not so much. He spends most of his evenings cooped up in the library next to you instead, silently studying together, and occasionally exchanging bashful glances and brief shoulder brushes. You start to feel bad about it.
You feel bad knowing that you might be the cause of Hongjoong not going out anymore. His refusals have started to become less and less subtle. When he gets asked if he wants to go out, his responses usually vary from not being able to because he has a test that has never been announced, to he has to go home and feed his cat, which is very doubtful since you have never heard him even mention having a pet. Ever.
You can’t deny the fact that you’re curious. Curious about what these parties are like. You want to quell that curiosity. At least just once. Just to see what it’s like. All your friends are going to be there anyway, right? If anything were to happen, they would protect you. You had no problem clinging to their side all night long to make sure that no one else tried to approach you. Maybe it could be nice. Something fun for you to do with your friends. You don't know if you’d like it, but you think they most definitely will.
When you speak up from the lunch table while everyone is talking away about the frat party they’re going to be attending tonight, it’s fair to say you’re met with justified shock.
“Can I come?”
You feel bad about inviting yourself, but you know they never would have asked you to come otherwise. And you don't blame them. So you built up the courage to take matters into your own hands. The silence you're met with makes you squirm uncomfortably in your spot.
“Y—yeah,” Wooyoung blinks rapidly, nodding his head, “of course, Y/N!”
Hongjoong, who had been seemingly quiet up until then, suddenly clears his throat and avoids your gaze as he speaks.
“I’ll come too.”
Wooyoung furrows his brows. “Didn’t you say you had to change the water to your fish tank?”
Hongjoong’s jaw visibly clenches, eyes narrowing on Wooyoung's face. The omega leans back slightly, raising his eyebrows at the sudden change in demeanor. It’s true. Hongjoong did say he had plans for the night. You actually wanted to suggest that you both skip going to the library today because you didn’t want to keep him too busy. The sudden switch confuses you as well.
“My fish died.”
Yeosang slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp. Jongho tuts pitifully. And you’re left rooted to your spot when you feel a gentle hand settle on top of your knee underneath the table. Swallowing thickly, you watch Hongjoong’s fingers softly run over the denim clad skin of your leg. Somehow, the touch feels comforting.
Sweet amber tickles your nose.
Wooyoung pulls a sad face and apologizes. It’s settled then. You’re all going to the party tonight.
Your stomach rumbles with anxiety.
PRESENT.
Having taken suppressants ever since you were old enough to, you never got to experience what a real heat felt like. You’ve always been very thorough with your medication. You would take it at the exact same time every single day, on the dot. Or at least you used to.
You haven’t taken any of your pills in over two months. At first, things had been so hectic for you lately that you honestly forgot about them. It wasn’t until after the first couple weeks of being kidnapped and getting filled up with cum on the daily that you realized. Going for so long without suppressants meant you were going to experience the first full blown heat of your life really soon. And that thought terrified you.
The signs were small, too small for someone as clueless as you to put together; but your alpha did. As soon as you started huddling all of your pillows in one giant pile on the bed, lying your blankets neatly, and whining pitifully if God forbid they were to be moved, he realized exactly what was happening. Which is why he started bringing more and more things to your room, making you sniffle up at him with big eyes as more blankets along with some thoroughly scented shirts from the alpha’s closet piled in.
For the first time since you had been taken, you stopped pushing. Instead, your omega screamed at you to pull more and more of the alpha in, inviting him into your bed and into your heart. You kept your nose shoved into his shirts at all times, which more often than not led to you waking up in the middle of the night in a wet puddle, completely slicked up.
Your nights wouldn’t usually pass without being knotted multiple times. Your eyes would roll back at the heady scent invading your nostrils with the sweet promises of a claim to come being whispered into your ear. You want to blame it all on the pheromones. What did the alpha do, and why did he smell more appealing than ever before? You wanted to bathe your body from head to toe in spicy notes of heady musk. You wanted to taste it on your tongue and have it coat the back of your throat. You never thought you could become addicted to a scent, but you think that right here, with your head pressed into the alpha’s neck, is exactly where you’re meant to be.
Bathing on your own is something you haven't done once since being here. There were always hands on your body, lathering your skin up with soap, scrubbing you gently of any remnants of blood, tears, cum or any other bodily fluids. You think it’s kind of nice being taken care of like this. You learn to enjoy it far more than you probably should. You don't have to worry about lifting even as much as a finger when powerful arms wrap around you from behind, moving your body as they wish.
Your head leans back against the alpha’s shoulder, sighing in content as your sore thighs get massaged, strong hands kneading the strain away. You shift slightly, wincing when the knot that still hasn’t gone down inside of you tugs at your pussy again. The alpha growls low in his chest. You sniffle, head turning to the side.
In your bittersweet obliviousness, you can’t help but think that the alpha looks beautiful like this. Focused on taking care of you. On pleasing his omega. Your throat feels thick with the beginning of a purr, which travels between you both quietly at first, but gradually grows higher in pitch as the soreness in your muscles get massaged away. Without even realizing what you’re doing, you lean closer.
The scent is intoxicating, radiating in waves from where it’s most powerful, right over the alpha’s scent gland on the side of his neck. If you were actually clear headed right now, you would be mortified by your own actions. You feel drunk, completely overrun by lust. Your whole body burns up as you lean closer, lips ghosting on top of the alpha’s skin with the promise of a touch. You can feel his chest become rigid against your back as he holds his breath completely.
Your jumbled thoughts make the decision for you. You feel as if you’re no longer in control of your own body when your lips pucker, grazing them ever so slightly right underneath the alpha’s scent gland you’ve been subconsciously nosing at for a good minute now. You feel your lungs grow weak when the arms around your waist squeeze you so tight that they begin restricting your airflow. You’re too desperate to care. Too desperate to feel, to smell, to taste. The tip of your tongue darts out, only barely getting to touch the scent gland in front of your face before you’re gripped harshly, a hissed snarl hitting your ears.
You instantly pull away, choking around a cry as you begin to get fucked right onto the knot that’s been keeping you plugged, cum swishing warmly inside your tummy. The water splatters all around you, landing in big puddles on the tiles, your hands slip as they struggle to grasp onto the edge of the bathtub. Your head strains to push to the side when lips get sealed over your scent gland, sucking hard and making your eyes roll back.
“Mine.”
It smells good. Like earth and sex and everything that is sure to make your mouth water. Heat simmers steadily through your veins. You sob, eyes snapping wide open when the strong scent of what can’t be mistaken as anything but rut hits your nose.
You cum with the word "yours" falling from the tip of your tongue.
PAST.
You thought that the party would feel a little easier with your friends by your side. You assumed that having Wooyoung next to you and Hongjoong (hopefully) pressing up against you to send any unwarranted alphas away would grant you enough peace of mind to actually be able to enjoy yourself. But things don’t really go as planned. Wooyoung is not glued to your side, having lost him somewhere in the crowd about fifteen minutes ago. Hongjoong is also nowhere to be seen after announcing that he was going to go grab both of you some drinks. And now, you’re left alone, in the corner of a room filled with people that you don't know.
You wait impatiently, biting the skin around your nails bloody and wincing at the sting as you keep on looking around, hoping to spot a familiar face. There are two omegas you sometimes see in your biology lab, dancing wildly in the middle of the room. You also spot some other people you’ve seen in your lectures before, but you couldn’t name them even if you tried. And then, there’s someone else.
Your nose had been completely overwhelmed by the variety of scents mingling together when you first set foot inside the frat house. It was simply too much. All that sweetness, along with sourness and bitterness, should never be combined. Your nose itched as you struggled to breathe shallowly through your mouth and not let yourself freak out over all the strong alpha scents currently surrounding you. Until you pick up on the one of burnt orange and your skin instantly bristles.
It's strong, radiating towards you in waves. You know the pheromones are directed specifically at you. An alpha most commonly shows interest through their scent. And the alpha eyeing you from across the room is making his intentions very obvious. So obvious in fact that they have you clamping a hand over your nose, to try to evade the disgusting scent of smoke filling your lungs.
Your knees feel weak as you look towards the source of it. The alpha starts to make his way across the room, a look of lust evident on his face. His eyes pin you into place as if he wants to ravish, to control and dominate; his intentions clear as he strides towards you.
You gasp and back even more against the wall, knees locking together as your legs feel as if they’re going to give out on you. A startling growl splits the air. You're shocked to find that it doesn’t come from the alpha, making his way towards you. Instead, it rumbles from the other side of the room, where your eyes instantly snap towards. You swear you feel them become glossy with tears of relief when you make out who the person on the other end is.
Hongjoong takes long, purposeful strides your way, two plastic cups clutched in just one of his hands, the other instantly reaching out for you as soon as he’s close enough to do so. You mewl weakly when a wrist gets pressed to your neck, gasping as the alpha’s strong scent of amber is rubbed right over your scent gland. You grip onto his arm tightly with both hands.
The other alpha is completely forgotten about as you look up at Hongjoong, who won’t seem to take his eyes off the threat standing about ten feet away. That was a close call. But Hongjoong came back just in time to save you and cover you in his scent to lure away the unwanted alpha. Almost as if he were staking a claim. Obviously, you knew he only did it to protect you, but your omega still preens at the attention.
“T—Thank you.” You stutter, breathing in more and more of Hongjoong’s scent with each inhale. It now clings to your skin, and it’s impossible to avoid. It’s only when the other alpha decides to give up and walk away with a defeated scoff that Hongjoong finally looks at you. He grips your chin, tilting it upwards so you’d meet his gaze.
“Are you okay?” You gulp and nod your head weakly in the alpha’s grip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you here by yourself.”
All you can do is shake your head in silent protest, not wanting the alpha to feel as if this was his fault. He’s supposed to be having fun, not watching after you to make sure you’re safe. You look down at the drinks, the other is still gripping in one hand, and tilt your head curiously.
“This one’s for you.” Hongjoong clears his throat, pushing one of the red cups in your direction. “It’s not very strong, so you should be fine. I made it myself.”
You would trust anything Hongjoong gave you. You smile gratefully and take the cup from his hand, bringing it up to your lips. In a stupid attempt of wanting to forget what just happened, you downed the entire thing in just three huge gulps. Hongjoong’s eyebrows raise, most likely not having expected that. Your lips purse, mouth twisting at the bitter aftertaste. The drink is fruity, but it definitely has a kick to it. Your tongue feels tingly.
“Don’t leave my side.” The alpha warns. You wouldn’t dream of it.
It’s about an hour later that you feel your eyes begin to feel too heavy in your head for you to keep them open anymore. Your body sways as if it’s turned to jelly, and you lean your weight against the person next to you. You can’t recall who it is, but they’re definitely sturdy enough to hold you up. You giggle airily at nothing in particular.
“Y/N?” It sounds like Wooyoung. It must be Wooyoung. You smile with your eyes still closed. “Christ, how much did she have to drink?”
Your mouth feels full of lead when you go to answer, but no words come out. You want to say that you didn’t have much, just one drink. You admittedly expected to get drunk easily, since your mouth had barely touched any alcohol before ever in your life, but you didn’t think it would feel like this. Like your whole body was floating somewhere far away from you, completely out of your control. You mumble something incoherently, forehead pressed to someone’s shoulder.
“Definitely way too many to count.” You hear Hongjoong answer for you. Lie. Hongjoong is a liar. Why was he lying? You want to gasp at the realization, but you’re too tired to react.
“You were supposed to watch over her, you idiot!” Wooyoung screams angrily and you whisper a quiet “uh-oh” that no one picks up on.
“Wasn’t that your job?” Hongjoong comments dryly, wrapping an arm around your back and letting you press your face into his chest.
No words leave Wooyoung for a few long seconds after that. You feel tired. You want to take a nap. You also want some water. Your mouth feels impossibly dry. You whine into Hongjong's chest.
“Just…take her home, please?” Wooyoung sighs, his voice melting into the heavy beat of the music. You feel your body swaying along to the rhythm.
“Will do.”
“Is it time to go home?” You think you ask. You try to at least, struggling hard for only just the last word of the sentence to come out, quiet and slurred. Your nose presses against a warm neck. Your legs give out from underneath you just as you get picked up and carried outside the house, the night air cold against your skin. Your head falls back onto Hongjoong’s shoulder.
“Yeah, pretty.” The alpha whispers, engulfing you in his comforting scent. You preen internally. “You’re coming home with me.”
You knock out before you can realize that Hongjoong is headed in a completely different direction than the one of your dorm room.
————
You awaken in a room you knew you didn’t belong in, only to startle when you find yourself tied down to a bed. A bed that wasn’t yours. Your head was pounding heavily, and your body felt as if it had been run over. Is this what a hangover felt like? But you didn't recall drinking that much at the party. The last thing you remembered was downing the entirety of the drink Hongjoong had given you. You inhaled sharply.
Hongjoong.
You try to call out his name, but your throat feels scratchy and sore. Your whole mouth was dry as you smacked your cracked lips together. Hongjoong was not here, but he was. You could smell him. He’s everywhere around you, his scent clings to your nose and skin. It surrounded you from all ends. Where is he? Why isn’t he here helping you?
You whine pitifully, tugging on the ropes that bind your wrists together to the bedframe. Fighting against the heaviness of your lids, you blink them open only to look down and take notice that you’re not wearing anything but your dress from the previous night. You gasp, clamping your legs together. Your lack of underwear makes your bottom lip wobble, becoming more aware of the danger you're in.
The door swings open. You startle, still trembling from head to toe as you watch a figure step into the darkness of the room. When the lock clicked shut and the light switched on, you exhaled into a wet sob.
“H—Hongjoong!” You cry out, struggling against the bindings again, but to no use. You’re completely stuck. “P—Please help, I—I don’t know who did this!”
“Shh,” Hongjoong crosses the room in no time, crouching by the bed so he can be at eye level with you, “stop moving. You’ll only hurt yourself.”
Against your frantic thoughts, you do what you’re told and listen to him. Your body falls still. Looking at the alpha with teary eyes, you can’t hide your confusion. How is Hongjoong so calm? Where are you? Who did this to you?
“Good. Very good.” Hongjoong smiled, reaching out to run his thumb across the softness of your cheek. You cowered, trying to pull away. Hongjoong didn't seem to mind, though. “You’ll learn fast if you keep listening to me.”
Learn what? What does he mean? Why isn’t he freaking out the same way that you are? Why won’t he untie you? You voice your discontent through a whine.
Hongjoong tuts in faux concern, leaning closer to dote on you, he gently runs both his hands over your cheeks before petting your hair. “What’s wrong, pup? Are you hurt? Do you need some water? Tell Alpha so he can make it better.”
You feel as if the wind had been knocked out of you. Pup. Hongjoong just called you pup. He’s coddling you as if you were a puppy. Like a mate would. You shiver at the thought. You want to ask him to take you home. Instead, you struggle to rasp out one word.
“Water.” It’s so quiet that you’re afraid the alpha won’t be able to pick it up. But he does.
It’s almost as if he had been prepared for the request; a bottle of water was waiting at the ready on the nightstand by your side. He pulls back to grab it and uncaps it, carefully bringing it up to your lips. The first touch of moisture against your dry tongue makes you inhale sharply. The hand placed on the back of your head stops you from leaning too far back and downing the whole bottle in one go; you take long sips instead, managing to quell your thirst at least to an extent. When Hongjoong pulls the bottle away from your lips, he rewards you with a small praise of “good puppy”, which makes you frown.
It takes you a few long seconds until you gain enough strength in your voice to speak up. “W—What’s going on?”
You are shocked to feel the touch of a hand run up your exposed thigh. You quickly bring your legs together, becoming even more aware of your nakedness than before. You gasp when Hongjoong’s fingers dig into your skin, a thick wave of pheromones shooting into the air, causing your eyes to roll back automatically.
“You’re so pretty, Y/N.” He mutters, the powerful scent of amber has turned you so weak that your legs fall right open when the alpha nudges them apart. “Just the prettiest omega.”
“Hong…” you exhale shakily as your body tries to fight back, but is unable to. Your inner voice screams at you. You can’t do anything but blink blearily at the alpha.
“You know, I never meant for this to happen.” Hongjoong comments offhandedly, stroking over the skin of your inner thighs, which tremble underneath his touch. “But then, you were just…there.” The scent grows stronger, and your body becomes weaker. “Tiny and sweet. Completely untouched.” His eyes meet yours. The brief flicker of red in his irises makes you jolt. “Like you were just waiting for me.”
With a last weak attempt, you try to scoot away from the alpha’s grasp. Who is this, and what did he do to your Hongjoong? The one who was too shy to hold eye contact with you for more than a couple of seconds. Who smiled at you bashfully whenever your shoulders brushed. The one who slipped you green apple lollipops and sticky notes with check boxes drawn at the bottom. This Hongjoong is different. This Hongjoong looks at you as if he wants to bite.
You’re afraid he just might.
For the first time, Hongjoong’s resonating growl of displeasure is directed towards you. You cower instantly, stuttering through a gasp as even more powerful pheromones pump into the air. They’re full of dominance, and they make you ache with the need to submit. The hand that had been previously resting between your thighs inches lower.
“It’s okay,” Hongjoong nods encouragingly, looking up at you sweetly from where he sits down at your side. You almost don’t take notice of your dress being flipped up over your hips, “your alpha is here now.”
Your alpha. You get hit with a sudden wave of nausea. You yelp when fingers begin to prod around your most intimate parts. You both are shocked to see that his fingers come back wet. Hongjoong grins.
“You want this.” You shake your head no desperately, but to no use. The alpha gets to his feet and is on the bed between your legs in no time. “You want me.”
“N—No, Hongjoong, not like this, p—please—” You sniffle weakly, whimpering when his fingers part your folds.
This was not how it was supposed to go. Hongjoong was supposed to be different. He was supposed to do everything you always imagined would happen when you fell in love. You wanted to be courted; to be promised the world and give your heart in return to the person you would get to call your mate. Hongjoong was supposed to be that person for you. But now, he’s ruining everything.
“Liar.” Hongjoong slaps your inner thigh harshly, making you jump in surprise. You try to close your legs on instinct. “Got a slicked up cunt to prove it and yet you still act as if you don’t want this.”
Your eyes instantly well up with tears, not used to being talked to in such a way. No one’s ever said such crude words to you. Hongjoong is the last person you expected to ever hear it from. You squirm around uselessly as your pussy gets played with, a thumb presses to your clit as a finger sinks into your tight opening. You’re so overwhelmed that you choke on your own spit.
You've never been touched like this. You were too ashamed to even think about touching yourself down there. It was too dirty. You felt tainted by the hands violating your body. You felt as if you had completely lost control over yourself when you clench down around the fingers inside of you, sending a gush of slick trickling down the alpha’s palm, until it reached his wrist.
You felt so humiliated.
“You were made for me, Y/N.” The alpha fixes you with an intense stare that makes you cry and slick up continuously. “No one else. Just me.”
The sound of a belt buckle being undone makes you freeze. Wet squelches of slick have your cheeks heating up, the fire in your tummy flares like crazy. Then there’s something wide being pushed against your opening.
“All pretty. All mine.” And then Hongjoong’s cock is sinking inside of you.
You thrash your body around, trying to get away, but it’s futile. The alpha’s hands are gripping your hips tightly, holding you down. He lets out a startling growl that has you cowering into submission against your will. You whine like a kicked puppy as your virgin cunt gets brutally plowed into. Hongjoong offers you no mercy as his cock drives into you relentlessly. You can do nothing but sob.
“You take cock so well. Of course you do.” Hongjoong’s nose presses into your scent gland, tongue tracing a wet line down your skin. “You’re just perfect all over.”
You wish you could move your hands. You want to push and hit and scratch. A small rational part of yourself tells you that even if your hands were untied right now, you still wouldn’t be able to do any of those things anyway. Hongjoong holds too much power over you. His scent controls your every move. It’s what makes you leak like a bitch in heat, pressing your cheek into the pillow, leaving your neck exposed. The alpha seems to really enjoy that.
“Gonna keep you right here.” Hongjoong exhales sharply, attaching his lips to your scent gland and clamping down, making your eyes roll back. “Stuffing you full with my knot and breeding you so well.”
You hiccup through sobs, desperately shaking your head from side to side. You don’t want that. You don’t want to be bred, you don't want a knot shoved up your pussy. You just want to go home.
You voice as such.
“I—I wanna go home.” You whisper desperately through a sniffle.
Hongjoong’s thrusts slow down just enough for him to be able to lean in closer and press a kiss to your sweaty forehead. He inhales your sweet scent of honeyed cherry blossom and hums in content.
“You are home, sweetheart. You’re with your alpha now.”
The breach of the first knot you've ever taken in your entire life feels so big, you’re afraid it might actually split you open. You cry out weakly when the base of Hongjoong’s cock swells enough to lock you both in place. You desperately try to stave off your own orgasm, but to no avail. You throw your head back, bare neck elongated and exposed as cum starts to shoot up inside your pussy, it’s too much, too fast, that it makes your stomach cramp up.
Through tears of pleasure, you can do nothing but look up at the ceiling, inhaling sharply at the flicker of a red light. You get fucked again with the same knot that’s plugging you up before you even get to realize where it’s coming from.
PRESENT.
Hongjoong’s been patient. Like a good alpha. Taking such good care of you while waiting for your heat to come. He didn’t just want to be your alpha anymore. That wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to be your mate. And the overbearing scent of sweet cherry blossoms coating the entire house was enough to send him spiraling, confirming his suspicions. It was finally time.
He’s never met an omega that could affect him as much as you do. He never really believed in perfect mates either. But as he lies you down on the bed and crawls on top of you, he just knew that this was how things were supposed to go. There’s no other explanation for it. Your heat triggered his own rut to come early, just as he hoped it would. That’s something so rare, it’s considered to be reserved only between true mates. Hongjoong’s never been sure of many things in his life, but the one thing he’s most sure of is the fact that you were made for him.
The scent of heat and rut mixing in the air has his brain melting, rendering him completely overtaken by lust. His chest vibrates with a continuous snarl as he noses into your skin, your nails scratch over his back before your teeth bite into his shoulder, to try to gain his attention. You whine so sweetly in your desperation.
“P—Please, alpha!” You whimper loudly, throwing your head back and exposing your neck. The alpha’s eyes glow red.
Hongjoong is going to make you live on his knot and only allow you off so you can birth him pups.
“Y/N L/N.” He growls, grabbing your legs and throwing them over his shoulders, bending you right in half. “Lying in my bed. Begging for my knot.”
You whimper, reaching out to paw weakly at Hongjong's chest, trying to pull him closer to press your face into his neck. Hongjoong hisses loudly when his knee presses into the mattress that is absolutely soaking, drenched in a literal puddle of slick that is gushing continuously out of your greedy cunt.
Hongjoong loves you so much.
“I—I need it, please!” Your weepy little pussy clenches around nothing as you struggle to present. If it were up to you, you would’ve already flipped over onto your stomach and pushed your ass out, ready to get mounted. But Hongjoong is holding you firmly on your back.
Feeling the feral urge to claim, the alpha lets his rut overtake his actions. His rational side is thrown out the window for the first time, focused solely on you and the continuous thoughts about how good you’re going to look, swelled up with his pups by the time he’s done with you. With a low growl, he finds his face pressed into your neck, his cock sliding wetly inside of you.
The relief is immediate, but not enough. It’s never enough. Not when it comes to you. And he knows he won’t be able to rest until he’s knotted you so many times that your cunt will become too sloppy to keep his cum inside anymore. With that thought, Hongjoong’s hips start pistoning into you, deepening the bruises that are already lathered across your hips and inner thighs. Your sugary moans are the most beautiful sounds his ears have ever heard.
“Good girl. So good. Gonna let me breed you so well, aren’t you?” Your nod is so frantic you think you might be experiencing whiplash. “You gonna carry my pups like a good little omega?”
Yes! Your mind screams. You want Hongjoong’s pups, you want his cum and his knot, you want all of it inside of you. You want the alpha to take care of you, to hold you like this every night, to fuck you thoroughly into your bed until the sheets are ruined and the swell in your stomach becomes more and more prominent.
Hongjoong’s cock swells, the promise of a knot makes you babble incoherently, spewing nonsense about how good it feels and how much you love it and how you want more. Hot tears run down your cheeks when the graze of the alpha’s teeth hits your scent gland. You desperately wish they would just clamp down and give you the bite that you've been teased with ever since you got here.
“Mine.” Hongjoong whispers into your skin, just like every other time, licking a stripe right over your jugular.
Your eyes flutter shut, desperately speaking out loud the word that’s been resting upon your tongue for so long now.
“Yours.”
The snarl is so loud, it hits your skin before it does your ears. Sharp canines sink into your neck like a knife through smooth butter as soon as Hongjoong’s knot inside of you pops. Your heart sings from the feeling of a bond being formed.
When you close your eyes, you think that this right here could be your forever.
THREE MONTHS LATER
The coming of spring makes the outskirts of the cabin look even more beautiful than before. Hongjoong spent a good full week working on building a garden backdoor, where seedlings could sprout, giving you access to grow all the flowers your little heart desired. The grass had been neatly trimmed, and any rocks or weeds had swiftly been removed to ensure that everything was perfect. Hongjoong will always offer you nothing but the best. It’s the least you deserve.
With spring also comes new beginnings. And Hongjoong thinks that a fresh start is exactly what you both need. He’s been slowly making changes in preparation for it. Not everything could be settled in one go. Hongjoong had to get some business in order before anything else. He started small, with some housing arrangements.
Your old room became empty as soon as you mated. Hongjoong deemed separate rooms completely unnecessary now, since he knew there would be no more chances of you ever wanting to escape. He moved you upstairs to his own bedroom, which was much larger and more accommodating. He’s reminded of you smiling brightly at the offer of a new bed. Your alpha’s bed. Hongjoong loved nothing more than the sight of you rolling around in his sheets.
Along with bedroom relocations came the decision Hongjoong had been contemplating for a long time. The sight of you sleeping blissfully in his bed was enough for him to make up his mind for good. He didn’t want anyone else ever getting to see you like that. Sharing you with the world is not something he’s keen on anymore. So, without thinking twice about it, he grabs a tall enough stool so that he would be able to reach the camera installed in the corner of the room, and swiftly unplugs it.
No more red dots will be haunting your dreams at night and antagonizing you from far away. Hongjoong made that decision as soon as he laid his mark on your neck.
His computer is something he didn’t have the necessary patience to approach for a long time after that. The recordings had stopped, but everything else was still there, up and running. Hongjoong thought about keeping them all for himself. To have such important parts of your relationship recorded was something rare. Everything was on there. Your first kiss. Your first time having sex. His first time feeding you his cock. Your first heat, along with your mating. They’re all precious memories to Hongjoong. Things that shouldn’t hold sentimental value, yet somehow they still do.
But it’s risky. It’s been risky from the very beginning. It’s not the first time Hongjoong has done something like this and gotten away with it. You weren’t the only omega the cameras installed across the house have recorded. You were just the first to have ever stayed. That’s enough of a reason for Hongjoong to want to erase all these videos from existence, making sure no one else but him gets to have these memories of you ingrained in his brain.
The titles have his hands clutching into fists, previews of the videos making his pants feel all of a sudden a little too tight around his crotch. They’ve all been carefully chosen.
‘tiny omega takes her first knot’
‘bound & ravished—innocent omega begs for her abductor’s knot’
‘omega takes her punishment well with a knife pressed to her throat’
‘kidnapping:alpha goes on a hunt and comes back with an omega hanging off his knot’
There are a lot of them. So many that Hongjoong has lost count at this point. Even after all this time of not posting, the views have continued to spike, the last video ever posted being at an all-time high. Hongjoong doesn’t look at the comments anymore. He’s made that mistake before, and it led to him putting a literal hole in the wall. The thought of anyone out there saying the same things about you as he does makes him seethe. Only he’s allowed to say how pretty you are, only he gets to praise you for how well you take cock. No one else is worthy.
Everyone is obsessed with you. And of course they are. How could they not be? Hongjoong is a first-hand victim of your beauty. He can’t really blame them. They all love seeing your pretty face on camera. You’re just too good. Hongjoong never tells you what to do or how to act. Everything the lenses have captured has been real. The viewers seem to really like that. They love how natural the “acting” feels. If only they knew…
They’ve all been waiting. The most anticipated video has been slowly collecting dust in Hongjoong’s archive. It would be so easy. Just a pick of a good title along with some tags and he could just wait for the money to roll in. Everyone’s been dying to see you finally get claimed; to watch you get fucked thoroughly with a mating bite to your neck.
The video is there.
But Hongjoong is never going to post it.
Not when you’re in the other room, humming sweetly as you fold the alpha’s clothes, piling them neatly in your shared closet. Not when you’re in the kitchen, cutting up fruit with the swell of your stomach pressing into the countertop. Not when you look up at the alpha with hearts floating around in your eyes, as if you wanted nothing more than to bake him cookies and birth him a litter.
Those are all things only Hongjoong will ever get to enjoy and cherish for the rest of his life. His hand doesn’t even hesitate as it presses the delete button, erasing all of it from existence. Every video, every comment, every view. The page is gone right before his eyes. He’s pleased as he shuts the computer down, going to the other room to do what he’s supposed to—tend to his omega.
After that, it all comes pretty easily. He drives back towards campus, somewhere he hasn’t been in a long time, and parks right outside the dorm rooms. It’s very easy to get the person at the front desk to give him a key to your old room. A simple claim of being your mate is enough to grant him all his wishes, contentedly humming a random tune as he loads up all of your old belongings in the trunk of his car. It all goes smoothly, just as expected. Except perhaps for one small bump in the road.
“Hongjoong?” The alpha turns around after he finishes putting some of your things away, leaning against his car as he glares back at the person that’s quickly walking up to him. “Holy shit, where have you been—”
Wooyoung stops dead in his tracks as soon as he’s close enough to sniff the air around. His eyes widen, books falling from his arms, laying in a sad heap on the dirty ground. Hongjoong sighs. He doesn’t have time for this.
“Y/N…y—you found her?” Wooyoung asks shakily. Hongjoong tilts his head to the side, eyeing him curiously. His raised brow speaks for itself.
Come on, you can do better than that. Take another guess.
Realization suddenly dawns on Wooyoung’s face. Hongjoong doesn’t just have your scent lingering on his skin. It’s completely intertwined with his own. He doesn’t just smell of amber anymore. His scent sweetened, welcoming the scent of honey and cherry blossom alongside. Hongjoong smells like he’s been bonded. It’s very easy for Wooyoung to put the pieces together after that.
“You son of a bitch, where is she?” His voice shakes around a threat, visibly wanting to get closer to most likely punch the daylights out of Hongjoong, but he knows he stands no chance against the alpha.
Hongjoong shrugs his shoulders, getting back to his feet before turning around to shut the trunk of his car. His smile is patronizing when he looks back at Wooyoung. As if he’s smugly bragging about it all.
“Take care, Wooyoung.” He says, getting into his car without looking back once as he drives away.
The house smells sweet, like freshly baked apple pie and an omega he wants to get his hands on right this second. Going into the kitchen, he frowns when he doesn’t find you there. The pie rests on the windowsill, and right outside in the garden, he sees you, kneeling in the grass and tending to your petunias.
Hongjoong smiles.
He thinks that things couldn’t have gone any better than this. This is exactly the life he’s imagined for himself. Living in a small house, somewhere far away from the rest of the world, with the cutest mate, growing beautiful flowers in the garden, and grinning widely as you get up and waddle over into his arms, the swell of your stomach pressing against his body.
You call out his name sweetly, as if Hongjoong is the only thing you’ve ever known; the only thing you’ll ever need. The alpha gathers you up in his arms, afraid that you might crumble if he lets go. With the scent of cherry blossom pressed to his nose, he knows that this is exactly how your lives were supposed to be. Running his hands across your stomach, he smiles with the most genuine joy he’s ever felt in his life.
Hongjoong is going to keep you right here, just like this. In his arms at all times. Protected from the world. He noses over your mating mark, a small playful growl escaping him as he picks you up and carries you inside the house. He bites his lip at the sound of your giggles when he places you down on the kitchen counter. He takes a step back to appraise you from head to toe, in silent disbelief at the sight of having such a beautiful omega as his mate.
“My sweet girl.” Hongjoong exhales through a smile.
When he kisses you, your lips taste like the rest of forever.
A/N: If you made it to the end of this, you’re now obligated to go watch the why do you love mv right now on YouTube. No excuses!
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jung wooyoung x f!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: how to differentiate love and obsession? caring and abuse? wooyoung knows very well. you, however, don't. and it breaks his heart every time he sees your loving eyes gaze upon that caring boyfriend of yours. he knows better than to meddle, so why do you have to make it difficult by constantly hanging around him and making him care for you?
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 29.5k
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: euphoria au, plot, slowburn!!!, high school themes (aged up, 19-22), alcohol and weed use, toxic relationship, nsfw themes
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i've proofread this at least five times i am getting sick of my own writing. don't mind the typos, and enjoy :)
there is something oddly calming about the gentle hum of fridges and the sound of the led bar on the verge of its life at the local gas station convenience store. especially on a quiet night like this, where jung wooyoung can sit in his staff room, or a corner more like, and roll his blunts in peace.
a cigarette rests between his slightly chapped lips, the soft smoke filling up the space that is separated from the store with a beaded curtain, half the beads missing. every now and then, his sharp eyes glance through it, hoping not to catch a figure lingering amongst the shelves.
his finger pads are rough against the smooth paper, yet skilled and quick. he takes pride in this ability. each blunt is the same shape, as if they were made in a factory. the satisfied smile is cut short when a bang startles him, sending ash from the cigarette onto his jeans.
"fuck." he breathes out, placing the cigarette on a makeshift ashtray, made from a can of soda by his little niece as he brushes the ash off his clothes.
he doesn't announce himself as he slips through the beads, the clicking sound crashing with the calming hum. annoyance is only slightly wiped from his face upon setting his eyes on you. and your cherry coke that sits on the counter.
your eyes find his when he slips behind the counter. wooyoung swears he has never seen such sparkly eyes. it might've been the purple neon sign above his head, but he chose to believe it was natural. a smile spreads on your pink lips, and you greet him. "hello."
wooyoung only hums, grabbing the can of coke and scanning it, all while biting his lower lip and taking your figure in.
"so..." you trail, awkwardly swinging on your toes back and forth. "how's... business?"
wooyoung chuckles, setting the swollen lip free. "well, now that you ask, i don't remember the last time someone bought a cherry coca cola."
"oh, is that why there were only two cans in the fridge?"
"yes."
you nod with a hum, then pull a bill from the back pocket of your jeans.
"two fifty." he slides the can towards you, hand lingering on the cold item until you reach for it. you try to grab it, yet his grip intensifies, making you look at him with confusion. "you're too pretty to be here."
"thank you–"
"that wasn't a compliment." he shuts you down, eyeing your pink tank top and shimmery bracelets.
"oh." your smile falters, insecurity crawling up your spine. "what does that mean?"
"it means," he leans over the counter, close enough to catch the sickeningly sweet perfume clinging to your skin, then continues, "that you look like an easy target."
your heart stutters behind your ribcage. you swallow thickly before speaking. "is this a dangerous neighbourhood?"
"it isn't the safest one. but what does it matter? you should be on your way and get out of here. it's late."
"okay." you place the money on the counter. wooyoung finally lets go of the can, and you immediately grab it, as if he'll take it away from you. "have a nice night."
the young man doesn't reply. he watches you slowly exit the shop, cracking the can open on the way out. when he sees you enter a car, he feels at peace. you weren't alone. you were safe. he retreats to his corner, cigarette back between his lips, fingers already working through his stash like nothing happened.
𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐘.
the first day of the senior year was something jung wooyoung dreaded. summer was going well. he got used to working, earning, and having free time. now, aside from being in the building almost every day and working, he also needs to make time for studying.
"tonight at nate's?"
and parties.
"come on," the younger man nudges wooyoung with his elbow, seeing his eyes roll. "it'll be fun."
wooyoung huffs, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and dusting the ash on the ground. "i fucking hate that guy."
"well, sadly for you, nate jacobs is the only one who can throw one hell of a party. besides, girl hunting isn't a solo activity. i need you there."
the black haired man shoots his friend a disapproving look. "girl hunting? james."
"it's just an expression." james defends himself, poorly.
"no, it's not."
"fine. i take it back." the blonde haired man rolls his eyes, much like wooyoung earlier. they both stand up, making their way inside the building and to their lockers. "if i spend another year without a relationship, i'm going to become a nightmare."
jung wooyoung swears he had a witty reply as he tosses his jacket in the locker. the words perish once his brown eyes land on a figure in the hallway. the shine of lips too familiar to ignore, and the scent as the person passes by too sweet to forget.
you.
"woo?" james calls, closing his locker with a loud clank. "i need a verbal confirmation that you are coming tonight."
"sure." he replies, eyes still glued to the way your blouse hugs your body. "just text me when."
once james disappears to his class, wooyoung finds himself lingering in the hallway. have you always gone to east highland? why is he just now noticing you? no, why are you everywhere for him to notice you? a big question mark follows him into the english classroom, the look on his face puzzled when he smells that scent again. surely enough, there you are. in the corner of the room, the last seat near the window. his seat.
there are plenty other ones in the classroom. however, wooyoung has always sat there, and everyone knows it. he chose it strategically. it is ideally hidden from the professor, he has fresh air from the window, and he has his privacy. most importantly, he is sitting far away from cassie howard. he doesn't want to bother you by asking you to move, but if he has to hear that insufferable laugh and see her turn around every few minutes, he will explode on the spot.
"that's my seat."
he doesn't intend on sounding mean. it comes out like that anyway, causing you to look up from your books with those sparkly eyes. when you recognize the man from last night, you can't help the smile that spreads on your lips. the first familiar person, finally. "hi."
wooyoung raises his eyebrow. did you not hear him? "i sit here."
"oh," you finally acknowledge his words. you don't make a fuss out of it. you simply gather your belongings and sit at the desk next to him. something he could've done instead of moving you, yet you don't point it out. once you make yourself comfortable, you notice that he is still standing, eyes locked on you. you look around before speaking. "uh... can i sit here?"
he ignores you, finally throwing his bag near the desk as he plops down on the chair. he's puzzled by your easy-going nature. were you a people pleaser? you looked like one. shame, you'll have to toughen up soon or you'll be eaten alive.
the classroom fills up quickly, and by the time the professor arrives, wooyoung has stolen many glances at you. it irks him that cassie is sitting so that whenever he looks at you, her blonde hair is in the background. halfway into the class, he has noticed a few things about you already.
first, you like to use colorful pens. you have at least ten different shades in your fuzzy, stupid looking pencil case. it irritates him for no good reason- who carries a pencil case to high school? second, you like cherry cola. the dark red can sits at the corner of the table, the edge of it shimmering with remains of your gloss. third, you are overly friendly for your own good.
each time someone locks eyes with you, you smile. they smile as well, but not in a good way. they're mocking you. wooyoung doesn't know whether you choose not to see it or you truly do not see it. he doesn't feel that sorry for you. as he said, you're making yourself an easy target.
by the end of the class, the dark haired man doesn't have a single note written in his notebook. you, however, are happily underlining words and sentences while the rest of the class is glancing at the fateful clock on the wall. once it marks the end of the first period, and the professor leaves for the five minute break, the class erupts in chatter and chaos.
wooyoung wastes no time in pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the back pocket of his washed out jeans and sitting on the window. he lights it up, the nicotine slowly filling his lungs as he inhales deeply. a tap on his shoulder interrupts the little ritual, and he can't help the annoyed look on his face as he turns his head to the side, only to be met with your face mere inches away from his.
he blows the smoke into you, accidentally. your words catch in your throat, stopped by the unexpected smoke you've inhaled and a coughing fit.
"shit," wooyoung moves the cigarette from one hand to the other, away from you. "sorry. didn't expect you there."
"no, it's fine." your voice is raspy, and there are tears in the corners of your eyes. fuck, are you going to cry? he can't handle that this early in the morning. "i have a nicotine allergy."
"that's a thing?" he asks. you nod, clearing your throat in the process. "ah."
he isn't the talkative type, you notice. perhaps he is a listener. or he just doesn't care about either of those things.
"what happens now? will you end up at the nurse's office?" he teases, though he is genuinely curious.
"my reaction depends on the brand, i've noticed. in most cases i start feeling nauseous and my throat becomes red and swollen, and my eyes tear up. not fatal, but not the nicest feeling."
the man glances at the box of cigarettes on his desk. he makes a mental note as he bites his lip, then, with a sigh, presses the lit end against the outside wall. "right. i didn't know that."
jung wooyoung would never waste a cigarette. yet he finds himself tossing an almost unused one outside, barely getting one drag out of it. why? because the girl in pink couldn't handle it.
"you wanted to say something? you know, before you almost died on the spot."
"ah." you nod. "i have a lot to say, actually. for starters, i didn't catch your name."
"you talk a lot." he crosses his arms across his chest, then sits on his chair. "calum."
"ouch." you scrunch your nose as you follow him to his desk, making yourself comfortable by leaning on it. "calum? fitting."
"is it?" wooyoung is amused. "how so?"
"every calum i've ever met is dark haired and tattooed." you explain as you admire the rose and skull tattoo on the side of his neck. "it's very nice, by the way. looks pretty on you."
pretty? it's not pretty. it's cool. it's anything but pretty. never in his life did wooyoung think that he'll blush in front of a girl like this. all because she called him pretty. well, the tattoo. not him. still, he finds himself looking through the window again, avoiding your intense gaze.
"okay. go away now." he bites the inside of his cheek. "bother someone else."
"sorry," you push yourself off his desk, "didn't realize i was bothering you."
you don't seem offended, nor sad. you sit back at your desk, colorful pens back in hand and attention on notes until the professor comes back for the second english period. wooyoung doesn't understand your behaviour. do you not feel bad emotions? or do you simply shield yourself from them by wearing good ones as mask?
he sighs, and finally, his pen starts gliding on the blank paper that sits in front of him.
𝐍𝐎 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓.
cassie howard is a leech. lexi howard is the sweetest person you can meet.
what wooyoung doesn't understand is, why james likes cassie over lexi. cassie can't form a single sentence without using words such as like, totally, and literally. maybe wooyoung is too judgemental. why doesn't he get up and dance with lexi then, if she is so much better? why is he even thinking about the howard sisters?
his eyes finally leave james and cassie as they dance, or dry hump, in the tight space of the living room, and roam around the house to find a different entertainment. he sits on the couch, legs on the coffee table and arms crossed over his chest. he leans against the cushions, until a couple plops down next to him in a heated makeout session. he sighs, wondering why he even came.
outside is equally, if not even more, chaotic. drinking games in the pool. very safe. the dark haired man tsks to himself, watching as the guys hold the girls on their shoulders as they play fight while tipsy. he hopes nobody drowns tonight. as he reaches the kitchen in search of a drink, he is glad to find it half empty. he helps himself in the fridge, grabbing an unopened bottle of sparkling water. he closes the door, and twitches in surprise.
"fuck," he breathes out. "you are just... everywhere, aren't you?"
you stand near the fridge, earlier being shielded by the opened door of it. "sorry, just wanted to grab a sparkling water for myself."
wooyoung stands still, dark eyes quickly scanning your figure as he thinks. you wear a skirt, and a simple tank top. not revealing, he notices. before you can speak again, he hands you the bottle. you take the other end of it, slow and unsure. "take it. i'll grab another one."
"oh. thanks." you smile. "i won't forget this."
he scoffs, preparing to say something witty in return. but you disappear into the crowd, leaving him alone next to the fridge. he doesn't grab another bottle. not because he doesn't want to, or because he forgot. he doesn't grab one because it was the last, and he gave it away. why? he isn't sure. he just wanted to get rid of you. yeah, that sounds good in his head. doesn't matter if it's true or not.
wooyoung can't leave before james wishes. he is his ride home. he doesn't owe it to the blonde haired man. not really. wooyoung would do anything for his friends anyway. truth is, ever since he has started working at the gas station, wooyoung doesn't have time to hang out. the least he can do is go to a few parties and drive him around. it's not like he has anything else to do.
which is why he finds himself on the first floor of the jacobs' house, blunt in hand and lighter in the other. the first room is occupied, and so is the second. as the last resort, he reaches the bathroom. it is empty, and in no time, wooyoung lays down in the empty bathtub, pulls the curtain shut, and lights the blunt.
the first inhale is like the first breath back to life. he can't help the hum that escapes his lips. the drags are slow, he savours every single one. by the time he reaches half of it, his senses are dulled. yet not dulled enough to not hear someone entering the bathroom. it's not the first time it would happen; someone doing their business and moving on. except this time, his ears perk up.
"here, really?" your voice echoes in the bathroom, even though you speak quietly. "it's... filthy."
"yeah well, you're a filthy girl." a male voice chuckles, and wooyoung's brows furrow. "come on, bend over."
"seriously?"
"you complaining now?"
you scoff. "just don't take forever."
oh.
what a shame. you were no different than the rest. secretly, he wanted you to be. he hears shuffling, kissing, then clothes being unzipped and unbuttoned. he returns to his own activity, brain feeling fuzzy. not fuzzy enough, because the sounds you emit keep distracting him. you keep ruining everything without even trying. the one thing that brought him peace has lost its power, and wooyoung has had enough.
he presses the lit end on the tiles that cover the wall, then stands up, not bothering to sneak out. the pulling of the curtain doesn't stop the man that has you bent over the sink and into the mirror. he glances at you through the reflection, briefly making eye-contact, before exiting the bathroom. you see him. he knows you do. you don't react, instead closing your eyes and giving all the attention to the man. he doesn't see who it is beyond the ginger hair. he doesn't want to. disappointment pools in his chest. he shouldn't have done it. perhaps he would have made himself believe it wasn't you. sadly, the image is now stuck in his brain, and his footsteps become faster as his thoughts start racing.
james is going home, whether he wants it or not.
𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐋𝐄.
there are many students who work and go to school at the same time. wooyoung isn't special. however, wooyoung is one of the rare ones, if not the only one, who manages a shop as if it's his own. the true owner is old and sick, and only comes in once a month. wooyoung is the one who takes care of the other two employees, inventory, salary, and whatnot.
he currently sits behind the counter, brown eyes bloodshot from exhaustion fixed on the computer screen as he orders the items that have sold out. there are two books on the counter: one of the inventory, and one of history class. he multitasks between checking the items on the screen and memorizing the years of important events needed for the upcoming exam. and it goes well, until the mouse pointer hovers above the cherry coca cola on the site. he doesn't write any amount in the box. usually, he'd put two or three. if none keeps you away from him, so be it.
the sound of the door opening doesn't distract him. it is the scent that does, making him look away from the screen and towards the fridges. you stand there, eyes skimming over the different soda cans. you linger by the cherry cola section, biting your lip in the process. wooyoung mimics you subconsciously, biting his own. you wear a dress today. he hasn't seen you at school, you didn't have any classes together. frankly, he was a tad bit bored. he wanted to see what else you had to offer that could annoy him.
he averts his gaze as you turn around and make your way to the counter. however, he does catch a glimpse of a few bruises on your neck. the memories of last night flood his mind, and wooyoung gets reminded just what you are. a disappointment.
"hello, calum."
right. he hasn't told you his real name. "mhm."
"just these two, please." you place two cans of sprite on the counter, right between his books. "studying?"
he sighs, minimizing the ordering site and switching to the register one. he scans the items, and finally looks at you properly as he reads the price out loud. "five."
"i never told you my name." you blabber, holding a five dollar bill for him to take. "i'm y/n."
he stays silent, looking at the crumpled bill in your hand. an awkward chuckle leaves you, and you try your best to straighten it, thinking it is the reason wooyoung won't take it. yet even when you do it, his gaze almost pierces you from intensity.
"uh... with tax?" you wonder.
"you can just put it down." he nods towards the counter.
"oh." your brows furrow as you follow his instructions, though the ends of your lips are still curved in a smile. "i don't have a contagious rash, calum."
"i do not care." he grabs the bill, placing it in the register and shutting it forcefully. "bye."
"aren't you a ray of sunshine today." you touch his nerve.
the man opens his mouth, ready to degrade you as you make your way towards the door, before he notices the bruises littering your arms and legs. he may be out of line, but something just won't leave him be at peace. "you like it rough?"
you stop in your tracks, body frozen. "what?"
"you heard me." he crosses his arms over his chest, something he does whenever he thinks deeply. "look at me when i'm talking to you."
"jeez louise." you chuckle nervously as you turn around. "it's like hearing my dad. look at me when i'm talking to you."
"does your dad know men fuck you in bathrooms of other people's houses?"
you don't seem surprised by his vulgar choice of words. not offended, neither. you seem scared. you tremble under his gaze as he circles the counter, approaching you slowly until you have to lean your head back slightly to look at him. "uh..."
"answer me."
"i-" you stutter, the cold cans in your hands the only thing cooling you from late summer heat and wooyoung's fire gaze. "he doesn't."
"you proudly showing off all these... sex injuries?" he lifts your arm, touching you for the first time. his fingertips tingle like soft electricity as he examines your bruises. these don't look like sex injuries. they look like proper injuries. at this moment, he wishes you'd confirm they're what he accused you off. for your sake, and for his sanity.
you don't reply at first, audibly gulping. then, you smile, too soft for the words that come out your lips. "what can i say? i do like it rough."
wooyoung's hand lingers on your arm, eyes searching yours for any hidden signal you might be sending him. when he finds none, he lets go, letting you resume your path to the exit.
"y/n?" your name is bittersweet on his tongue.
"yes?" you turn your head to the side as you touch the door handle.
"those aren't sex injuries." wooyoung's voice is laced with worry.
"i know." you lock eyes with him one more time, then finally step out.
he abandons both studying and ordering, leaving it for another day. his mind is too loud for either. yet, he re-enters the order site, just to type in generous number next to the cherry coca cola. as he does so, he can't help but wonder: how long until you start crying for help?
DEFINE LOVE.
group projects are useless. in a group of five, one or two people end up doing all the work, and one always makes up excuses and doesn't contribute. the rest? they do such a shabby job that doing nothing would've been more helpful.
as the media studies professor assigns the groups, wooyoung lays with his arms on the desk and his head on them. if he doesn't see mr herbert, mr herbert won't see wooyoung either, right? wrong.
"y/n, james, cassie, lexi, and wooyoung."
gods.
"since y/n isn't here today, please notify her of this project that must be done by the end of the month. your theme is: toxic love. i want you to show me the works. camera work, editing, acting, costumes, makeup, all of it."
fitting, wooyoung thinks as he looks over at your seat. to say he isn't worried about you would be a lie. he hopes you slept in, or caught a little cold. when you come back tomorrow, he hopes you don't have a new bruise on your skin. he doesn't analyze the sheet mr herbert gives him, eyes stuck on your empty chair. so much worry for a girl that doesn't even know his real name.
days have passed, and you don't share many classes. it was easy to keep away from you. what wooyoung doesn't understand is that, despite being friendly and kind, you do not have a single companion. you always roam the hallways alone, barely making it to your locker without getting pushed and shoved by people who won't look where they are going. the only person you interact with is him, by waving at him or simply smiling.
and your boyfriend. you may not be a gossip girl, but wooyoung can be if he wants to.
"who is she, anyway? she just dropped out of the open sky." wooyoung nods towards you one day as he replaces his math books with english.
james follows his gaze, and soon enough, lands on you pressed against the lockers, with a tall man towering over you. "ah, y/n? she just moved here at the end of summer. as soon as she moved with her parents, logan got his hands on her. he doesn't let her talk to anyone, that idiot."
"logan?" wooyoung raises an eyebrow at his blonde friend. "as in, nate jacobs' best friend, logan? that ginger cunt?"
"yep." james nods, then slams his locker shut. "real shame. she seems nice."
it is a real shame. shame that whenever nate jacobs is mentioned, wooyoung gets bad news. now, you're a part of it. but of course it is logan. how could he not recognize that stupid ginger head? his jaw tightens as logan raises his voice at you, and while wooyoung cannot comprehend what he is saying, the startled look on your face is enough for him to react. he slams his own locker shut, storming towards you as fire pools in his chest.
by the time he makes it, logan is kissing you. that bipolar fuck. to anyone else, this would look like a normal new couple activity. making out in the hallways, nothing new. to wooyoung, it is anything but normal. he sees the grip of his hand on your waist. he sees your hands on his chest, wanting to push but not being able to. before he turns around to leave, he sees a single stray tear escape your eye.
he doesn't see you again, not until saturday when the group meets up at james' house for the project. today is just planning, with no cameras or props. he parks his motorcycle just as a car pulls up, the headlights hurting his eyes. you exit the car, wearing a cardigan and jeans. and of course the cardigan is pink. there is a plate in your hands as well.
"brownies. made them all by myself." you respond before he gets a chance to ask. the smell of chocolate makes wooyoung smile. he can't remember the last time he ate a homemade brownie. "i hope you like them, wooyoung."
his name rolls of your lips like a bitter cherry. the man stops in his tracks, right in front of the door as he was about to ring. "ah."
"i don't know the reason behind your little... ruse, but what i do want to know is how far did you think you'll make it as calum?" again, your reaction is way to timid. was wooyoung used to explosive women? why does this surprise him?
"it was funny when i told you at first. and then... i don't know. it was too late to admit on my own." he answers truthfully. brown eyes land on your cardigan again, scanning it. "a cardigan? it's still warm."
"not for everyone. you brought in a jacket the first day of school." you push past him, finally pressing the bell.
he doesn't believe you. however, he cannot convince you to be honest, nor can he take the cardigan off you to prove a point. all he can is stand aside and look at you, calculating his next move.
a pair of arms envelop him and wake him up, and instinctively, he wishes to free himself. when he sees the long brown hair, he decides against, and instead wraps his arms around the girl. "hi, howard."
"so uptight, jung." the girl rolls her eyes as she steps away, smiling at him. the red lipstick is present, so subtle, yet so her. wooyoung can't help but smile as she does. it is contagious. "come on in."
wooyoung steps in first, brushing past lexi and entering the living room where james and cassie are talking on the couch, barely an inch of space in between them. the table is filled with bottles of alcohol and snacks instead of studying material. he hears lexi welcoming you, and in the corner of his eyes, hugging you, which seems to take you by surprise. you stay frozen in place, not knowing how to balance holding the plate and returning the unexpected hug. lexi takes the plate and disappears with it in the kitchen, leaving you alone.
usually, he would already plop on the armchair he has claimed for himself in james' house. right now, he is waiting for you to enter, monitoring your movements. for somebody that liked to talk a lot around him, you seem quiet and lost. for some reason, he wants you to know he is here if you need anything. if you show any sign of discomfort, he'll react. weeks have passed since school started, and you are yet to have a friend. perhaps not having any and only being met with mockery and fake kindness has made you alert, and is now ruining your chance to relax and meet someone. someone like lexi. not cassie. definitely not cassie.
the urge to protect you grows bigger with each day that passes. you annoy him, yet in classes without you, he feels empty. he wonders what you do, whether you try to make friends, and whether those people are nice to you. glares and warnings from him only help when he is nearby. you're delicate, a blooming rose in a field of thorns. and a rose under a bell called logan scavo. although still weak and repressed, the desire to break that bell grows bigger whenever he sees a new bruise on you.
"hello." you greet, pulling the sleeves of the cardigan over your hands.
"hello?" cassie smiles, that pity smile of hers. "who are you again?"
"y/n," you respond, not at all surprised by her behaviour. you're used to it in class, anyway. "we have several classes together."
"oh, do we?" she turns to james, seeking validation, then to wooyoung. "haven't noticed you, like, ever. have you noticed her, wooyoung?"
"of course i have." he shuts her down, then looks at you. "take a seat. armchair's comfy."
he motions towards the armchair, surprising others. nobody sits there if wooyoung is in the room. however, it seems that since he met you, he cares a little less about those seats he once gatekept. as you sit down, he follows by sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. before you can open your mouth, wooyoung sees that you are getting ready to get up, and interrupts you.
"i am pretty comfortable here." he says.
you send him a grateful smile, then sit back and look around. he sees admiration in your eyes. you aren't wrong. james has a big house, and might be the richest student in the area. some of the most memorable parties were held in this place. wooyoung would know. he attended every single one of them. and stayed cleaning afterwards, while james was either passed out drunk or passed out in bed with someone. cleaning while high was something very pleasant for wooyoung, even if it doesn't sound like it.
"you like the house?" james asks, seeing the look on your face.
"yeah, it's very nice." you nod, eyes examining the lavish chandelier.
"you live in that shed looking house at the end of the street, right? how do all three of you fit in there?"
"oh, it's just..." you fidget uncomfortably, placing your palms under your legs so that you sit on them, before continuing, "until we find something better. my parents decided last minute to move here, so that's the best they could do."
"don't feel bad." wooyoung is grateful to james for a second, although a spark of suspicion stays present. then, james meets his eyes as he puts a beer bottle to his lips, then continues after a sip. "wooyoung here lives in a trailer. nothing to be ashamed of."
wooyoung's jaw clenches. he didn't mind being called a stoner. a weirdo. a jackass. whatever. he would do anyone a favour, if deserved. he doesn't get into anybody's business. however, when it comes to his financial state? that's where he doesn't like to be touched.
"his sister and her daughter were crammed up in there with him up until recently."
nor does he like when his sister is mentioned. "james."
"right, sorry." james nods. he offers you a bottle, which you politely decline by shaking your head. "suit yourself. anyways, wooyoung doesn't like talking about his sissy. she died a few months ago."
and lastly, wooyoung doesn't like to be pitied. he can feel you staring, yet his eyes remain on the young man that sits on the couch to his opposite. he sips on his drink as if he had just told his own story, not someone else's without consent. "you done?"
"where's your niece, anyway? arin, was it?"
wooyoung stands up abruptly, causing you to flinch. a pang of guilt hits his heart. he didn't mean to scare you. james is crossing a line, and wooyoung cannot afford it to cross it himself. it won't end well. that's why he decides to retreat to the top floor, down the hallway, then out on the big balcony. it takes him less than a second to find a blunt in his pocket and light it up, all while leaning against the fence with his head hanging over it.
he doesn't know how long passes. long enough to go home, he hopes. the sound of doors opening and closing grounds him for a moment, mind not yet fuzzy enough to let go. your scent envelops him, and god, he hates that he feels comfort. he wishes to tell you to leave, but if you do, he fears it'll be worse.
"hey." you call, standing beside him and leaning on the fence. "it sucks down there without you."
the dark haired man smirks. "it sucks up here without you."
"ha-ha." you fake a laugh, rolling your eyes. you take a good look at him, and he feels it. your eyes taking in his form, lingering on the tattoo. "wooyoung?"
"yes, cherry?"
"uh," you stutter upon hearing the new nickname, blush creeping up your cheeks. he sees it out of the corner of his eye. "i wanted to say... if i'm bothering you, i'll go back. just say the words. it just didn't feel right to leave you alone."
"that's alright." he takes another drag of the blunt, then slowly blows it in the air, away from you. "you're not bothering me. yet."
a comfortable silence takes place, and you both stop and look at the east highland that is dimly lit in this evening. now and then, wooyoung takes a drag of the blunt, and the two of you watch the ash fall from the balcony until it gets swallowed by darkness in the air. you're staring at him again, you can't help it. wooyoung likes it, and he also can't help it. still, one thing won't leave his mind.
"why are you with scum like scavo?" he breaks the silence first.
"he's not that bad."
"don't defend him." wooyoung's tone is annoyed and angry. "he is awful, and you know it."
you sigh, turning around so that you lean against the balcony fence with your back. he turns his head towards you, finally making eye contact since you got up here. his eyes soften upon gazing into yours, and the blunt is loose in his grip.
"why?"
you smile. your hand reaches towards his face, brushing a raven stray strand from his forehead so that it doesn't fall in his eyes. everything you do has him falling further down the void, even if you're just standing and doing nothing. a tear escapes your eye, yet you keep smiling. "i can't leave him."
"but, why?" his voice is a whisper, afraid that he'll break you if he keeps asking.
"he blackmails me. i have no other choice." one by one, tears roll down your cheeks, yet not a single sob leaves your mouth. you smile through it all. "besides, he's just violent when i give him reason to be. otherwise, he really loves me."
"that is not love. you're smarter than that. besides, what could he possibly blackmail you with?"
you avoid his gaze, instead choosing to throw your head back so that you can look at the glimmering stars above. "i can't tell you."
"if you think i would judge you, you think very low of me. i'll be offended."
a long sigh leaves your glossy lips. it buys you some time to gather the courage to say the next words. "he has my nudes. my videos. if i leave, he'll show them to everyone. there."
wooyoung remains silent. not because he is disappointed, or disgusted. it is because he refuses to believe that someone would use your trust and loyalty like that. you trusted somebody with something that is so sacred to him, and that person treats it like blackmail material. "what the fuck."
"i- i shouldn't have said anything." regret sets in you, he sees it. "as if the bathroom thing wasn't enough, now this. i just keep lowering myself in your eyes. that's the last thing i wanted."
you try to leave, the sleeves of your cardigan soaking in the tears of your cheeks as you rub your face. he grabs you by your elbow, and you wince. slowly and carefully, wooyoung guides you toward the bench, sitting you down and crouching in front of you. he tests the waters, thumbs rubbing your wrists as he holds your hands in hopes of calming you down. when you show no signs of discomfort, he gently rolls up your sleeves, revealing injured arms.
"oh, cherry."
you sob, the sound shattering wooyoung's heart. he heard this one one too many times, until they stopped a few months ago and the trailer went silent. this time, when he looks into your eyes as he rubs soothing circles into your barely healed wounds, he makes himself a promise that this time it'll be different. this time, he won't bury the person. he will save her.
"if you expect me to act as if i didn't see this," he says, brows drawn together as he watches you fight for air. "i won't."
"i don't ask to be saved." you manage to squeeze the words out in between the sobs. "i am fine."
"you're not fine-"
"i said i'm fine." your tone shifts, causing wooyoung to halt his moves and freeze in front of you. as if he wasn't confused enough, you make it worse by standing up and yanking your arms away from him, then standing up. "i'm going back. forget this ever happened."
you close the door as you go back inside, already doing your part of forgetting. yet how is wooyoung supposed to, when all he can see when he closes his eyes is your skin littered with bruises of logan's death touch?
wooyoung doesn't immediately follow. he stays behind, thinking long and hard. the blunt burns out in his hand. another unused item he cherishes perishing because of you. he discards it on the ground, littering on james' balcony. how do you expect him not to meddle, when only months ago, his sister was in the same position?
eventually, he comes back. he went to clear his head, yet he came back in a worse state. the weed did nothing, only gave him stinging eyes and a feeling of emptiness. upon coming down, he makes his way to the kitchen, refusing to face you.
"hey, you." lexi pokes his forehead before he can collide with her figure, thoughts visibly elsewhere. "want a brownie?"
"sure."
lexi unwraps the plate you've brought, and even if the scent of brownies was present before you entered the house, now it was more intense. so intense that wooyoung almost drooled, but managed to hold it until lexi held a piece for him to take. without hesitation, he takes a bite out of her hand, savouring the intense chocolate flavour and fudgy texture.
"god." he groans, chewing slowly.
"right?" lexi nods, feeding him the remaining piece and putting the smudged finger in her mouth. "she has golden hands. can you believe these are homemade?"
"i can, actually. you can't find these in a store."
you don't sit on the armchair anymore. you sit on the couch, beside cassie. she is talking to you, while looking at wooyoung. he wants to interfere. whatever she is saying, it can't be good. but he refrains from meddling, giving his attention back to lexi.
you don't speak the rest of the night. you laugh at a joke, nod your head as drunk stories are exchanged. wooyoung keeps to himself, choosing to examine your body language instead. much like him, you were probably expecting to work on the project. when midnight comes, and not even an outline is made, you seek for a way out. he sees you fidgeting with your phone, the sleeves of your cardigan, and looking out the window. you've probably called logan to pick you up.
midnight turns into one in the morning, and you are still stuck between cassie and james. you've even accepted a bottle of beer, slowly sipping it. wooyoung is still sat on the floor, to your opposite. you do your best to avoid his gaze. seeing your flushed cheeks, he realizes alcohol isn't your friend. thus, he offers to save you once again.
"it's getting late, guys."
"we are just getting started," cassie giggles. "and we haven't started the project yet!"
"yeah, i don't think we're doing that tonight." the dark haired man stands up, running his fingers through his hair to tame it. "i'm leaving. anyone else?"
your eyes meet his. it is a silent plea for help, and this time, he's glad you're asking.
"cherry? need a ride home?"
the room stills, laughter dies out. you don't notice, too busy getting yourself off the couch. wooyoung pays them no mind, instead offering you his hand so that you don't trip over the coffee table and their legs. you accept it, carefully making your way out.
you say your goodbyes, too tipsy to realize that wooyoung's nickname, his offer to drive you home, and him holding your hand are a big deal to those who know him longer than you. before any of them can put together a sentence, wooyoung picks up his leather jacket, and leads you outside to the motorcycle, slamming the door shut behind him.
"you okay?" he asks.
"i forgot my plate." you complain.
the man smiles, the hazy look on your face too cute to leave him indifferent. he abandons your hand, retrieving the helmet that hangs off the vehicle. you tilt your head back as he approaches you again, eyes wide with curiosity.
"may i touch you?" he asks.
"huh?" you're confused, until your eyes fall on the helmet. "oh. yeah."
even with your consent, wooyoung moves carefully. he pushes the hair out of your face, the tips of his fingers tingly as they touch you. your face is flushed, and he can't tell whether it's from alcohol or this interaction. he feels guilty for hoping it's the latter.
once he finally secures the helmet, he helps you sit on his treasured motorcycle. a vintage harley davidson, left to him by his grandfather. he never lets anyone sit on it. any time he has to play chauffer, he uses his sister's car. you, however, he doesn't mind. it's foolish, really, these rules and habits he set up that he keeps breaking for you.
"comfortable?" he asks as he sits in front of you. you reply by wrapping your arms around his waist, and leaning your head against his back. he stills, breath hitching. "i'll... take that as a yes."
"mhm." you hum, eyes fluttering shut as he starts the engine. "what about your helmet, though?"
"worried about me?" wooyoung can't help but tease. "i only have the one, but i don't need it."
"i don't want your death on my conscience. i have enough on it already." you chuckle.
it was meant to be a joke, but wooyoung doesn't laugh. he wonders what troubles follow you every day, and whether they can be resolved. whether he can resolve them. his eyes drop to your arms, where the pink cardigan sleeves hide the little secret you've shown him.
"are we going?"
"yeah," wooyoung blinks, eyes now fixed on the road as he slowly backs away from james' house. "where should i drop you off?"
"logan's."
the young man clenches his jaw. there is no way you are going to his house in this state. "i can't do that."
"just... drop me off one block away, and i'll walk. he can't see me with you, anyway. he'd kill us both."
wooyoung stops the engine, head turning to the side to look at you. "what?"
"should i just walk? is it trouble?" you unwrap your arms and start undoing your helmet, and wooyoung suddenly feels cold around his waist.
"no," he stops you, putting the helmet back in place. "i- can't i just drop you off at your parents house?"
"i promised logan to sleep over tonight. he is expecting me."
wooyoung's hands are tied. you are running back into the lion's den, and all he can do is help you get there faster. his heart pounds against his ribs, and thoughts run loose in his brain. it all calms when your hands wrap around his waist again, beneath the leather jacket and against his white cotton t-shirt. subconsciously or not, you rub soothing circles with your thumbs on his torso, and it makes him calmer.
"i'll be fine, woo." you lean your chin on his shoulder, the side of the helmet pressed against his neck and cheek. "i pinky promise."
when he turns to look at you again, he can't help but smile upon seeing your squished cheeks in the helmet and eyes looking up at his. when he looks at your arms around him, he sees your pinky finger waiting for his, and he rolls his eyes before interlocking it with yours. "stupid girl."
"you like me." you giggle, leaning your head against his back once again as he starts the engine.
he pretends not to hear you.
𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒.
before school, wooyoung stops by the shop. he reviews all the inventory that has arrived, and signs the papers so the driver can leave. lydia, the middle-aged woman who works the morning shifts, immediately gets to work sorting out all the items they've received. wooyoung lingers by the counter, picking through the rack of cigarette packs.
"wooyoung?" the woman calls, knife in hand as she stares at the open box.
"yes, lydia?" the young man briefly glances her way, before returning to his hunt.
"this is a lot more cherry cola than you usually order."
"yes."
"okay." the redhead doesn't question it, instead already stacking them in the fridge. wooyoung knows best. it's why he is leading this store. "might try one myself these days."
"suit yourself."
"what are you rummaging for, boy?" the sounds wooyoung keeps making irritates her, causing her to halt her task in order to approach the counter and see what the young man is up to. "your brand is right there."
finally, wooyoung reaches for a pack. not his usual one, lydia notices. the raven haired man scans the item, then throws the cash in the register before shutting it and finally properly looking at the woman. "found it."
"you don't smoke that." she raises an eyebrow. "those are almost bland sticks in comparison to what you usually smoke."
"i hear those are not good for your health." he jokes, unwrapping the clear foil from the pack and tossing it in the trash can by the counter. "so i'm trying something new. healthier."
"right." she doesn't buy it. not one bit. yet she lets it go, for now. she follows as he approaches the fridge, grabbing a can of the freshly stacked sodas and shoving it in his bag. "what do you think you're doing?"
"i'll pay for it tonight," he yells, already out the door.
in english class, he is glad to see he has arrived before you. he sets the can on your desk, and sits at his own.
little by little, the desks are occupied, and the pointer on the clock is dangerously reaching the number nine. you are still not here. everyone else is, with lexi and james greeting him as soon as they enter through the door. the clock strikes nine, and the teacher arrives. you? not here.
you promised you'd be fine. pinky promised, even.
the can of cola occupies your desk, untouched. a taunting reminder that you aren't here because something might've happened to you. or someone. as he falls deep into his thoughts, he begins to see a pattern. every time you don't show up at school, the day after you appear with new bruises. the more he thinks, the more restless he grows. brown eyes glance at the clock, awaiting the end of the class. he isn't one to ditch, or create trouble. no, he is an average student. today, that will have to change.
wooyoung stands up, shoving his belongings into his bag, and making his way outside the classroom, despite the teacher's warnings. but not before grabbing the now warm can of coke from your desk, leaving a wet circle behind where it sat.
he slows the bike before he reaches the curb, lets the engine idle while his feet skim the pavement. the street is dim, washed in the kind of yellow light that makes everything look unreal. his hands stay tight around the grips. the helmet presses in around his head, familiar and suffocating.
he doesn't know why he came here.
the thought comes late, inconvenient. he should have asked it sooner. now the engine is still running, heat bleeding up through his legs, and turning around would feel like admitting something he's not ready to name. he kills the engine.
the silence feels immediate, heavy. the street doesn't sound the way it did while he was moving. every noise stands out now. a car passing somewhere too far away, voices drifting from inside the house, laughter sharp and careless.
logan is outside, leaning against the brick wall. phone in his hand. jacket unzipped. relaxed in a way that makes wooyoung's jaw tighten.
nothing about him looks like a villain. that bothers wooyoung more than it should. he swings off the bike and lets it rest on the stand. doesn't take the helmet off. the visor stays down, tinting the world darker. safer. he walks closer, steps measured, controlled. he doesn't announce himself.
"hey." he calls.
logan looks up, annoyed first, then squints like he's trying to place him. "yeah?"
wooyoung doesn't answer. he hadn't planned words. they scatter the moment logan opens his mouth again.
"you lost or something, jung?"
the pressure behind wooyoung's ribs builds. he thinks about the bathroom mirror. about how easy it was to decide what he was seeing. about how much worse it feels now that he knows he was wrong.
"maybe," he says, and hates how small it sounds.
logan laughs. short, dismissive. "then keep it moving, man. i don't need no weed from you."
it's not cruel. it's not threatening. it's casual. careless. mocking in a way wooyoung is used by people like him. he acts as if no weight sits on his chest. that's what cracks something. wooyoung steps forward and shoves him. it's abrupt, ungraceful. logan stumbles back a step, hits the wall with his shoulder.
"what the fuck—"
wooyoung doesn't let him finish. he closes the distance too fast, helmet knocking into logan's jaw when he leans in. the impact sends a dull ache through his skull. it grounds him. logan swings back, wild and off-balance. his fist glances off wooyoung's shoulder. someone swears. shoes scrape against concrete. it's messy and loud and nothing like the fights wooyoung imagines later, when he's trying to justify this to himself.
they trade hits that don't mean much. elbows, knuckles, breath knocked out and replaced with adrenaline. it's over almost as quickly as it starts. logan slips on the uneven pavement and goes down hard, air leaving his lungs in a sharp sound. wooyoung freezes.
for a second, all he can hear is his own breathing, too loud inside the helmet. his hands shake. this wasn't supposed to be anything. it was supposed to stop something. instead it's only made it worse. logan groans, rolls onto his side, swearing under his breath. alive. furious. breathing.
that's enough.
wooyoung steps back. the helmet feels unbearable now. too tight, too hot, too loud with his thoughts. he pulls it off and drops it without thinking. it hits the pavement with a hollow sound, rolling once before coming to rest on its side. he doesn't pick it up.
he turns away instead, heart still racing, hands empty and useless at his sides. the bike starts easily, obedient. the engine roars too loud in the quiet street. he leaves without looking back, driving himself home.
home, to the trailer, where he slams the door shut and lays face down on his bed. everything burns and hurts, but nothing is worse than the dull pain he feels inside his chest. he didn't even get to see you. the not-knowing settles heavier than the bruises. all he can do is wait, and that is something he is somewhat good at.
exhaustion takes over his body, and soon enough, wooyoung falls asleep while thinking of you. which is odd, because it is the first time he has ever thought about a girl, especially one he knows only a short time.
𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄.
next day, wooyoung is the one to skip school. he stays hidden in his trailer, eating ravioli out of a can with a plastic spoon as he sits on the floor. his breathing is slow and steady, each breath sending a sharp pain to his side. he thought he'd sleep through the pain. he was wrong.
even though injured, he still comes to the shop. he has skipped his shift the day before, right after the fight, but he had something to do then. sleep. right now, he is dying of boredom. thus, he finds himself in the staff corner, hunched over the untouched joints. it's been a while since he smoked properly, without having to cut it short because of you.
"wooyoung, i have to go now." lydia peeks through the beaded curtain. "if you need anything, call me."
"sure thing." he nods. "thanks for staying yesterday."
she waves her hand, as if saying not to mention it. "you need to take care of your face, boy. it's scaring the customers away."
"they'll manage." he rolls his eyes.
when lydia leaves, wooyoung is left alone in the store. the fridges hum their melody, as does the broken light at the end of the place. he leans back on the chair, focusing on his breathing as to make it hurt less. he does well, until he hears the doors opening and closing. shit, maybe he shouldn't have come in today. he can barely stand up without wincing.
the person stands by the counter, which means they need something quick and will be gone sooner than they came in. cigarettes, he presumes. or condoms.
or a single cherry coca cola.
"hi."
the man keeps his head low, brown eyes fixed on the hand that hugs the can of soda. you sound cheerful. he doesn't want to ruin it. "just this?"
a sigh escapes your lips. "are we still doing this? playing push and pull?"
you don't understand. he doesn't want you to see him like this. beat up, weak, ugly. he could barely face himself in the mirror, and he doesn't want to think about your reaction. he scans the can, biting the inside of his cheek. "two fifty."
for a moment, you stay still. he can feel your eyes on him. it feels as if you're choosing your words, preparing to tell him something. you opt for actions instead, placing a pink paper bag on the counter. "for you."
without once turning his head towards you, he takes the bag, not sure what to expect inside. of course the bag is pink. he wouldn't expect anything else from you. his hands finally pull the item out, revealing it in its fully glory under the purple neon sign that hangs on the wall above his head.
it's his helmet. not in its original shape, but not in the shape he left it in, either. the scratches are covered up by stickers, each one more sparkly than the other. a soft smile lands on his lips as he examines the flowers and hearts decorating the black item. although the cut on his bottom lip hurts like hell, he can't stop smiling. this is so... you.
finally, he looks at you. as expected, your face changes from hopeful and excited to mortified. and that's what he was afraid of. "listen—"
"wooyoung." you rush around the counter, placing your hands on his cheeks and not giving him an option of looking away. "i- i mean i knew, i just... wasn't aware it'd hurt this much to see you like this."
your eyes become glossy and red, and lord, if you drop a tear for him, he will tear this town apart. he places his hands over yours, skin burning where you touch him, and rubs soothing circles on the backs of your hands. "it's worse than it looks."
he won't tell you that it burns like hell. that his cheekbones ache as you hold his face. no, he's guilty for enjoying it. he doesn't know if anyone has ever held him like this, or looked at him with eyes like yours. you look like you care. the worst part? wooyoung finds himself doubting whether it's sincere or not.
which is what has sabotaged him the whole time. wooyoung has never had a serious relationship. a fling? yes. and that's all there was. not because nobody wanted him, but because rejection meant safety. it was easier to be alone than to get hurt. now? he is putting his walls down without even realizing, and alarms are finally starting to blare in his brain.
"i know you hate being pitied." your voice is soft, muting the alarms for a moment. "but please, let me take care of you. you have dried blood on your face, and it is hurting me seeing you like that."
it is funny how you seem to already know him better than a close friend like james. you don't wait for a response, instead pushing past him in search of a first aid kit. he sits on the counter, legs dangling in the air as he watches you rummage for the box. the concentrated look on your face is cute, and he finds himself feeling disappointed when you finally locate it. he wanted to stare at you a bit more.
you set the box on the counter next to him, standing between his legs on a safe distance. his body and mind are in a trance, eyes following your hands as you prepare everything you need. your hands are gentle, and slow. he thought it'd hurt, but instead, it is almost ticklish. you clean his face, wiping off the dried blood, before moving on to putting ointment on the cuts. you clean the one on his eyebrow next to his piercing, then the one on his cheek, and finally, the one on his bottom lip. he winces, not from pain, but from sensitivity.
"sorry." you whisper, eyes still fixed on his lips. "did that hurt?"
"no, i just... i have sensitive lips."
"that's cute." you smile. "if you didn't bite them all the time and pluck at them... maybe try lip balm."
there is something about you seeing everything through pink glasses. it is comforting. wooyoung never thought he'd be called pretty or cute, and like it, on top of that. yet, here he sits, smiling like a fool despite the cut, because you called him cute.
"if it's any comfort, logan looks way worse."
"you know all the right things to say." he scoffs. "i hate that."
the two of you fall in a comfortable silence. his face is pretty much clean and treated, but you still find ways to linger and care. he sees it in your eyes every time you reach for something out of the box. he lets you. until a heaviness sits on his chest, and he remembers the reason behind his face.
"y/n." he calls, voice serious. you don't respond. you know where he is going with this, and you hope that if you don't respond, he won't continue. "you made a promise."
"yeah, well." the gulp on your side is audible, that if the situation weren't as serious as it was, it'd be funny. "i suck at keeping them."
your breath hitches as his hand touches your chin, gently lifting your head up so that he can take a look at your neck. the concealer you've put on does a poor job at masking the fresh bruises that cover you. it ignites fire within him, and his mind creates unwanted images of logan's hands on you on its own. his hand drops. not abruptly, not like he's burned. just enough distance to breathe again. his jaw tightens, then loosens. he looks anywhere but at your neck.
"you're out of concealer," he says, like it's a neutral observation. like it doesn't mean anything at all.
you huff out a quiet laugh. "yeah. noticed."
he reaches for the first aid kit before he can think better of it, fingers sifting through gauze and cotton pads. it gives him something to do. something that doesn't involve the way his chest feels too tight for his ribs. he stands on his feet again, freeing the counter.
"sit," he mutters, nodding toward where he sat.
you hesitate, just a second, then do as he asks. your legs brush his knee when you hop up, and he has to look away again. he wets a cotton pad, tests it against his own wrist like he's the one being treated.
"this might be cold," he says.
"i can handle cold."
he believes you. that's the problem. he works carefully, slower than he needs to, cleaning around the bruises without touching them directly. his hands are steady now. too steady. he focuses on details: the faint freckle near your collarbone, the way your breath stutters when the cotton gets too close, the way your lips glimmer under the neon sign.
"you don't have to," you say quietly. not pulling away. not pushing him either.
"i know," he answers, just as quiet. then, after a beat, "stay still."
it's not an order. it's a plea disguised as one. the store hums around you. the fridge, the light, the faint buzz of the sign outside. time stretches thin, fragile. he finishes and steps back, giving you space again, hands dropping to his sides.
"that'll fade," he says. "not fast. but it will."
"you're really bad at pretending you don't care," you say, not unkindly.
his mouth twitches despite himself. "so are you."
that earns him a smile. small. real.
"so..." he trails, shifting his attention to the cash register. "what else do you do besides being annoying?"
you laugh, the sound dear to his heart. "i like to draw."
"really? what do you draw?"
it doesn't take much to take the lid off you. you blabber about sketches, types of things you draw, where you do it. he doesn't need to ask. he is glad. it feels nice to know that you are comfortable enough to share this piece of you with him on your own. you carry a sketchbook around, cleverly hiding it and sneakily doodling in between classes. with how much he pays attention to you, it is odd how he hasn't noticed. he voices it out loud.
"i keep it away from you specifically." you cheeks warm up.
"from me?" he questions, turning his attention to you. "why?"
"i can't say. i'd rather die."
wooyoung nods. the last thing he wants to do is push you and make you shut down. you could use a friend. and frankly, so could he. one that doesn't bring out the worst in him. "alright, then. keep your secrets."
"nerd." you recognize the reference. "who would've thought that bad boy wooyoung knew that movie?"
"bad boy?" he repeats, an amused grin on his face. "is that how you see me?"
"black hair, leather jacket, eyebrow piercing, tattoos, smoking, parties, famous among girls... you pretty much give that impression, yeah."
he laughs, genuinely. he never thought of himself like that. he was always in james' shadow, just how he liked it. away from the spotlight, but known enough to make people stay away from him. and girls approach him whenever they needed him. it doesn't make him a womanizer if they are the ones seeking him, right?
"cute." he says without thinking.
"what is?" you're curious, legs dangling in the air as they hang from the counter.
"you've been checking me out. that's cute. well, embarrassing for you."
the words are stuck in your throat, and you struggle to form a sentence while he soaks in your expression. "what? no- i mean, it's impossible not to. not like that! it's just... you're everywhere."
"that's alright. i forgive you and let it go." he generously says. your relief is short lived, because the smirk on his face is bad news. "if you show me your little sketchbook."
"no."
"just one little drawing?" he places his hands on the counter, trapping you. he tilts his head, eyes searching for yours while you frantically look at anything but him. "one page."
"wooyoung." you warn.
"come on, cherry." the nickname is sweet and inviting. "why not? are the drawings... smutty?"
finally, you lock eyes with him. mortified. "no!"
he laughs, biting his tongue teasingly in the process. "then, what's the issue?"
he doesn't realize how close he is standing to you, until you move in further and your nose almost touches his. "you'll make fun of me."
he wouldn't. maybe. he wants to say it, but your scent is putting him off track. all he can think of is how pretty you look under neon lights. it casts a soft purple blush on your face. your eyes glimmer like the first time he saw you. the lip gloss is present, a little smeared in the corner. without thinking, his hand touches your face, thumb rubbing the excess gloss off. your breath hitches at the touch, yet you don't move. you let him. wooyoung is lost in the way your skin feels under his fingertips, how you blush under his touch, and how your legs don't sway anymore. you stay perfectly still as he admires your features. there is an odd sensation is his body. he doesn't recognize it, used to only lustful feelings when willingly interacting with a girl. now? he is utterly captivated by you.
another customer pushes the door open then, bell chiming overhead, breaking the moment clean in half. he steps away from you, and you hop down from the counter, smoothing your clothes like nothing just happened. wooyoung greets the customer, the look on his face back to neutral. still, when he looks at you, his expression softens. before you leave, you hesitate, fingers brushing the edge of the counter.
"thank you," you say. not for the bandages. not really.
he watches you exit the shop, leaving behind traces of your scent that clings to his body. wooyoung exhales slowly, like he's been holding his breath since yesterday. fingertips touch the stickers that decorate the helmet, and the fluttering feeling in his chest is foreign. it scares him that he doesn't know what it means.
𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓.
wooyoung has already made peace with the fact that the project will never be done. they will all get bad grades, because he refuses to do all the work with lexi again and have the rest take credit. not this year. tonight was supposed to be the project night, not a party at nate's night. maybe he can ask the professor for a different due date, since he has been missing from school due to his... injuries. it didn't hurt at all. he just used it so that he can focus on the missed studies and the shop. and getting away from you and whatever odd feelings appear when you are around.
still, as james' chaperone, he finds himself pushing through the crowd of warmed up people in his signature leather jacket and washed out jeans. james had made a comment about it still being warm for a jacket, yet wooyoung doesn't bother to explain that he isn't cold anyway. he just uses it as a makeshift shield from people approaching him.
that shield doesn't work for lexi, because she approaches him and hugs him without a warning. "hey, stupid."
"hi, ugly." wooyoung pats her head.
"gosh." she pulls away, sighing. "i wish i could just sneak off in one of the rooms and do the project."
"howard, don't be silly." the young man rolls his eyes, pushing past her and going to the kitchen. he feels her follow behind. "go out there and drink. you'll feel better."
"and what will you do?" she crosses her arms, looking at him with a raised eyebrow as he rummages through cupboards. he doesn't answer. instead, he opens up a box of chocolate covered sticks, and shoves one into his mouth. "you'll... eat?"
"yep." he says with a full mouth. "then, i'll get high."
he doesn't miss the look on her face as he passes by her and goes to the living room. lexi hates that habit of his, that much he knows. she makes sure to voice her opinion on it every time she sees a blunt or hears him talk about it.
"woo-"
"i don't wanna hear it."
it doesn't take long for wooyoung to get annoyed. he hates being told what to do. he doesn't tell lexi to... whatever is wrong with her. he can't even find anything bad about her. and that annoys him even more.
the living room is somewhat empty, with everybody outside by the pool. again. he won't complain, because he can have the couch all to himself. he props his legs up on the coffee table, ready to get cozy and enjoy his snacks in peace, when someone pushes his legs off it.
"what-"
"oh, great! you're here too." james exclaims, plopping onto the couch next to his friend. "you can play with us."
"play?" wooyoung raises his eyebrow, looking at the people gathering around the table.
"spin the bottle." james is excited. "with truths and dares."
"what the fuck." the dark haired man breathes out, mumbling to himself. "eleven year olds."
"it doesn't get more simple and more chaotic. that's the beauty of it." james finishes off his beer, then places the empty bottle on the table and gives it a test spin. "is everyone here? where are y/n and logan? he said they'd be here."
wooyoung's chest tightens. his stomach flutters. a lump appears in his throat, and his eyes carefully skim the small crowd, as if scared of your appearance. more than that, he is scared of your appearance by his side. he doesn't know how much control he has left in him.
"we're-" logan pushes through the crowd, hand firm around your elbow. his eyes land on wooyoung, fire igniting behind his blue irises. "-here. what the fuck is he doing here?"
your eyes follow logan's pointed finger, and also land on wooyoung. there is an uneasy look on your face, and hesitation. as if you wish to greet him, but you can't. the grip on your elbow is stopping you.
"wooyoung is my best friend, and where i go, he goes." james shuts him down. "now, will you play or get the fuck out of here?"
the redhead thinks, biting his lip and squinting his eyes at wooyoung. the other man doesn't show anything but boredom, biting the sweet sticks in his hand. finally, logan sits on the ground, pulling you with him. "fine."
"good." james nods, then looks at you. "hi, y/n, darling. how are you?"
"i'm good, james." you smile, happy that someone other than logan is talking to you. "how are you?"
"i'm good too. now, would you do me the honors of spinning the bottle first?" he holds out the green bottle for you to take, and you happily do so.
but not before glancing at logan, and it seems that only wooyoung sees the nod from him before you spin the bottle. you were asking for a permission to do something so simple. he cannot imagine doing that to anyone. having so much control over his partner, overlook them and harm them, all while they do nothing but love him. you don't belong with him. you know that. for reasons unknown to wooyoung, beyond the one you told him, you protect him and stay in this wilting cage.
"cassie asks james." you say, clapping your hands once.
wooyoung dissociates. the sweets turn sour in his mouth, eyes noticing everything he doesn't want to. logan's hand on your thigh, an occasional squeeze or pinch to your side when you get too excited, a whisper in the ear that makes your smile fade. he is corrupting you, little by little, using your kindness for his benefit.
when your eyes lock with his, he freezes. he feels his hands go cold, and his heart beat loud. the moment is slow, and the crowd goes silent in his ears. you smile, so tiny, and so subtle, it manages to get past logan. he wishes to smile back. he truly does. instead, his brows furrow, and he bites the inside of his cheek. you don't expect that, and before he can do anything else, you look away. he can't fake happiness or excitement. not while you sit in front of him and he can't help you.
"wooyoung?"
the moment speeds up again, james nudging him awake. "huh?"
"kat is asking you truth or dare."
he looks over at the girl, as she awaits his answer. "dare me to leave. please."
"sure." kat nods, clasping her palms and leaning on the table. "i dare you to leave."
wooyoung squints his eyes. that was too easy. "what's the catch?"
"leave with lexi to the bathroom and come back after ten minutes."
there is a sly smirk on kat's lips. an uncomfortable one on lexi's. he wants to tell her that they don't have to. it's a game. there won't be consequences. but lexi stands before he can speak, waiting for him by the door. wooyoung sighs, jaw tightening. so be it.
as soon as they both enter, they hear a lock turning outside, and just then the weight of awkwardness settles in both of them. lexi sits on the edge of the bathtub, gaze fixed on the tiled floor. she breaks the silence first. "you got a stopwatch?"
wooyoung leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at lexi. "we don't need one."
the girl nods, eyes wandering anywhere but on him. "so... this is awkward."
"only if you make it." wooyoung shrugs. "i could use the silence."
"right. sorry."
something about her tone doesn't let wooyoung enjoy the silence he was promised. he walks over to her, crouching beneath her so that she has no choice but to look at him. her eyes are red, and a few tears have already escaped her them. wooyoung places his hands on her knees. "what's wrong, ugly?"
"i just..." her voice is hoarse. "i feel out of place."
wooyoung hums, thumb absentmindedly pressing into her knee. "yeah. makes sense."
lexi blinks. "that's it?"
"what, you want a speech?" he tilts his head. "everyone out there is pretending they belong. you're just bad at pretending."
a weak huff leaves her nose. not quite a laugh. "you don't seem to care."
"i do," he says easily. "just not about fitting in."
she studies his face like she's trying to figure out how that's possible. "must be nice."
"it's lonely," he corrects. "what triggered this?"
she hesitates for a while. a moment passes, and wooyoung doesn't rush her. "i see all these people making out, touching and fucking like it's nothing. i haven't even had my first kiss yet."
"that's it?" he repeats her earlier words.
she shoots him a glare, a silent warning. "don't."
"lexi, there are no set rules in time about these things. they're not better than you for already having it, nor are you better than them for not yet having it. it goes both ways. when you're ready, it'll happen." he pushes himself off the ground, sitting on the edge of the tub next to her.
"i am ready." she protests. "but it seems that everybody sees right through me. at first i didn't want it to be with just anyone. now, i am growing desperate."
silence engulfs the bright bathroom again. there is nothing comforting about this situation, and if they don't exit soon, lexi could have a whole meltdown here. it will just make it worse for her case. he glances at his phone screen, and realizes they have five more minutes. he can repair some damage.
"i get it." he nods. "you want it to be with someone who cares. and someone you care about."
"yeah."
"you care about me too, right?"
she whips her head around, so fast that her neck cracks in a satisfying way. "what?"
"do you?"
lexi stumbles on her own words, struggling to form a sentence. "yeah, of course. i've known you forever."
"good."
the young man places his hands on her cheeks, wiping the tears away with his thumb as his eyes search her face. when she doesn't pull away, wooyoung takes it as a signal to lean in. it is natural to him, kissing girls. he has done it many times, much like lexi said. this is nothing more but an offer and comfort for a friend.
he stops mere inches away, allowing her one more moment of backing off. she doesn't, instead leaning in herself and pressing her lips against his. he can smell the lipstick off her, the signature red she always wears. the kiss is sweet, soft, and full of emotions. none of them are romantic. not to wooyoung, at least. and they shouldn't be to lexi, either.
wooyoung is the first to pull away, hands still on her face. her eyes stay shut, tears still streaming down her cheeks. "lexi?"
"i don't know if i feel better or worse." she admits.
"why would you feel worse?"
"because i know i'll dream of this. and i'll never have it again. not in a way that i want, anyway."
oh.
fuck.
"i-" he is taken aback by the sudden confession. "i didn't know."
"a moment of weakness." the girl smiles through her tears. "you shouldn't have ever known."
he feels somewhat bad. not for the reasons one might think, such as kissing his friend who secretly harbored feelings for him. no. it's imagining someone else there instead. someone he barely knows. and replaying it as they exit, an arm around the friend for comfort and eyes fixed on you.
𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄.
logan scavo is not the most loyal man you'll meet. you know that. he has brought countless girls over, slept with them with you in the next room, made out with them at parties. then why do you feel so bad for feeling jealous when wooyoung and lexi exit the bathroom? she looks flushed, and wooyoung seems closer to her than usual. they don't speak of it. they sit back down, as if nothing happened. you try to catch his gaze, but he cleverly dodges it.
you tell yourself it's nothing. you've gotten good at that. good at shrinking feelings until they fit somewhere harmless, somewhere logan won't notice. jealousy is ugly. you don't get to have it. not when you've stayed. not when you've forgiven worse.
logan leans back, arm draping behind you like a claim more than a comfort. his fingers don't touch you, not really. they hover. they always hover when he's distracted. you let it happen. you always do.
lexi laughs at something james says. it's a little too loud, a little too breathless. she keeps glancing at wooyoung like she's afraid he'll disappear if she doesn't keep track of him. he doesn't look at her. he doesn't look at you either. his attention is fixed on the bottle, on his hands, on anything but faces. it shouldn't bother you.
it does.
you replay the image without meaning to: the way she walked out first, cheeks flushed, eyes shiny. the way wooyoung followed, protective and touchy. you've seen him detached, sarcastic, bored. you've never seen him careful. at least not with anyone other than you. your stomach tightens at the thought. you know the feeling. you refuse to name it.
"you okay?" logan murmurs, low enough that only you can hear it.
you nod instantly. too fast. "yeah."
he studies you for a second, eyes narrowing, like he's checking for something he doesn't actually want to find. then he shrugs, attention drifting away again. satisfied. you hate how relieved you feel when he stops looking. the bottle spins again. someone groans. someone laughs. the party swells and recedes like a tide you're stuck standing in. you glance at wooyoung despite yourself.
he's already looking at you.
it lasts barely a second. long enough to register. not long enough to mean anything. his jaw tightens before his eyes flick away, as if he's been caught doing something he promised himself he wouldn't do again. your chest aches.
you don't know why that look feels different from all the others you've shared before. maybe it's because this time, he looks... guilty. not cold. not annoyed. guilty. as if something happened that you weren't allowed to see. as if something was taken from you without your consent.
you press your nails into your palm until the sting grounds you. logan's hand finally lands on your thigh, fingers squeezing once. a silent reminder. you soften immediately, leaning into him, offering him a smile you've practiced to perfection.
"truth or dare?" maddy asks.
"truth," logan says for you, before you can speak.
"if you could be with anyone else in this room, who would you choose?" you should've known maddy would ask something like that. stirring drama, it's her power.
"ask something else." logan is unamused, taking a sip of his beer.
maddy isn't scared of logan. she isn't scared of anyone. thus, she smiles at logan, so innocently, and bites her lip. "why? jealous she'll say someone you don't like? or ashamed because someone else could do a better job?"
"it's an inappropriate question. i am her boyfriend."
"you don't act like it."
"excuse me?"
"you heard me, jackass."
insults are exchanged, and with each one thrown, they are getting more into each other's faces. maddy is pointing her nail into his chest, and he is gripping the coffee table so hard it turns his knuckles white. the bottle isn't the only thing on it now, with the two of them leaning against it as the moment gets more heated. you stay still, knowing better than to interrupt him. there is still space in between them, where your gaze escapes and lands on the figure that is already looking at you. wooyoung doesn't seem fazed by the situation unfolding in front of him. his eyes show the emotion you hate, much like him. pity. you don't need it. not from him, not from anyone.
"guys." james interrupts, getting tired of the chaos and not wanting anything to happen in nate's house. he'd be responsible for suggesting the game, and for getting maddy in trouble. "come on."
"yeah, maddy. back off."
"i will." she smiles again, making logan's blood boil. "as soon as she answers the question."
slowly, the whole group shifts their attention to you. maddy with an encouraging look, logan with a warning one. your eyes betray you, landing on wooyoung's frame in between them.
his brows furrow, not angrily. confused. as if he didn't expect it. as if wondering why you are looking at him while everyone else is waiting for an answer. but this is your answer. a silent one, to yourself. if you weren't with logan, you'd be with jung wooyoung.
it is the first time you admit such a thing to yourself. having feelings for somebody. not feeling loved in your relationship. thinking that you'll find better in someone else. the only thing left to find out is whether wooyoung truly is what you want him to be. what he presents himself to be.
so far, he didn't polish himself. didn't make himself look perfect in your, or anyone's eyes. he shows himself as he is; rough around the edges, doesn't switch personalities depending on the setting, has only one personality. unlike logan, who acts like five people in one body. you don't want that.
you want someone who sees you the way wooyoung saw your bruises. you want someone careful like wooyoung who asks before touching you. you want someone tender like wooyoung who has treated your wounds. you want comfort, and security. something you only feel when you are in that shop or sitting at the desk next to him.
as you realize all these things right in this moment, the people around you start murmuring. they follow your gaze, soon landing on wooyoung. including logan. fuck.
before you can defend yourself, or logan can react, maddy scans the situation. and realizes just what she has done. she smiles at you, then winks, the rhinestones of her makeup blinking under the lights as she does so. "nice one, sweetie. we got him."
huh?
"you're so easy to piss off, scavo." she rolls her eyes, pushing him away from herself with her hand. "she wouldn't leave you for anyone. or anything. relax."
but you would. if you had the chance. if you weren't in deep shit since the day you moved here. you'd leave, and never look back. nobody here knows exactly what is keeping logan and you together. not even wooyoung. he knows a fragment of it. one that you let slip that night on james' balcony when you followed wooyoung to comfort him. you cannot allow yourself to set your eyes upon him anymore tonight. not when logan doesn't find this prank funny.
deep inside, you wonder whether wooyoung believes it to be a prank. what does it matter, when cassie's words ring back in your ears from the night of the project. when she caught you staring at lexi feeding wooyoung your brownies, and uttered the words. they are in love, they just don't know it yet.
you should've stepped away. that was the plan. but wooyoung somehow always lured you back in, whether he meant it or not. and you didn't resist. now, as you remind yourself of how they looked as they exited the bathroom, you feel a hollow pain in your chest. you feel selfish.
selfish for feeling jealous at the thought of wooyoung treating her like he treats you. does he tease her as well? does he care for her? how much time do they spend behind closed doors? what do they do?
"go on, spin the bottle!" james hits you with a straw, giggling as you wake up from your train of thoughts.
you do as told, spinning the bottle once again with logan's approval. the group has been fidgeting around since maddy has asked you a question, and people are now sitting in a different order. such order that makes the bottle land on cassie and wooyoung.
"youngie!" she exclaims. you can feel him roll his eyes. "truth or dare, babe?"
"ask me again." he mutters.
she sighs, but repeats the question, omitting the nickname this time. wooyoung chooses truth this time, probably not wishing to end up in the bathroom with someone again. unless that is lexi, you suppose. then, cassie asks what has been on everyone's minds. "what happened in there with my sister?"
the room is loud with cheering and wooing. you stay still, eyes fixed on the bottle, scared to look at him. he delays answering, waiting for the room to quiet down. the lump in your throat grows with anticipation and dread. "we kissed."
and erupts.
"oh my god!" the blonde girl cheers, jumping on her sister with a hug. "is it official? are you two together?"
the air is hard to breathe. the room is small, suffocating. it doesn't help that some of them have lit cigarettes, and even if the windows and doors are open, the smell still travels to your throat. you feel like dying on the spot. you can't take it anymore.
"logan." you turn to him, hands on his shoulders. "can i go lay down upstairs until we leave?"
to your surprise, he nods. in his head, it's better if you were up there alone than here surrounded by these people and their questions. as you stand up, you hear james asking where you are going. you expect logan to answer, make up something about you being tired.
"she's not-"
"she has a nicotine allergy. she's running from the smoke." wooyoung interrupts. "you should all know that by now, right?"
you hear it. loud and clear. everyone does. he says it as an accusation, a disappointed one. they shamefully look at you as you climb up the stairs, hiding their cigarettes under the table. they don't understand how seen he makes you feel. does he?
𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃.
had you stayed just a few seconds more in that room, you would've known that the kiss with lexi meant nothing to wooyoung. that they weren't official. that they were only friends, and would never be anything more. wooyoung thought of lexi romantically before. he didn't act on it, because he thought he didn't deserve her. then, you came. you made him feel like he is worth something, like he deserves someone. you did it by being cutely annoying, constantly being in his space, and urging him to show more of his soft side than he usually would. you are the first person to uncover the first layer of him, and you didn't even have to try. all you had to do is look at him and smile with that stupid smile of yours, dangle your bracelets and drink your little cola.
now, wooyoung sits in the trailer. alone with his thoughts. all of them leading back to you. and it drives him crazy. he cannot fall for a girl who is taken. doesn't matter that the man who has her is the way he is. that is a story for itself, and wooyoung is yet to end that one. not to have you for himself, but to free you. to give you free will to decide for yourself what you want and deserve. not have it shoved down your throat.
"you changed your cigarette brand." james had noticed last night, looking at the box that peeked from wooyoung's jeans. he didn't say anything more, but the smirk on his lips was enough. "i won't tell."
driving james back to his house wasn't as peaceful as he had hoped. the man blabbered, tipsy, not fully drunk. it was the state where he said everything out loud, and truthfully. it was the state wooyoung hated, because james often made good points.
"is it possible that you only feel pity for her?" he had asked, leaning with his head against the window and drawing imaginary shapes on it with his finger.
"why would you say that?" wooyoung asked, knowing damn well why.
"because..." james trailed, looking over at his friend with worried eyes and hesitation. as if the words he would utter next will hurt him. "she seems to be walking the same path as your sister."
"she isn't." he said, convincing himself more than james. "i'll make sure of it."
"woo." james turned his body fully towards wooyoung, placing a hand on his shoulder. "it is not your fault for what happened to her. and it won't be your fault if anything happens to cherry."
"don't call her that."
"you need to step away. you'll only hurt yourself. you barely made it out last time."
the car came to an abrupt stop, causing james to fly forwards. wooyoung's breathing was shallow, and his mind ran with memories of his sister. her name was not uttered once since her passing, too many bad memories laced to it.
"because i failed last time i should step aside and watch?"
"look-"
"no!" he hit the wheel with his fists. once, twice. until his hands ached, and his senses dulled. he turned towards james, eyes bloodshot red and glossy. his voice? a mere whisper. "seulki died thinking i didn't care about her."
"that's not true..."
"it is true. you know it. i watched him abuse her every single day, from the day they met to the day he left. even the day when he came to try and take arin away from her, i stood aside and watched as he beat her to death. i did nothing. i thought i couldn't do anything. arin cried. she watched her mother die. and i stood aside like a fucking coward."
"but you did do something." james reminded him. a knife to the heart.
"too late!" the dark haired man yelled, hitting the wheel once again. "what i did didn't bring her back from the dead. if anything, i sent him after her into the afterworld."
silence enveloped the car. the road was empty, streets quiet. his heart pounded against his ribs, threatening to jump out and explode with pain. this was the first time wooyoung talked about that day with anyone other than police. he got away with self-defense, and was blessed enough to not end up behind bars. shame, he thought. he deserved to be there.
"i can't stand aside and watch that happen again." his voice dropped an octave. "cherry... she isn't strong enough. she pretends she is, and that can only get her so far."
"so... it is pity that you feel for her." james concluded. "not love. right?"
"can you love someone you just met?" he thought out loud. "not love, necessarily. just... like?"
james doesn't answer. he wouldn't know. he doesn't fall in love.
if what he feels truly is pity, where does that leave lexi? what if his urge to protect you is clouding his chance at something easier? something safer? did the kiss truly mean nothing? even if he imagined you instead of her?
𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.
more than nate's parties, wooyoung hates dances.
not everything needs a dance. fall formal is inching near, and so far, wooyoung has failed a project which was supposed to be easy, has messed up two orders at the store, and has run out of blunts.
he refused to do the project with lexi alone. when james and cassie had revolted, and asked why you weren't being held accountable, all wooyoung did was block their numbers and exit the groupchat they had created to attack wooyoung and lexi. that little fiasco left him with your number in his phone. of course, he saved you under your fitting nickname.
he doesn't want to go to the dance. he was going to make something up, like a shift at the store. or an illness. but lexi was faster than his thoughts, and found herself sitting on his desk at the end of the class with her legs dangling off it. "will you go to the dance with me?"
"i am very flattered, howard. but no." he says, eyes on your frame as you zip up your fuzzy pencil case and close your books.
since that night at nate's, you've been ignoring him. well, not really ignoring. you were just... dismissive.
"how did you do on the test?" "not bad."
"the cherry colas have arrived this morning." "oh, that's great."
"sorry about the project." "it's not your fault."
it didn't push him away. now he knows what it's like. when he did that to you, all you did was unintentionally push further, until he succumbed to your odd ways of making friends. now, he is doing the same.
"why not?" lexi pouts. "i don't want to go alone this year. we always go together, just for the pictures."
"i..." he trails, not really having a good excuse. usually, he would avoid those due to big crowds and all the professors in one place, each of them pitying wooyoung for what happened. this year, he doesn't wish to go because of you. that is, if you go with logan. "i invited someone else already."
he didn't. he never invited anyone ever. lexi always came up to him, and annoyed him until he said yes. this year? he might start acting like a man and invite someone himself.
"oh. okay."
no protests. nothing. she accepts it, hopping off the desk and making her way to her desk. he does feel bad. however, it is too late now. he doesn't know what the plan is yet. he rarely does this acting first and thinking later thing. that didn't start until you came into his life. where did you come from, and why here?
he lays awake at night, having just finished a video call with his niece. she is staying with his father, her grandfather, who has been nothing but loving and supportive to wooyoung since he moved away. he has offered many times that to come pick him up, have them all live together. wooyoung doesn't think he deserves it. he doesn't find himself deserving of his father's love. knowing arin is there is enough. he is happy in his trailer. somewhat.
thoughts run loose again, and he finds himself searching your name on social media. on facebook, there are pictures of you as a little girl. on instagram, the same girl, now all grown up. he has to do some digging, because your username doesn't use your real name. one thing that hasn't changed is your love for pink and accessories. on each photo of you there is a stack of bracelets, a necklace, an anklet. as he scrolls through your feed, carefully examining every post, he notices how easily you find beauty and happiness in ordinary things. flowers, bees, clouds, books, makeup, nails. now that he thinks of it, your nails are always nicely trimmed and a pale pink colour.
then, he receives a notification. a message request.
by you.
cosmiclove_99: stalking my profile much, wooyoung?
realization sinks in, and wooyoung's eyes inevitably land on the red heart he has marked under a picture of your eyes and glittery eyeshadow. fuck.
jungwooyoung: busted.
cosmiclove_99: :)
jungwooyoung: you're welcome to stalk mine?
cosmiclove_99: what makes you think i didn't already?
the man smiles to himself. he doesn't have many photos, just a few. him and baby arin the day she was born, a childhood photo of him and james, and one that james took of him on his motorcycle. it represented him, and it was enough.
cosmiclove_99: haven't had the chance to say it, but your motorcycle looks very cool. very you.
jungwooyoung: that is the best compliment i could ever get.
cosmiclove_99: :) it's pretty late. can't sleep?
jungwooyoung: not really. you?
cosmiclove_99: me neither. my parents are fighting over something silly again, i'm waiting for it to die out.
you weren't at logan's. that's a relief. wooyoung bites his lip, thinking before his fingers start typing.
jungwooyoung: do you want to talk about it?
cosmiclove_99: like on voice call?
he didn't mean it like that. but now that you've offered, he doesn't think it a bad idea to hear your voice after you drifted apart recently.
jungwooyoung: if it will help. i am known to put people to sleep with talking.
cosmiclove_99: hah! doubt it. i'll give it a shot anyway :)
wooyoung is the one who presses the call button, and after only one ring, you pick up.
"hey." you simply greet, voice soft. he ignores the fluttering feeling in his chest upon hearing your voice.
"hey." he says it back, as casual as he can. "is everything okay?"
"it will be. they do this once a week. i am used to it."
in the background, he hears their voices. muffled yelling, thuds, and crashes. god, you couldn't catch a break. what have you done to be surrounded by utter fools who do not care for you?
"so... it's pretty quiet where you are. i'm jealous."
he hums, looking around the dark trailer.
"is it lonely?" you hit the spot.
he hesitates for a while. he still graces you with a truthful answer. "it is."
there's a pause. you weren't expecting him to say it so plainly.
"i didn't think you'd admit that," you say.
"i don't, usually."
another crash sounds from your side. smaller this time. farther away.
"i guess we're both good at pretending," you murmur.
he doesn't argue. "guess so."
the line stays open. neither of you rushes to hang up. hearing your soft breathing on the other side is somewhat calming. then, you break the silence. "what are you doing?"
"laying down. debating whether or not it is smart to have a can of ravioli right now."
"can of ravioli?" you chuckle. "gross."
he smiles too. he knows you don't mean it in a mocking way. "what's wrong with ravioli?"
"in a can?" you laugh. "everything."
wooyoung doesn't know how long you talk about canned ravioli. perhaps more than he ever thought he would, but it makes him happy knowing that he is taking your mind off the chaos that surrounds you. you don't mention your parents, not really. and he doesn't push. if, and when you're ready, you'll do it yourself.
"is there a reason you liked that specific picture on my profile?"
"you're never going to let me live that down, hm?" he is tossing and turning in the bed, a big smile plastered on his lips. he remembers the picture he accidentally liked. the closeup of your eyes, the focus on your glittery eyeshadow.
"if you tell me why, i might."
"i guess..." he trails, turning over on his side and staring out the window into the starry sky. "whenever i see you, your bruises get all the attention. i never noticed how pretty your eyes are."
silence. wooyoung's insides twist. fuck, why did he have to say the truth?
"and, well, the makeup looked... nice." he tries to backtrack. when he receives no response, he sighs. "too far. sorry."
"thank you." you whisper. "that's the first genuine compliment i've gotten since i moved here."
"oh." his brows furrow. logan is doing a terrible job of being a boyfriend. "logan never...?"
"no, he never compliments me. well, aside from calling me sexy when he wants to do it." you casually reply. it irks him that it is so normal, only being nice to your partner when you want them sexually. you seem to sense his discomfort, and quickly chuckle into the phone. "it's okay, wooyoung. i don't need compliments."
sure you do. you'd bloom beautifully with them. he knows he is starting to, whenever you call him cute. "you can't possibly think like that."
you sigh on the other side, and wooyoung takes it as a cue to stop. he has gone too far anyway. instead of calling you to take your mind off your troubles, he is just reminding you of them. comfortable silence envelops the trailer, and all he can hear is your soft breathing and an occasional murmur from your parents. it seems that the fight is dying out.
"anyways, you said you liked the makeup on the picture?"
"yeah," he turns in the bed again, this time laying on his stomach. "it's pretty."
"can i put it on you?"
put makeup? on him? why? "uh..."
"it'll be fun. i promise. you can pick your own colours." you sound excited, and how could wooyoung break your heart by refusing?
"i- yeah, sure."
you squeak into his ear, and he moves the phone away for a moment while you celebrate. all with a big smile on his face. "yes! you'll love it! you have a pretty face for that."
again with the compliments. why are you fine with not receiving any, yet you generously give them away just like that? even if they're not true? wooyoung is not pretty. he doesn't think of himself as particularly handsome, either. conventionally attractive, maybe. enough to make heads turn, but not chase worthy. and that's enough.
"i'm serious," you add, like you can hear the doubt forming. "you've got good eyes. good bone structure. you'd be a great canvas."
he snorts quietly. "that's a first."
"won't be the last," you say easily.
he goes still at that. not because it's flirtatious. it isn't. but because you say it like it's a fact. like you're not trying to convince him of anything.
"what colours would you even use?" he asks.
you don't hesitate. "warm ones. maybe gold. something subtle."
"subtle," he repeats, amused. "you?"
"hey," you protest. "i can be subtle."
"sure you can, fuzzy pencil case." he smiles, eyes drifting shut. he pictures it despite himself; your hands steady, focused, gentle in a way the world hasn't been with you lately. the anticipation is foreign, never really looking forward to meeting with people. his eyes fall on the decorated helmet that rests on the kitchen counter, stickers shining under the moonlight that peeks through the unwashed windows. "alright. when shall this appointment take place?"
"friday? i'll come over to the gas station after school? it will be like a rehearsal before the dance."
right. the dance. he had rejected lexi, in hopes of asking you to go. now, that doesn't sound so good. asking someone's girlfriend to go to a formal dance. what a fool.
"wooyoung?" his name is a sweet whisper in his ear from your lips. he hums. "are you going to the dance?"
"no." he replies. and he means it.
"oh. that's a shame. i was looking forward to seeing you all dressed up."
the thought of you thinking about him like that makes him wonder how you will look. he isn't going, which means he won't see you. maybe you'll put a picture on instagram, and he can gawk at it. you'll wear pink, surely.
"what are you wearing to the dance?"
"logan picked a dress for me. i don't know yet."
right. he forgot logan's possessiveness goes that deep. he can only hope that he loves you enough to get you something you'll be comfortable in.
the trailer settles around him again. outside, the night stays still. on your end, the house finally goes quiet. words are stuck in his throat. he tries his hardest to swallow them, to not ruin the moment. but his heart aches, and he speaks.
"cherry."
"hm?"
"are you okay?"
there is a beat of silence, a breath of hesitation. then, you speak. "no."
wooyoung's heart erupts. there is a shudder in your breathing, and a quiet sniffle. were you crying? wooyoung doesn't know how to handle that. even worse, it is you who is crying. it devastates him that on top of all your worries, he has become one. he doesn't know when he became this overstepping. his fingers grip the phone, and he turns to his side. he wants to say many things at once. you should leave logan. you shouldn't go to the dance with him. you deserve better.
"i will be." you calm him, voice hoarse. "i'm stronger than i look."
"i believe you."
"thank you."
a yawn betrays you. he has done his job, it seems. shame. he was really enjoying hearing your voice. that doesn't happen often.
"sleepy?"
"mhm."
"then..." he turns on his back again, eyes stuck on the ceiling of the trailer. he doesn't want to hang up. he has to. you need to rest, and he needs to stop being selfish. "...goodnight, cherry."
he hears you chuckle sleepily, then shuffling. you must be getting comfortable under the covers. "goodnight, youngie."
the nickname makes his heart flutter against his ribs. it sounds so natural coming from your lips, and makes it harder for him to keep his distance like james advised him. how can he, when you find a way to wiggle back into his life whether he wants it or not?
before he hangs up, a few words still manage to slip through. "you're my only friend in the world, wooyoung."
the words don't settle. they hit.
something in his chest tightens. not pleasantly. painfully. like being trusted with something he has no right to hold. wooyoung presses the heel of his palm against his sternum, as if it might quiet whatever just lurched awake inside him.
only friend. dangerous words. he thinks of his sister. of promises he couldn't keep. of what happens when people depend on him. what happens when he doesn't act when needed.
"cherry..." his voice comes out rougher than he intends.
a soft hum answers him. you're already halfway to sleep. he swallows everything else. the warnings. the distance he should put between you.
"...i'm here," he says instead.
a tiny breath of relief leaves you, like you were waiting for that.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐘.
you avoid him again. not on purpose, he knows it. you don't share classes anymore, and the few you once did, mostly first periods, he has managed to sleep over and only arrived on the third period.
still, you find him.
in hallways, between crowds, with logan never far from your side. a small wave meant only for him. a quick smile. your tongue poking out before you disappear into the sea of bodies. once, you pass close enough to pinch his side, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, earning a strange look from james. it is ridiculous, how much those scraps mean. they make the days easier.
a hallway feels less like a battlefield when you grin at him from across it. the shop feels quieter, steadier, when he knows you might wander in later with your stupid cola and louder-than-necessary bracelets. the classroom is a storm that quiets down whenever you toss a colourful pen his way. to make your notes less depressing, you once said. he sees you secretly sketch in the corners of your notebooks. he doesn't peek. if it's a wish of yours to keep it private, he will respect it.
wooyoung is getting used to it. he knows the headline of today's chapter will be glittery. he knows he won't light a cigarette in between a double period. he pretends not to expect you. he always does. and in a world that keeps taking things from him, these fleeting seconds feel dangerously close to something being given back. he lets you sit on the window next to him, blabbering your soul out about a new hobby you might pick up.
it is sad how much logan's presence changes you. quiets you, pushes your true personality down and crushes it with his thumb of cruelty. wooyoung sees the way your smile falters when you see logan waiting for you in front of the classroom. wooyoung becomes invisible to you, and god, when you walk past him like you don't know him, it makes him want to rip his hair out. there is nothing wrong with having friends, and he cannot figure out why logan can't understand that. maybe because wooyoung isn't that subtle, and logan can see right through him and see his feelings. feelings for his girl. he is mistaken, though. right?
wooyoung breathes out, running his fingers through his raven hair as he stands in front of the mirror. it is friday, and you are supposed to come over for a makeup date. there is a phone in his hand, and lydia's contact number on the screen as the last caller.
"some police officers are asking about you." she had said. "you need to come over."
with a heavy heart, and even heavier fingers, he enters the conversation with you.
jungwooyoung: i'm sorry, i can't do tonight.
cosmiclove_99: aw, really? :(
jungwooyoung: we'll reschedule. i promise.
cosmiclove_99: sent a photo
his heart races as he opens it. it is a photo of your pinky finger, with a text on it saying pinky promise? wooyoung wastes no time, opening his camera and taking a picture of his own finger, with the title pinky promise written on it. he goes as far as to paint the text pink, smiling to himself like a fool. you are impossible to resist. it is as if you've put a pair of pink glasses on him as well.
cosmiclove_99: alright then. all is forgiven :) also, is it too much to say i'll miss you at the dance?
jungwooyoung: it's not too much.
as he makes his way to the shop, he thinks about how much he could really use those pink glasses now. he knows why the officers are here. someone has snitched again, reported the weed to them. nothing new. lydia already knows to hide it, and has a story to cover him. however, there is nothing to find these days, since wooyoung barely smokes.
deep in his heart, he awaits your call for help. he wants to be sober if it happens. he can't risk being in a hazy state if you need him, and thus, he has nothing on him at the moment. sure, there is always a stash that has buyers, but it is safely buried under his trailer. so far, there was no trouble.
until he sees a bag covered in soil on the counter, the officers standing by it and talking to lydia. his stomach twists. fuck. he forgot about that.
when did they have time to dig under the trailer? who told them? worse than that, how did he not notice? it's a generous amount as well, and he knows that this time he is looking at an enormous fine, or even prison time. he doesn't have that much money. all that is left is being behind bars, and that would mean no more seeing you. he can't let that happen.
he swallows hard, every heartbeat hammering in his ears. the officers glance up, spotting him, and one of them nods curtly. lydia looks flustered, twisting her fingers nervously, and for a split second wooyoung feels the walls closing in.
"wooyoung, step over here," one officer calls, voice flat but firm.
he takes a careful step forward, mind racing. his thoughts scatter, but they always come back to you: your pinky promise earlier, your shimmery eyes, your melodic laugh. he can't risk losing even the chance to hear it again.
"i... i didn't—" he starts, but the words catch in his throat. claiming ignorance might help, but they might also make him look guilty. he needs a story, something believable. he draws a slow breath, squaring his shoulders, and forces himself to speak evenly. "i only just got here. what's going on?"
one officer gestures toward the bag. "you tell us."
the smell hangs thick in the air. fresh. earthy. undeniable. wooyoung keeps his expression blank, like the answer truly means nothing to him. inside, his pulse roars. "this isn't mine."
lydia shifts beside the counter. too fast. too tense. he feels it more than he sees it. the officers sigh, then one of them leads lydia outside, leaving wooyoung alone with the older man.
"son." he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. wooyoung feels small under his gaze, and looks down on the floor. "must we do this once a month? every time you step on someone's bad side? do you not make enough in the shop to do this on the side?"
the young man fidgets with his fingers, plucking the skin around his nails as he listens to the well memorized conversation. he shakes his head at the question, then waits for the officer to keep talking.
"i can't keep letting you go like this. people will start to question it."
"then why do you?" he finally looks him in the eyes. his heart swells, the tired eyes reminding him of his father's. "turn me in."
"i won't do that. you know it."
wooyoung lets out a hollow laugh. "you should."
the officer watches him for a long moment, something heavy settling behind his eyes. "your father asked me to keep an eye on you."
the words land like a punch to the chest. of course he did. wooyoung's jaw tightens. "he's not here."
"no," the man agrees quietly. "so someone has to be."
silence stretches between them. the shop hums with the low buzz of the refrigerator, fluorescent lights flickering like a dying pulse.
"you think this is mercy?" wooyoung mutters. "a favour you're doing me?"
"i think this is a chance," the officer replies. "and you keep wasting it."
wooyoung's hands curl into fists at his sides. chances. promises. pink letters painted across his screen only hours ago. he swallows.
"one day," the officer continues, softer now, "i won't be able to help you. you understand that?"
wooyoung nods. he does. frighteningly well. "what am i supposed to do? live in the trailer for the rest of my life?"
"you could accept your father's invite and go live with—"
"no." wooyoung doesn't wish to hear it. ever. even if he were at the verge of his life, he wouldn't do that. he doesn't deserve it.
"your father has never blamed you for what happened to seulki. why are you then punishing yourself for it?" the man steps closer, placing his hands on wooyoung's shoulders. the young man's eyes burn, and his vision blurs. "he's already lost one child. you're keeping him away from his other one."
the words settle somewhere deep and poisonous. wooyoung's throat tightens. his hands, still curled into fists, slowly loosen like he's forgotten why he was holding on in the first place.
"that's not..." his voice breaks. he clears it, staring past the officer at the stained tiles. "that's not how it works."
but the thought has already taken root. his father alone. waiting. grieving twice. the raven haired man's chest aches like something inside it is trying to cave in. he laughs under his breath, but there is no humour in it.
"you don't know anything."
the officer doesn't argue. and somehow that hurts more. "i won't beg you to tell me. but, if you ever do decide you are ready for a conversation, you know where to find me."
he doesn't take the bag with him. he never does. he trusts wooyoung to either hide it, or get rid of it. as his hand touches the door handle, wooyoung's words escape his lips. "i'll go when i feel worthy."
and he means it. as the officer finally exits the shop, wooyoung's eyes fall on the fridge. the cherry colas are looking back at him, the silver on the can shining under the led lights. he has unfinished business here anyway.
𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍.
wooyoung stays late at the shop that day, talking to lydia. the day after, saturday, he sleeps almost the entire day. the bag taunts him, sitting on the kitchen counter and awaiting its fate. the fate that was supposed to be rue, yet she bailed, as she recently does since meeting jules. wooyoung doesn't like that girl. she is ruining his business.
when he wakes up, it is dark outside. there are sleeping lines all over his torso and face, and he feels very groggy. still, he reaches out for his phone, typing in your name into the instagram search bar in hopes of seeing your outfit for today's dance. there is nothing. did logan buy you something you didn't like? something you weren't comfortable in? there were no messages, either. not that he was expecting anything. why is he disappointed then? fuck it.
he tears the bag apart, fingers already doing what they know best; rolling blunts. there is one soon placed between his chapped lips, and as soon as he rolls the last one, he plops down on the still warm bed. with each second that passes, wooyoung wonders whether he should've come to the dance anyway. for you. he wonders if you are having fun. if logan is keeping you seated, or letting you dance. if you were wearing makeup, and if yes, how much. if you were wearing anything pink and cute, or something provocative against your wish.
lastly, he wonders if you think of him like he thinks of you. do you see him like he sees you? through the careless charade, behind the so-called bad boy persona. his stomach gets fuzzy with each inhale of the blunt, and wooyoung knows it isn't the weed. it's thoughts of you.
once he finishes it, he drifts away again.
the second time he wakes up, it is still night. he checks seulki's watch that rests on the table since the day she took it off to make lunch and never put it on again. it is close to midnight. shit. what is he supposed to do all night, now that he slept all day? easy. smoke again. this time somewhere else.
the door creaks as he opens it, and he barely steps outside, before his heart skips a beat. his leg stays in the air, not touching the steps yet. they are occupied. "what the hell are you doing in front of my-"
the person looks up. tear-streaked, shaking. "woo."
"cherry." he breathes out, dropping the blunt on the floor. he helps you up from the stairs, placing his hands on your bare arms and guiding you on your feet. your eyes are red and swollen. he is scared to ask. "what... what are you doing here?"
"i didn't know where else to go."
wooyoung freezes. the words settle between them, fragile and enormous. you didn't know where else to go. his hands are still on your arms; your skin is cold, trembling faintly, and he only notices when the shake transfers into his own fingers. logan did put you in a provocative dress. short, red, and tight. that bastard.
"what happened?" he asks quietly.
you shake your head before he finishes, shoulders folding inward.
"can i just... stay here for a bit?"
for a moment he forgets how to breathe. inside the trailer behind him is the stale smell of smoke, the torn bag on the counter, the mess of a life he never thought anyone would step into. you stand before it like a question. he swallows, then speaks, voice hoarse. "yeah. yeah, of course."
he crushes the fallen blunt under his shoe and opens the door wider. the hinges groan. you hesitate at the threshold, glitter still clinging stubbornly to your tear-streaked eyelids, bare arms raised slightly against the cold. something tight and protective coils in his chest.
"come in," he says softer.
the trailer feels smaller once you step inside, suddenly aware of itself. peeling wallpaper, cluttered sink, the open bag on the counter. your eyes land on it. wooyoung moves quickly, twisting the plastic shut and shoving it into a cabinet. the motion is clumsy, guilty. you don't comment. you just stand there, looking lost in unfamiliar gravity. he clears his throat.
"you want water? or tea. i think i have tea."
you nod, more for something to hold than from thirst. you sit on the ground, back pressed against the bed where he just laid.
while he fills the kettle his hands shake badly. he wants to give you space, yet he doesn't want to seem like he doesn't care. he picks through his words carefully, all while quietly searching for an appropriate cup and picking a chamomile flavoured teabag. "how... did you find me?"
"i searched for your bike. that's how i knew which trailer is yours." you explain quietly. your voice is raspy, as if talking alone is hurting you. "i... i called. multiple times. sorry for blowing your phone up."
wooyoung stills. his eyes drop on the discarded phone on the counter, the button on the side showing that it has been on silent. a single tap on the screen wakes it up, revealing multiple missed calls and messages from you.
"i'm bored" "i wish you were here" "this dress is so fugly" "logan is talking to the dj i don't know what's going on" "oh god."
there is a twenty minute interval between those messages and a new one.
"i need you, can i come over?"
just what has happened that made you ditch the dance and come seek him in this dark area of the town? behind him, your voice breaks the quiet. "it's over."
he stills, the cup clinking against the counter as he sets it down. slowly, he turns towards you, eyes falling on your messed up hair and smeared makeup as your gaze is fixed on the ground in front of you.
"talking to the dj? he gave him the usb with all my pictures and videos on it. everyone saw." you elaborate, a fresh set of tears escaping your eyes. you sniffle, yet you smile. "i am glad that you weren't there, after all. you didn't see it. i'm free. i think."
he promised himself he would be sober when you called for help. now, when you finally did, he is in the worst state he has been in since meeting you. he feels selfish for being happy that you look for comfort in him. he finds satisfaction in your sadness, and it makes him feel evil.
he pours the tea in the cup, then lets the teabag soak in it as he approaches you, setting the cup on the table beside the bed. he lowers himself to the ground, crouching in front of you. deja vu, he thinks. he remembers crouching in front of a crying girl recently. only this time, his heart aches, and his blood boils as he watches your attempts at wiping your soaked face off. it isn't gentle at all, you start to irritate your skin so bad that wooyoung has to grab your wrists and pull them away from your face.
"hey." he calls, grounding you. "you're hurting yourself."
"i feel dirty." you admit. "i- i want to wipe it all off me. the makeup, the dress, the humiliation."
"do you wish to change? take a shower?" he offers. you hesitate at first, biting your bottom lip as you think. "you can pick out anything you'd like from my humble wardrobe."
that pulls a smile out of you, and you nod. "i trust your judgement."
as wooyoung picks clean clothes for you to wear, you sip on the tea, waiting for his call. he sees you looking at the bag. he wonders whether you'll judge him. you know he smokes, yet you've never made any comment about it, besides telling him about your nicotine allergy. weed? you never cared. he's glad you don't judge him when it comes to it.
he sees you shiver, and speeds up his process of setting the clothes up by the cramped shower, along with a towel. he rummages through a box hidden away in the corner, pulling out micellar water and makeup wipes and leaving them on the sink, but not before checking the date of expiry. seulki rarely wore makeup, yet always had these things laying around. finally, he lets the water run for a while, until steam starts seeping through.
"shower's ready." he calls. you stand, placing the cup on the table and carefully make your way to where wooyoung is guiding you. "the lock is tricky. you'll have to push the handle up."
you nod, and quietly slip inside, brushing against him in the tight space. the bathroom door clicks shut and the lock slides into place with a soft, final sound. wooyoung stands there a moment longer than necessary, staring at the wood like it might suddenly open again. then he drags a hand down his face and turns away, forcing himself to breathe.
the pipes groan when the water starts running. the sound fills the trailer immediately. loud in the small space, steady, relentless. grounding. he focuses on it, on the rhythm of it hitting tiles, because his mind keeps trying to wander where it shouldn't. steam begins slipping beneath the door, thin at first, then thicker. the air grows warm, heavy. he busies himself.
the cup you drank from is still warm when he picks it up. a faint mark of your lipstick stains the rim. he washes it carefully, more carefully than he ever washes anything, thumb tracing the ceramic before setting it to dry. his hands don't stop moving after that. he folds the blanket at the end of the bed. wipes the already clean counter. adjusts the crooked picture frame nailed beside the window. pointless things. anything that keeps him from thinking about you alone in his shower, washing off a night he wishes he could erase for you.
the bag on the counter feels suddenly heavier than it did before you arrived. shame prickles at the back of his neck. he imagines you stepping out into the smell of smoke, into the mess of his life, and something tight twists in his chest. he opens the window a crack despite the cold. lets the night air push in, sharp and clean. he doesn't want this part of him clinging to you. you came for comfort, and he'll give it to you.
the trailer breathes. from behind the door comes the faint sound of movement. the shift of the curtain, the quiet thud of a bottle being set down, the rush of water changing rhythm. small sounds, yet each one pulls at his attention like gravity. he sits on the edge of the bed, listening. his hands remember the feel of your wrists: cold, trembling, fragile. he hadn't meant to grab you that suddenly. he rubs his palms against his jeans, restless.
time stretches strangely. the world outside the trailer fades until there is only the hum of pipes, the whisper of steam, the quiet knowledge that you are here, within reach, trusting him with something fragile. it terrifies him.
he gets up and places a glass of water beside the folded clothes. hesitates, then adds an extra towel within easy reach of the door. silent offerings. the shower eventually quiets. the sudden absence of sound feels louder than the water ever was. wooyoung's shoulders straighten instinctively. he looks toward the bathroom before catching himself, gaze dropping to the floor instead. his pulse kicks, uneven and sharp.
the lock clicks. he looks, despite himself, and can't look away. it is as if you have peeled a layer of yourself. you stand clothed, yet bare before him. no glitter, no gloss, wet hair, and flushed cheeks. his t-shirt falls to your thighs, hiding the shorts which he has outgrown.
"i look silly, i know."
"no, you don't." and he means it. you look safe in his clothes. "you look... pretty."
"thank you, wooyoung." you smile, sweetly like only you know. it doesn't reach your eyes, though. you stand still, fidgeting with the hem of the t-shirt as you wait further instructions from him. you are in his space, after all. when he doesn't speak, you do again. "can i... maybe... sleep over tonight?"
"of course." the words leave him before he can weigh them, before he can question whether letting you stay is wise for either of you. something loosens in his chest the moment he sees your shoulders drop at his answer. relief. he clears his throat, suddenly aware of the smallness of the trailer, of the single bed, of the warmth still clinging to your damp hair. he forces his voice into something steadier. "you can take the bed."
your eyes scan the bed, then him. as if calculating. wooyoung knows what you'll ask. where will he sleep? it doesn't matter. he'll stay awake if he needs to. the only thing that matters is you resting tonight, because lord knows when was the last time you had a proper sleep.
"i slept all day. i couldn't sleep right now even if i wanted to. don't worry about me." he explains. he nods towards the bed, encouraging you to get in. "it's comfier that it looks."
slowly, you sit on it, bouncing slightly. you feel the sheets under your palms, rubbing the mattress as if exploring the new space. he watches you carefully. you fluff the pillow, then lift the covers up, and finally slip beneath. just as you get comfy laying down, you sit up abruptly. "i'm going to soak your pillow."
"oh. right." he looks at your damp hair. "i don't have a hair dryer though. i usually just let mine air dry."
you hum understandingly. "then... i'll keep you company for a little while it dries."
you move towards the side, freeing up space on the bed. when wooyoung doesn't move, you pat the spot, silently inviting him. whether or not it's a good idea, the young man listens. he sits on his bed, and instantly, his senses sharpen. the smell of his shampoo clings to your skin, and the way you are submerged in his clothes and his sheets do not help the fuzzy feeling in his stomach at all. neither does the smile you offer him when you catch him looking.
"hi." you grin.
wooyoung looks away, scoffing while hiding his burning red face from you. "stupid."
there is a beat of silence. a train of thoughts. a grounding heartbeat, reminding wooyoung just why you are here. he looks your way again, only to find you already looking at him. not with a smile this time. you're thinking, biting your bottom lip in the process. "can i ask you something?"
"ask away."
"what are you and lexi?"
wooyoung doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tightens slightly.
“nothing,” he says. you don’t look convinced. he sighs. “she panicked. in the bathroom. said she’d never been kissed. i just… did it. so she’d stop spiraling.”
you blink. “just like that?”
“yeah.”
“that’s kind of intimate.”
he shrugs, but it’s not casual. “it wasn’t.”
“you can’t decide that for her.”
that hits. you are right. he thought he was doing her a favour. now, he knows it was cruel.
“i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters. “it wasn’t romantic.”
“but you kissed her.”
he finally looks at you. he can't quite decipher the emotion in your eyes. it isn't positive, that much he can see. “yeah.”
you stare at your hands now, avoiding his gaze. “cassie made it sound like it was… something.”
“cassie makes everything sound like something.”
you bite your lip. “did you want to?”
that one makes him frown. “want to what?”
“kiss her.”
he exhales slowly. thinks about it. actually thinks.
“i didn’t not want to,” he says, and immediately sees your expression shift. “not like that,” he adds quickly. “i just didn’t care. it didn’t feel like anything.”
“okay.”
it’s not okay. he can tell. but you’re retreating. folding in on yourself.
“why does it matter?” he asks, softer now.
“because..." you stop yourself, taking a deep breath instead of continuing. "it doesn't matter. curiosity, i guess."
"right." he studies you. the way you’re not looking at him. wooyoung shifts slightly, but keeps distance. “lexi and i aren’t anything. i’m not seeing her. i’m not trying to.”
you glance at him. “are you trying to see anyone?”
he huffs lightly. “i’m barely trying to see tomorrow.”
not romantic. not reassuring. just honest.
“okay,” you murmur again. but this time it sounds steadier.
a beat passes. there is something else on your mind. something bigger than this, he senses. "what's on your mind?"
"there is... more to the story than just nudes." you say it. "if you want to know, of course. i'm ready to tell you."
"speak, cherry." his voice is a mere whisper. "i'll listen. you know i always do."
and you do speak. you tell him about your life before moving here. how peaceful it was. how you waited for summer, and met logan. how your parents liked logan, so much that he managed to convince them to move here. how they started drinking when your father's brother took your house, and you later found out you had to move anyway, with or without logan. how logan gave your parents the money to move, in exchange for you. how easily they gave you up, all for a shed in a different town and a bottle of liquor always full in the cabinet.
wooyoung listens, not interrupting you once. he fidgets with the sheets, and every time your voice shakes and you stop to take a deep breath, he bites his cheek a little harder. every time you mention getting punished for doing something against logan's will, his blood boils. and when he finds out you didn't even send him the nudes yourself, that he took them of you and used them against you, making you do things you didn't want. from things as simple as going to the store and buying him a beer, to having sex with him. his jaw clenches, so hard his teeth squeak under the pressure. he sees red. he wants to make a trip to the scavo house again. nothing would stop him. not james, not police, not anyone. except you, and the sob that escapes you, making wooyoung look at you.
"he was my first boyfriend. i thought," you hiccup, pulling your knees to your body as if to shield yourself, then continue, "i thought that's how it is. how it's supposed to be. meeting you has only made me more confused."
wooyoung swallows, then speaks, voice low as to not scare you off. "how so?"
"you were a friend. yet... i felt more comfort and care from you than i did from my own boyfriend. it opened my eyes, i guess. and at some point, i hated you for it. it was easier when i didn't know any better."
easier before him. his chest tightens at that. part of him aches at the thought of ever hurting you, even by accident. another part, the uglier one, burns with quiet satisfaction that he changed something for you. that you saw something different with him. he pushes that thought away for now.
"you shouldn't have had to learn like that," he says finally. his voice is rough, quieter than before. "none of that was normal, cherry. none of it was love."
"then what is?" you ask softly, fingers still twisting the hem of his shirt.
the question hits him like a blow. wooyoung has no language for love. not the gentle kind. not the kind you deserve. all he knows is protection, instinct, the need to keep you safe even if it ruins him. his hand moves before he thinks. slow, careful, he reaches over and rests it beside yours on the sheets. not touching, just close enough that you could choose the distance.
"this," he says. you look at him, eyebrow raised. "being able to say no, and knowing the other person listens. feeling safe. not scared all the time." his throat tightens. "being able to breathe."
silence falls again. the trailer hums softly around the two of you, the window rattling with a passing car somewhere in the distance. you don't pull away. instead, your fingers shift slightly, brushing against his. the contact is barely there. it feels louder than anything at the moment.
wooyoung freezes, afraid even breathing too hard might break the moment. your hand is smaller than his, warm now from the shower, no longer trembling like before. slowly, giving you time to move, he turns his palm upward. you accept the silent invite, lacing your soft fingers through his rough ones.
something inside him settles. something restless finally going still. you lean your head against his shoulder without asking. he goes rigid for a second, then carefully relaxes, letting you rest there. he can feel the faint weight of you, the dampness of your hair against his shirt, the quiet rhythm of your breathing beginning to slow.
"woo?" you murmur.
"cherry."
"is it too much to say that i've never felt more home?"
"no," wooyoung responds honestly, and rests his head on top of yours. "it's not too much."
"okay." you reply, a yawn following soon after.
he wants to rest, wants to let himself drift too, but his brain won't allow it. he wonders what tomorrow morning will bring. part of him fears that tonight was a dream, and he'll wake to find it was all his imagination. another part dreads the opposite: that the world outside the trailer will demand you back, that this fragile comfort will vanish. he keeps his head resting lightly against yours, listening to your even breaths, feeling the faint warmth of your damp hair against his cheek. there is nothing left to do but wait for the sun to rise, and with it, the truth he cannot yet face.
𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘.
at nine in the morning on a sunny sunday, wooyoung wakes up. his neck is stiff, and his back hurts. he feels weight on his shoulder, and when he looks down, a smile creeps up on his lips. you are still asleep, arms wrapped around his bicep as you keep him close, as if scared to be left alone. slowly, wooyoung frees himself, gently laying you down on the pillow and covering you up. you only frown in your sleep, dissatisfied that something has been taken away from you.
he makes a trip to the store, buying toast and two cherry colas. lydia has already told him to not come in after the police encounter, and right now, wooyoung could not be more grateful. he almost flies with the motorcycle on the way to the trailer, somehow feeling lighter. once inside, he sets the bag on the counter and hangs his leather jacket near the door. he thinks of ways to wake you up. until his eyes land on the bed, and he finds it made. you? gone.
his heart skips a beat, and his throat tightens. he walks over to the bed, fingertips brushing the sheets where you laid. fuck, did logan come for you? you wouldn't leave on your own without saying goodbye. shit. he knew he shouldn't have left.
just as he turns around and reaches for his jacket, a poke to his side causes him to gasp. he turns around, his defense falling once he sees you giggling. "who knew you are so easy to scare?"
"why are you lurking in my trailer?" he questions, trying to calm his heart in the process.
"i heard your bike. thought i'd try and scare you for leaving me alone."
"stupid girl." he teases, rolling his eyes. he makes his way to the two cabinets he calls kitchen, unraveling the items inside the bag. "hungry?"
"starving." you admit, walking over to him and peeking above his shoulder. your chin rests on it, breath tickling his neck, and he stiffens slightly, aware of every inch of proximity. "i thought i could make breakfast. as a thank you. you beat me to it."
"you don't have to." wooyoung murmurs, still fixed on the way your head rests near his neck and your breath caresses his ear. "you should've stayed in bed, slept a little more."
"i had enough." you pull away, allowing the man to finally breathe properly. "i... i had bad dreams. i was scared to go back to sleep, especially when i figured out you weren't there."
he sets the toast on the counter, grabbing two plates and a knife. you perch on the crooked stool he never uses, swinging your legs slightly, eyes following him as he spreads peanut butter on one toast and jam on the other. the simple act is almost domestic, and he can't help but notice the way your fingers curl around the edge of the stool, small and delicate. it makes him tense and melt at the same time.
"you really do trust me with everything, huh?" he says, voice low.
"i guess i do." you shrug, a little smile tugging at your lips. your eyes flick to his, then away, shy but steady. "i feel... safe with you."
the words hit him harder than anything else has so far this morning. safe. not scared. not trapped. safe. you've decided to stay by yourself, with no persuasion from anyone. he clears his throat, hands shaking just enough to notice, and sets the knife down.
"good," he murmurs, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, feeling foolishly proud and protective all at once. "that's exactly what you should feel."
you tilt your head, studying him like you're trying to memorize the lines of his face in the soft morning light. he can't help but smile back, though it feels fragile, like it might shatter if he breathes too hard. he hands you your sandwich first. your fingers brush his, and he freezes. the brush is so light, so fleeting, and yet it pulls at something deep inside him. he catches his breath and steps back a little, pretending to check the other sandwich.
"hey," you say softly, reaching for the counter. "don't move too far. i... i like having you close."
his chest tightens, awareness snapping like a string. he swallows, nodding slowly. "i'm not going anywhere."
you laugh quietly, a sound that's still fragile, but lighter than the night before. "good. because i might fall asleep while eating, and then i'd be useless without you here."
"then i'll stay," he says without thinking, and the words hang between you two. he looks at you, really looks, and notices how small you seem in his t-shirt, how soft your now dry hair falls and shines under the morning rays. there's a vulnerability there, and he wants to guard it with everything he has.
you take a bite, then another, and he watches, pretending to busy himself with his own breakfast. every glance is measured, every thought tethered to the quiet rhythm of your breathing, the curve of your jaw, the way your lips purse around the bread. it's maddening, and gentle all at once. for a moment, the trailer is still. just the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional bird outside, and the quiet intimacy of two people who've survived something dark together. he wonders if this is how mornings are supposed to feel: safe, warm, unhurried, with someone who makes the world pause just by being there.
and maybe, just maybe, he thinks about what it would be like if this morning didn't have to end. if it could stretch forever, and he could stay in this small orbit around you, guarding you, laughing with you, and letting you feel at home beside him. he reaches over, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. it's a gentle touch, casual, but he swears he feels the air between them hum. you don't pull away. instead, you glance up, and your eyes find his.
"thanks," you murmur, almost a whisper.
"for what?" he asks, voice rougher than he wants it to be.
"for... being here," you say, small but steady. "despite your own troubles you are battling."
so you know. he swallows, and for the first time this morning, lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, being here is exactly where he's meant to be. you don't pry. he doesn't know how much you know. some of it, all of it? the truth or gossip misinformation? he'll tell you himself about it one day. you did open yourself up for him, after all. he doesn't see is as transaction. more like a declaration of trust.
soon, you have to go back home. he drives you to your parents house, this time in his sister's car so that you feel more comfortable. he parks on the sidewalk, then unlocks the doors. you shuffle around, collecting your dress and heels from last night from the back seat. he doesn't look at you. instead, he looks at the small house, wondering what awaits behind the closed doors.
"thank you for driving me. and for everything else, of course." you break the silence.
"any time," he replies, fingers tapping a quiet rhythm against the wheel. his eyes flick to the windows, and he feels the old spike of worry. it doesn't feel right leaving you here.
before he can think more, your lips press lightly against his cheek. it's quick, almost like a spark in the morning air. if he weren't hyperaware of you, he might have thought it imagined.
he swallows, heart skipping. "what— what was that for?"
you shrug, a soft, uncertain smile tugging at your lips. "i don't know. it felt right."
he glances at you, the words unspoken lingering between you. maybe it's always felt right, but he just hadn't noticed until now. you exit the car, running around it as much as wooyoung's shoes on your feet allowed you. you stop by the window, tapping on it playfully until he lowers it. he doesn't fight the smile on his face. "yes, cherry?"
"what about that makeup date? are you still up for that?"
a light breeze sways your hair, making a few strands fall on your face. he doesn't think twice before his fingertips graze your skin, moving the air out of your face so that he can take a proper look at you before answering. "just tell me when and where. i'll be there."
𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒.
cosmiclove_99: hey :)
it is the first time wooyoung has heard from you since dropping you off. you're not at school the whole week, and you reach out to him saturday morning. he wastes no time before sitting on the steps of his trailer, the motorcycle and cleaning supplies abandoned.
jungwooyoung: hi, stranger.
cosmiclove_99: sorry for not reaching out. i've done quite a lot of thinking this week.
jungwooyoung: don't apologize for such a thing. especially not to me. what have you been thinking about?
cosmiclove_99: i don't want you to think i've abandoned you after what you've done to me. i just needed some time. and i've come to a decision.
cosmiclove_99: i'm going to james' party tonight.
wooyoung's heart drops. why would you do that? go back to a place where all the guys are a copy of logan scavo and nate jacobs? he doesn't question it, nor does he scold you. he waits for you to continue.
cosmiclove_99: i can't keep hiding forever. i'll face the elephant in the room and move on with my life. try to, at least.
as expected. he admires you for it, truly. it shows that you've grown in such a short time, that your fear of logan is overshadowed by anger. you're starting to realize you didn't deserve anything that has happened to you, and you have a chance to stick up for yourself, or forever be quiet and scared.
jungwooyoung: would you like me to come with you?
cosmiclove_99: yes, please. :)
he spends the rest of the morning in a quiet frenzy. the trailer is cluttered with unfinished chores and the faint scent of lingering smoke, but he barely notices. his thoughts are all on you. on how you'll walk into that party, confident, unafraid, daring the world to look at you differently. by the afternoon, he's cleaned up the space enough to feel like he isn't leaving chaos behind. his sister's car is parked outside, engine humming softly, and he checks the seats twice, hiding the peeling leather under a cushion he found in the trailer, adjusting mirrors, making sure the little details are right. when the clock finally strikes seven, his phone buzzes.
cosmiclove_99: ready! :)
he exhales, heart skipping. typing back feels unnecessary. he just slides into the driver's seat, starts the car, and drives toward your place. when he arrives, you're waiting on the sidewalk, shifting slightly in place, hands fiddling with your phone. the second he steps out, you glance up, and you seem to sigh with relief. did you think he would ditch you?
"hey," he says, breath catching. you are back in your pink attire. a button up cardigan, pale blue jeans, and white sneakers. it feels right. "are you going to a party or a bakery?"
"jerk." you reply, shy smile tugging at your lips. but there's fire in your eyes, something he hasn't seen before.
"ready?" he asks, walking toward you.
you nod. "let's go."
sliding into the car beside him, you brush against his arm as you buckle up. the contact sends a jolt through him. light, but enough to anchor every nerve ending. his hand rests lightly on the gear shift, pretending not to notice your fingers brushing his. he clears his throat. "so... we do this together? or you go on your own and i'll be on standby. whatever you'd like."
"i'll try on my own. you'll be there if i need you?" you ask, eyes flicking toward his.
"i promise." he offers his pinky finger, and you happily accept
the drive is a quiet one, punctuated only by the occasional laugh or shared glance. he watches the sunset light catch your hair, the way your fingers twitch nervously over the dashboard, the way your chest rises with each breath. he feels protective in a way he can't explain, and more than that, he feels... something else, something warm and tangled, tied to every glance you give him. when the house finally comes into view, wooyoung's pulse quickens. the music thumps faintly through the windows, lights flicker, and he can see people moving inside. he glances at you, and for a second, the confident, determined look in your eyes nearly stops him in his tracks.
"you okay?" he asks softly, voice low, nearly drowned by the distant bass.
"yeah," you say, taking a deep breath. "i... i'm ready."
"i'll be right here," he murmurs. you look at him, confidence slightly slipping through your fingers when you hear the music and see the lights. he smiles. "every step."
you nod, stepping onto the porch, shoulders back, head high. he follows, close enough that if you wanted, you could reach for him. the moment is delicate, charged, and he knows it will only get more intense once you cross the threshold and the party swallows you whole. he glances at you one last time before pushing the door open. he walks in first, and just as he scans the room, counting all the familiar faces, he feels your palm slip into his, fingers falling in place between his. he looks down, then at you. he doesn't pull away.
people glance your way, but it's fleeting. a nod, a shrug, a hey. the usual acknowledgments of teenagers who are too busy in their own worlds to overreact. nobody stares, nobody whispers; your entrance is... mundane. ordinary. you blink, slightly disoriented. the anxiety you'd been carrying all week; the rehearsed speeches, the imagined whispers, the self-justifications. it all melts against the simplicity of reality. it's almost anticlimactic, and for the first time, you feel the rush of freedom. you can simply be.
until his figure comes in sight. logan, leaning against the wall, smirk in place like he owns the room. your stomach twists, fingers twitching at your sides, but you don’t step back. you lift your chin, shoulders back, and take another step forward. wooyoung’s hand brushes against yours, strong, grounding, but you barely notice it at first. you can feel the tension radiating off him, the way he’s coiled, ready to intervene if you falter. but you don’t. and you won’t.
“well, well,” logan says, voice carrying over the music, smirk sharper than ever. “look who decided to show up.”
"logan." you tilt your head slightly as you speak, letting your eyes meet his just long enough to let him know you’re not afraid. "i’m done running.”
wooyoung’s fingers tighten just slightly on yours. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. he’s watching every breath you take, every shift of your weight, ready to step in if it goes too far. but he doesn’t. not yet. this moment is yours.
“done running, huh? think you can just walk in here like nothing happened?” logan sneers, stepping a fraction closer.
your hand twitches against his, but you hold it steady. “if you even think of touching me...i will not stay silent,” you say, voice low to camouflage the slight shiver in it.
wooyoung’s eyes flick from you to logan, jaw tight, every muscle tense. he’s ready, waiting, but he doesn’t move. he knows you’ve taken the first step. he knows that right now, it’s your voice, your presence, your fire that matters. logan falters, just a little, eyes narrowing, realizing the confidence he expects to crush isn’t there.
“you really think you can just… walk in here, smiling like nothing happened?” logan smirks, trying to hide the flicker of unease. he takes another step, the music thrumming around you like a heartbeat, daring you to flinch.
you swallow hard, chest tightening, but you force yourself to stand straight, chin high. “i’m here. that’s all you need to know.”
“that’s not enough, baby. you still owe me…” he laughs, low, sharp. his voice trails, and the way he leans closer, the space shrinking, makes your stomach knot. "and unless you've won a lottery... i'd say you are still mine, no matter what scum you have by your side."
wooyoung stiffens beside you. you feel the subtle pressure of his hand on yours. just enough to anchor you. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t even breathe too loudly, but his presence presses into the space between you and logan, and it feels like a shield.
logan laughs again, louder this time, edging closer. “oh, i remember how obedient you used to be. maybe i should remind you—”
you can’t stop the tremor rising in your throat. your fists clench at your sides, heart hammering. panic tries to crawl in, and for a moment, the week of courage you’ve built threatens to crumble.
“wooyoung…” your voice is barely a whisper, shaky, but enough that he hears.
he doesn’t wait. in one fluid motion, his body steps slightly in front of yours, shoulder brushing yours, hand tightening around yours until your fingers interlock. his eyes meet logan’s, sharp and dangerous.
“back off,” he says, low, almost a growl, the kind of tone that stops people cold.
logan falters, the confidence in his smirk wavering. he opens his mouth, but the weight in wooyoung’s gaze makes him hesitate. he sees the anger, the protectiveness. still, he speaks. "out of all people, you chose a lowlife stoner."
you feel every word like a slap, and your chest tightens. not from shame, but from the audacity in his tone. your grip on wooyoung’s hand tightens, a silent anchor, and you step slightly closer to him, as if his presence alone could make the world bend in your favor.
logan’s smirk falters again, irritation flashing behind his eyes. “did you plan this all along? being with him while you were still with me? you slutty—"
wooyoung cuts him off with a step forward, voice low, lethal in its calm. “i suggest you leave, scavo. now.”
the music pulses around you, a drumbeat under the silence that falls in your triangle of space: you, wooyoung, him. you feel the heat of adrenaline rushing through you, the panic that tried to claw back last week, but you stand firm, head high. logan laughs, but it’s a hollow thing, more nervous than cruel. he tries one last step, closing the gap, but wooyoung doesn’t flinch. he’s a wall now, iron and calm and ready.
“i said back off,” he repeats, voice sharper this time.
finally, logan hesitates, the smirk gone, replaced by a twitching jaw and a calculating glance. “fine,” he spits, stepping back, trying to hide the shake in his hands. “but this isn’t over.”
you let out a proper breath now. you were scared to even breathe around him. your knees feel a little less like they might buckle, your chest a little less tight. wooyoung’s hand squeezes yours, grounding, steady. he doesn’t let go. he doesn’t need to.
“you okay?” he murmurs, voice low, just for you.
“yeah,” you whisper, and for the first time tonight, it’s real. not shaky. not a lie. “thanks.”
he nods, his eyes still scanning the space, making sure the threat has truly stepped back, but his focus is on you. on the fact that you stood, that you spoke, that you didn’t break. you tilt your head slightly, letting the warmth of that presence sink in, and for a heartbeat, the room feels smaller, safer, yours.
wooyoung steers you through the crowd, keeping one hand lightly on your lower back, guiding you to a quieter corner near the glass doors that lead to the pool. the air here is cooler, the music softened, and he can finally watch you. really watch you. you lean against the cold glass, shoulders back, breathing steady.
"that's over," you huff. "for now. i still need to pay him back somehow."
"we'll figure it out."
"i guess..." you trail.
"you're braver than you think," he says. he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, close enough that his thumb grazes your cheek. the simple touch lingers, sending warmth through both of you. "do not underestimate yourself. ever."
"maybe," you admit, leaning just slightly closer. "but it's easier with you here."
"i'll always be here," he murmurs. his chest tightens, that familiar knot of protectiveness and something more fluttering inside. he tilts his head, lowering just enough for his forehead to brush yours. "even now that this is all over. that is, if you want me, of course."
"don't be silly, woo." you hit his shoulder playfully. "you're my friend. not just an escape from my worries."
it's just you and him, small and private amidst the chaos. your fingers intertwine more deliberately now, and he notices how naturally your hand fits in his. on his end, this still isn't enough. "come."
you don't question it. he guides you upstairs, where you once followed after him when james managed to touch his nerve during a project night. he knows exactly where to go, leading you to the end of the hallway and into an empty room. he turns the key in the lock, and it softly clicks, separating you from the downstairs world and creating one on its own. you sit on the edge of the bed, awaiting his further instructions.
"can i be bad influence for one night?" he asks, dipping his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.
"what do you have in mind, jung wooyoung?"
he hesitates at first. then, he reveals the item in his hand. a blunt, perfectly rolled. and pink.
"weed?" you ask, casually.
"have you ever tried it?" he sits next to you, holding the pink item up for you to see. "it's not like cigarettes. it won't touch your allergy."
"guess i could try once," you take it, brushing his hand as you hold it. a slow jolt runs up his arm at the contact. you tilt your head teasingly. "you're not going to make me turn into a monster, right?"
"only a little," he murmurs, smirking.
"i've never seen a pink one."
"i know. i made it for you." he lights it, the tip glowing orange. smoke fills the space between you, curling around the tension in the room. he holds it to your lips, fingers brushing against them as you purse your lips.
you inhale, cough lightly, and he chuckles low. "yuck."
"the first inhale is always bad." he explains. "lay down. it'll be comfier."
you fall back, the mattress soft beneath you, and the bed dips under his weight as he leans in to sit beside you. the space between you is tight, electric. you don't move away.
he exhales slowly, smoke drifting toward the ceiling, eyes flicking to yours. "feel... relaxed?"
"a little," you admit. your gaze is stuck to the ceiling, watching the smoke dance in various shapes. "i feel... too much. in a good way."
"like...?" he passes the blunt back to you, this time letting you inhale on your own. it is easier, and you don't cough.
"so sensitive." you say. "like i'm burning up."
"hm." wooyoung hums, then takes the blunt back. it seems that the weed does everything opposite for you. it dulls his senses, while it increases yours. that's interesting to know. "oh, i have a gift for you."
"really?" you giggle, looking at him. he doesn't back, instead shuffling through the side pocket of his cargo jeans and pulling out a recently bought item. you squeak upon seeing it, fingers immediately snatching it from his grip. "you bought me eyeshadow?!"
a lazy smile dances on his lips, body too relaxed to do anything else. "yep."
"can i put it on you?" you sit up, almost too quickly. "please, please, please?"
"now?" he looks at you, slowly exhaling the smoke into your face. "sure. you have no brushes, though. or whatever you use."
you flop on top of him, knees on either side, and the weight of you presses him into the mattress. he can feel the heat radiating off your body, the slight tremor of your hands as they reach for the palette. the smoke curls lazily above you both, soft, hazy, making every movement feel more like a dream.
"don't worry," you murmur, brushing a strand of raven hair behind his ear. his chest tightens, every nerve suddenly aware of how close you are, how gentle and alive you feel atop him.
he watches as your fingers dip into the palette, the colors hitting like a neon burst: pinks, golds, glitter, shimmer. every swipe of the finger against his eyelid is precise but tentative, as if you're exploring more than his skin. he swallows hard, mind short-circuiting at the touch, at the smell of your shampoo and the faint sweetness of cherry cola that lingers around you.
"like this?" you whisper. your voice is soft, almost teasing, and he wants to nod, to tell you to keep going, but his throat feels tight.
"yeah," he manages, voice low, guttural even. "don't stop."
he notices everything: the little smudge of glitter you leave on your own hand, the way you lean forward, the brush of your hair against his shoulder. your laughter bubbles quietly and it wraps around him, something light that cuts through the haze of smoke and tension. when you lean back just slightly, admiring the glitter tracing the corners of his eyes, he can't look away. it's ridiculous, the effect you have on him. he's pinned to the mattress by the simple sight of you. the smoke and the sparkle make this moment feel like it exists outside time.
and then your hand hovers near his cheek, brushing the powder away, and he leans into it without thinking, instinctively. the bed dips beneath him, the smoke thick and curling, the glitter catching the dim light, and he's aware of every inch of proximity between you.
he swallows as your breath brushes his lips, testing. his body reacts before his mind can catch up. the low hum in his chest, the pull of his hands toward your waist, the electric surge running straight to the core of him. everything inside him buzzes, and he knows he's been waiting for this, for the chaos and the quiet and for you all at once.
he doesn't move away when you lean closer. he wants to memorize the taste, the smell, the feel of you here. smoke, glitter, warmth, the daze. it all tangles together, messy and overwhelming, and he'd let it stay like this forever if he could. the blunt is forgotten, put out and fallen to the floor. your lips graze his, soft, a little sticky from the gloss. he doesn't mind. he welcomes it, closing the gap and finally moulding your lips together.
it is warm, sweet. it is everything he has secretly imagined. it is you. his grip on your waist intensifies, squeezing you as he loses himself to the taste of you. cherries melt on his tongue as you part your lips, allowing him to consume you entirely. a brush of the hips against his, nails grazing his jaw and neck tattoo, and sighs of pleasure whispered into his lips, wooyoung is a yearning man beneath you.
he kisses you deeper, one hand combing through your hair while the other slides lower along your spine, drawing you impossibly close. your breath mingles, hot and shaky, eyes fluttering closed, and he can feel the pull between you. the hunger that has been building since you crossed that threshold together. he groans low in his chest, lips parting just enough to swallow your sighs. everything is electric, chaotic, raw. he memorizes every shiver, every gasp, and every curve.
he doesn't stop. it's not enough. he flips you over, hovering above you as his hands slip beneath the cardigan. he listens to your body signals, ready to stop if you show any signs of discomfort. you don't. you tug him closer, grinding slightly against him, hips pressing, thighs brushing, and he lets his hands wander, tracing the lines of your body, up to he outline of your bra. his fingers burn where he touches you, and finally, his senses aren't dull like they usually are when he is high. it's all a haze of sensation and need, and he's drowning in it willingly.
his voice is rough, broken when he mutters, "you feel... so good." your response is a soft, breathy laugh, shaky, teasing, as you press even closer. he groans, teeth catching the shell of your ear, whispering, "don't stop."
you meet him, lips to lips again, teeth, tongues, moans blending with the faint buzz in your chest, hands grasping, holding, needing. every shiver that runs through you sparks through him, every press of your body against his fuels a fire that refuses to die. he knows he's lost to you entirely, and he doesn't want to be found. with a swift motion, he removes his t-shirt, and returns his focus to you. he kneels between your legs, veiny hands grabbing your thighs and pushing them apart.
with a little help by lifting your hips off the mattress, your jeans find comfort on the floor next to the blunt and his t-shirt. wooyoung has to stop. his mouth almost waters, seeing the pink cotton panties sticking to your pussy. he loses his mind, seeing just what he has been missing out on. his nose is soon buried between your legs, and you gasp, hands flying to his hair to grip at the soft locks. he accidentally bumps his nose into your clit, while his tongue tastes you over the cotton material. he hooks his fingers into it, peeling it away from your skin and revealing your glistening core.
"what- what are you doing?" you stutter, raising your head just enough to lock your eyes with him.
"i'm going to devour you." he simply states. there is a flash of panic on your face, and something clicks inside wooyoung. it worsens the flame inside his chest. "have you... have you never been eaten out before?"
"no...?"
"fuck, cherry." he breathes out. "you're in for a ride." and without missing a beat, dives in.
you squirm under him, the touch unfamiliar and intense. he holds you firmly against the mattress, one palm flat on your lower stomach, and one teasing your pulsing entrance. his tongue is hot against your aching clit, flicking, licking, sucking. every now and then he dips his tongue lower, letting his nose take over unintentionally. your voice becomes raspy with how much you whine and moan.
you're warm and inviting as he slips two fingers into your velvet walls, curling upward as his palm presses your lower stomach. he rubs the upper wall, all while his tongue gives full attention to your clit. the pain on his scalp is delicious, your fingers pulling each time he abuses the sensitive spot inside you. your moans are becoming shorter, and louder, letting him know that you are inching closer to release. he pulls away, even though he can't get enough of the way you taste. however, he wouldn't miss your face when orgasming for anything in this world.
your lips part, and your eyes are fixed on him as your breathing is cut short. your features softening, eyebrows furrowing with pleasure as your body twitches beneath him. the look of pure ecstasy on your face is what makes him twitch in his jeans. slowly, he pulls his fingers out, putting them in his mouth and cleaning them until the last drop of you is gone.
"you're telling me nobody else has ever tasted you like this?" he presses a kiss to your forehead, helping you calm down.
"no," you stutter. "never."
"did you like it?"
"again." you respond. "please."
"needy little thing." he chuckles, then unbuttons your cardigan, revealing your matching bra. "i'll eat you out as long as you'd like, as many times as you'd like. but right now, i need to be inside of you, or i'll die."
you nod eagerly, legs already wrapping around him as he unbuttons his jeans. he strokes himself a few times, eyes fixed on your glistening core, almost resembling the glitter makeup around his eyes. he leaks before he even presses himself against you, desire burning up inside him, eating him alive. the tip slips past your folds, and little by little, he sinks inside. your velvety walls hug him, suck him in inside, and don't let go. he finds it hard to move for a moment, too lost in the way you are still pulsing around him.
"you're-" you choke out, tongue peeking out to wet your dry lips. "you're so pretty."
"pretty?" wooyoung breathes out, looking down where he is buried inside of you.
"yes." you nod. "your face, your body. your cock, too."
it's not funny. it hits him right where it shouldn't, in the hottest way possible, making him twitch inside of you before he can barely move. being called pretty is becoming a kink now, and seeing that you are enjoying his reactions, he doesn't have to worry about whether it'll happen again or not. the hazy smile on your lips says it all.
slowly, wooyoung starts moving. he buries his head into the crook of your neck, feelings too intense to do anything else. he subconsciously bites your neck, shoulder, collarbones, all while his hips slowly fill you to the brim each time he pushes himself against you. your nails leave trails of reminders for tomorrow on his back, and lips ghost over his neck and shoulder, leaving behind faint traces of whatever is left of your lip gloss. the bed creaks softly as he picks up his pace, and the headboard rocks against the wall. he feels warm, a thin layer of sweat covering his body as his moves become sloppy and deep.
"you're beautiful, have i ever told you that?" he pulls away to take a proper look at you.
"tell me more." you beg, hands slipping from his back to hold his face. "please."
he swallows, the heat between you making his pulse stutter. "i... i love the way you shiver when i touch you," he murmurs, lips brushing against yours. "how soft you feel... how you taste... how every gasp and moan sounds like it belongs to me."
your breath hitches, and you can't stop the smile tugging at your lips. "keep going," you insist, pressing closer, wanting to drown in the way his voice wraps around you.
he leans in, forehead against yours, low and rough as he rocks against you, hands firmly placed on your waist as he holds you in place. "since-, ha-ah-, the moment you walked in that shop. the way you, ah-, looked at me, with those eyes. like you're looking at me right now. fuck- the way you feel under my hands... the way you let me in. you trust me, and, oh-, you've given yourself to me. look down, cherry."
your gaze follows his, down to where his cock glistens with your arousal every time he pulls away, only to slam his hips back. his moans turn into soft whines, and his movements speed up, chasing release. he feels hot, magma boiling beneath his skin, waiting to spill out. the room is filled with mixed noises from both of you, each moan higher and louder.
"let me fill you up. please." he begs. "let me show you how i can take care of you."
"please do." you pull him against you, body shaking with anticipation of another orgasm. "cum inside me, wooyoung. please."
"fuck, darling," he chokes out. "say my name like that again, and i won't let you go for days."
"wooyoung," you moan out, and his eyes roll back, release finally catching up to him. "make me yours. please, please, please-"
"ah- ha-" his hips stutter, and his cock twitches. he spills inside of you, feeling better than anything he has ever felt. it feels like he's floating for a moment, head up in the clouds and senses overloaded by you. your smell, your noises, your taste. all of you. "oh, fuck."
the warm sensation is a trigger for you, making your spine lift off the mattress as the orgasm hits you. your nails dig into his biceps, desperately trying to ground you. he rubs your sides with his palms, helping you come down from the high as you struggle to breathe. wooyoung plops on top of you, face buried into your neck where he has left countless bite marks.
wooyoung stays pressed against you, chest to chest, the warmth of your bodies mingling in the haze of smoke and glitter. your fingers drift lazily over his shoulders, over the half moon nail marks, over the slick of sweat that clings to his skin. he feels every inch of you, every sigh and shiver, and lets his own body sink into yours, weight and warmth pressing you together.
"fuck..." he breathes, lips brushing against your temple. "you're unreal."
you laugh softly, shaky, fingertips tracing a line down his spine. "we're a mess."
"mmh," he hums, low and guttural, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, then along your cheekbone, soft but deliberate. he nuzzles briefly, teasing your earlobe with the tip of his nose, making you gasp lightly against him. he tucks a loose strand behind your ear, thumb lingering. "god, cherry... you smell like... everything i want."
you tilt your head, brushing your lips against his collarbone. "then keep me here," you whisper.
he hums, letting a finger trace circles on the small of your back, then teasing down to your waist, hand warm and steady. "i don't want to move," he admits, voice rough, head leaning against yours. "i could stay like this forever."
"then do. tonight. just... stay."
he chuckles low, dragging a hand along your arm, letting it rest on your shoulder. a playful nip to your earlobe, a gentle squeeze of your hip, soft grazes along your jawline. they're small touches, but they electrify the space between you. every breath, every sigh, every tiny movement you make is engraved into his soul.
"you know," he murmurs, voice hoarse, "i've never felt anything like this. you're mine, cherry. and i'm not letting go."
"i don't want you to." you press closer, fingers threading through his hair, lips brushing the side of his neck. "stay here. just... be with me."
he smiles against you, teeth grazing your shoulder lightly in a lazy, teasing way, before resting his head atop yours. slow, deliberate caresses, fingers tracing invisible paths along your back and arms, every touch memorized. your body shivers against his, small, quiet whispers brushing against his neck, and he hums, letting it wrap around him, letting the quiet chaos of the night dissolve into the haze of glitter, smoke, warmth, and you.
and for a while, the world outside ceases to exist. only you, him, the smell of cherry and smoke, the heat of skin pressed to skin, and the slow, steady rhythm of two hearts tangled in the quiet aftermath.
Synopsis: tiger hybrid Wooyoung has been looking for someone to carry his cubs for a long time. his bunny college classmate y/n seems like the perfect fit. he'll have you no matter what it takes-whether you agree or not.
tw: predator/prey dynamics, alpha tiger hybrid wy, bunny hybrid reader, dubcon, dacryphilia, knotting, semi-public sex, come inflation, breeding, mating bites. If you don’t like, don’t read or comment because you’ll be blocked, thank ya!
Wooyoung has seen you around multiple times, a pretty little bunny with your big wide eyes and cute floppy ears that you’d use to cover them whenever you’d get startled. Wooyoung’s never believed in perfect mates, but from the first time he laid eyes on you, he just knew you were meant for him—made to be his, to take his bite and carry his mark, to carry his cubs. He just had to have you, and he wouldn’t stop at anything to get you.
You were way too precious and innocent of a bunny for a predator as mischievous as him. Wooyoung could clearly see from the very beginning that you kept as far away from predators as possible. Your closest friends were all prey; he’s seen you walking around with them at your side multiple times. You were constantly together, and Wooyoung had yet to catch you on your own. That is, until now.
Granted, he didn’t think the first time he’d ever get to corner you would be in a public restroom during one of his free periods, but he’s always been an opportunist—and he was definitely going to take advantage of this situation. It’s very common for prey not to associate themselves with any predators, especially prey as fragile and easily startled as bunnies. Wooyoung knew you would never come anywhere near him willingly, especially not on your own, but that doesn’t stop him from creeping up behind you when he sees you dash for the bathrooms.
It’s easy for him to sneak in quietly after you, tiptoeing as he walks in front of every stall, noticing that only one of them is taken, which makes him smile. It’s just him and you, perfect.
With a pleased little hum, he leans against one of the sinks, crossing his arms over his chest, and waits. Taking a whiff of the air around, he sniffs past the smell of chlorine and focuses on the faint scent that makes his mouth water: warm milk and honey. The sweetest bunny. Wooyoung wonders if you taste as sweet as you smell. He’ll get to find out soon enough.
The toilet flushes, and Wooyoung’s toes wriggle in his shoes from impatience. He can’t wait to finally sink his claws and teeth into your skin, to touch those fluffy ears and grip them tight between his fingers. He hums a low tune as he waits, and the previous sound of movement from behind the door instantly quiets down. That’s good. Wooyoung wants you to hear him, to know he’s here, waiting for you to come out and fall right into his arms. He’s been waiting for this moment for a long time.
When the door finally cracks open, you tentatively peek your head out, big bunny eyes taking in your surroundings. As soon as they land on Wooyoung, they are completely overtaken by fright, and you let out a shaky gasp, loudly shutting the door once more. It’s not as if Wooyoung hadn’t expected that, but the reaction still makes him chuckle.
The tiger knows how light on his feet he can be, even your big bunny ears would most likely not be able to pick out the sound of his tiptoeing as he maneuvers his way to your bathroom stall. As carefully as possible, he presses his ear against the door. The sound of your rapid breathing makes him smile. You must be so scared—poor little bunny, cornered by the big bad tiger, with no chance to escape. Wooyoung’s gums ache with the need to dig his fangs right into your skin.
He doesn’t say a word, staying as quiet as a mouse for a long five minutes until you have calmed down enough. Wooyoung is known for his patience; he could sit right here and wait all day if he had to. Of course, he’d prefer it if you would come out sooner and he could quell the urge to be rammed balls deep inside you as fast as possible, but he’s still going to wait as long as he must. He can offer you that much.
When the lock on the door finally comes off again, Wooyoung’s ears perk up. His muscles tense, and he takes a long whiff of the air around. Acrid milk, no longer as sweet as it first was. You must be frightened out of your mind.
As soon as the door creaks open and the only part peeking out are your eyes, Wooyoung’s lips curl into a grin. The sight of the tiger so close makes you almost scream. Wooyoung’s arm shoots forward to stop the door from slamming shut again.
“Hi, bunny.”
His body slides swiftly inside the stall, door locking behind him. Your eyes are wide, so wide you fear they might pop out of their sockets. Your ears flop down and stick to your cheeks, a sight Wooyoung finds way more endearing than he should. He licks his lips hungrily as he stares you down.
Your shrill scream of terror is quickly silenced when Wooyoung slaps a hand over your mouth. The skin on skin contact makes your eyes instantly fill with tears that stream down your face. Wooyoung tuts and hushes you with uncanny gentleness.
“There, there,” he whispers, grabbing a hold of your waist before you can try to move away in the limited space there is left. “Oh, no, don’t cry.” He tuts in faux concern, peeling his hand off of your mouth just so he can pet over your ears—something you don’t find comfort in in the slightest.
You’re shaking like a leaf in Wooyoung’s arms, too scared to try to fight back or move away—just as he intended for it to be. You’re even more perfect than Wooyoung imagined.
You bring your hands up to tug your ears over your eyes, small hiccups falling from your mouth as you cry, wishing this was just a bad dream you could wake up from. The sight makes Wooyoung coo out loud.
“So cute,” he squishes your cheeks, and another gasp of fright leaves your mouth. You tug your ears even harder over your eyes. Wooyoung is concerned for a brief moment about them hurting.
“Can you look at me, bun?” When you do nothing but cry harder, Wooyoung begins to get a little frustrated. “Come on, just a peek.” His voice is still gentle, but the grip on your waist is getting stronger. “Look at alpha.”
Wooyoung is not one to proclaim his status out loud, mostly just lets his actions speak for themselves, but the word instantly has you dropping your hands from your ears, letting them flop uselessly. Wooyoung is pretty sure you’re not even breathing as you peer from behind your fluffy ears at him. Of course, the title would have anyone cowering before him. You’re just a small bunny, you’re in no place to try to defy a tiger, that’s an alpha at that.
Your teeth rattle inside your mouth as you finally meet Wooyoung’s eyes.
“There you go,” he smiles mischievously, smoothing a hand over your forehead to pull your ears back, which he admittedly tugs on a little harder than he should. Your gasp is a worthy reward. “Good bun.”
You swallow hard and try to stop your hiccups enough to be able to speak. “I–I have t–to go.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, stuttering over each syllable. Wooyoung frowns, taking a step forward, which makes you take one back. The tiger’s hands are still on your hips, his eyes sharp on your face. “Go? Already?”
You nod rapidly and exhale a loud breath when your back hits the wall, with no place left to move. You look around helplessly, knowing there’s no way for you to escape, but still hoping.
“Can’t let you go just yet,” Wooyoung says. “I need you to do something for me first.”Your bottom lip wobbles. “C–can’t.” Your head shakes from side to side desperately.
Wooyoung sighs dreamily. You’re so precious. “Yes, you can,” he speaks sweetly. “It’s so easy, will only take a little while if you’re good and do as I say.”
Wooyoung would take his time if he could—fuck you slowly until your cries and begs were no longer ones of fright, but of want. Knot you over and over until you were so full of his seed it would be impossible for it not to catch. Bend you in each and every way until your little body aches in places it has never ached before. Wooyoung’s eyes glow a bright gold with all the thoughts swimming through his head. The sight makes your breathing come to a stop.
The alpha licks over his lips. “I need you…” he trails a finger down your cheek, softly grabbing onto one of your ears and petting it lightly. “To carry something for me.”
You seem completely taken aback, your fear melting into confusion. “C–carry?”
Wooyoung beams, “Yes, carry! Think you can do that?”
Your nose twitches as you bring a sweater paw up to rub over it. Wooyoung could eat you right up. “M’ a strong bunny…” The whisper is so quiet, it’s almost as if you say it to yourself to spur yourself on.
Wooyoung laughs, head thrown back, his teeth on full display. The sight of sharp incisors makes you cower back even more against the wall. “Good, Very good.” Wooyoung is still lightly chuckling when he focuses his attention back on you. “Then it’s settled.”
Suddenly, his features turn stoic. The lightheartedness is gone, and the small amount of relief you had felt disappears as well. The hands at your waist become harsh, fingertips pushing into your skin until he’s gotten a good enough grip to turn you around, manhandling you until your front is pressed to the wall.
You cry out loud, “B–but,” your breathing is so fast, you might just send yourself into overdrive. Wooyoung’s nose pushes against your neck, breathing in your scent. his eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Y–you said—”
“I said?” Wooyoung rumbles, chest vibrating against your back.
You shriek and feel your eyes fill with fresh tears when the alpha’s fingers grab ahold of your skirt, swiftly tugging it down your hips and down your legs in one swift move. Your bunny tail trembles in fear, legs instantly squeezing together when you feel the cold air of the bathroom hit your bare skin.
“N–No!” You whimper quickly, shaking your head, your ears flopping along with your movements.“No?” Wooyoung questions, not hesitating once before grinding his crotch right against your backside, his dick pressing between your ass cheeks. “But you agreed.”
You’re so scared, so confused. You thought maybe you would have to carry the tiger’s backpack or his books. You don’t know how him having his dick pressed right against your ass has anything to do with “carrying.” The alpha’s hand trails over your stomach, the skin feeling soft against his palm. Wooyoung presses closer, taking huge lungfulls of your scent, which makes his dick throb even harder inside his jeans.
“Your body is so perfect, bunny,” You cry out weakly when you hear the sound of his zipper coming undone. “You have to carry them for me.”You’re more confused than you’ve ever been in your entire life. Your cheek presses against the cold wall in front of you, a frown etched between your brows. “C–carry?”
“My cubs.” Wooyoung says. “Gonna carry my cubs so well for me, aren’t you? Give me a healthy litter?” Realization finally dawns on you. He wants you too….
“No!” You try to protest, but you still don’t dare move. You’re too scared to. Wooyoung’s breath is hot against your neck, teeth barely scratching the surface of your skin. He could take a bite straight out of you if he wanted to. Tear you to shreds. You wouldn’t even get to blink once before you’d be dead. You sob uncontrollably.
“No, alpha, p–please—”
Wooyoung moans, delighted to hear his title being called from your sweet lips. He tugs his cock out of his pants, hard and wet in the cold air of the bathroom stall, smacking lightly right over your shivering tail. “Yeah, there you go.” He groans, pulling your underwear down. “You can cry, sweet bunny.” He doesn’t hesitate to part your ass cheeks, pulling the skin taut, until both of your holes are winking at him. “Cry for your alpha.”
You gasp feeling utterly embarrassed as your body presses further against the wall as Wooyoung exams you. You bite back a whimper at the feeling. But the response is obvious in the way your pussy starts to drip. Wooyoung smiles when he touches it, only for his fingers to come back sticky.
“Look at you, so perfect.” The first intrusion of his finger makes you squeak, your ears instantly slapping back over your eyes. The feeling is so unexpected and sudden. Wooyoung wastes no time in opening you up. Three fingers sink inside of you until the last knuckle in mere seconds.
“Can’t, s–stop!” you sob, as your pussy grips around his fingers tight holding them hostage. They’re twisting and turning inside of you so good, touching places you could never reach, you feel your mouth go slack as Wooyoung's fingers continue with their onslaught.
“Yes, you can.” Wooyoung says, almost as if he’s chastising you for doubting yourself. You can do this. You can carry his cubs. You’re gonna do so well, the alpha is sure of it. “Oh—” With one solid thrust against your bundle of nerves, you come undone pussy squeezing around his fingers inside of you so tight, he swears under his breath. It’s so sudden it has you screaming, which makes Wooyoung slap a hand right over your mouth.
Any other day, he would’ve loved nothing more than to have you scream for him. But right now, you’re not exactly in the most ideal setting. He steadily massages his finger against that special spot inside of you, as you come down from your high. Wooyoung is going to mate you right here and now.
As soon as his fingers pull out of you, he sucks them into his own mouth, savoring the sweetness over his tongue. If he could, he’d eat you out for hours. He’d suckle against your clit until you’re crying from overstimulation, fuck you with his tongue until you’re silly from it. He marks that on his bucket list for later. The blunt head of his cock feels wide against your entrance. Too wide to even go in. You’re still shaking from the unexpected orgasm, babbling nonsense when you feel Wooyoung trying to push his way inside.
“N–no, wha–” you sniffle weakly, your knees feeling numb. “Alpha…” Wooyoung inhales sharply. One moment he’s pressing against the entrance of your pussy, the next he’s buried balls deep inside your tight little hole. The shriek you release is muffled by Wooyoung’s palm that presses over your mouth in anticipation. Your walls spasm around the sudden intrusion, trying their hardest to accommodate it.
You cry, loud and whiny, your tears falling on the back of Wooyoung’s hand as the alpha groans in your ear, a snarl getting caught in the back of his throat. You feel so warm, so wet, so impossibly tight. Wooyoung might be popping a knot a lot faster than he originally intended.
“Fuck yeah, there you go…” he exhales into a moan, slowly grinding his hips until his cock is nestled deep inside your cunt, filling you up to the hilt. “Taking your alpha so well.” You feel dizzy, your eyes swimming inside their sockets, gargling incoherent sounds as Wooyoung pulls almost all the way out, only to slam back in and push you harshly against the wall. You feel like you’re going to come again with the way Wooyoung is fucking you. You wouldn’t mind bearing his cubs if he keeps fucking you just like this.
Wooyoung takes his hand off your mouth just so he can tug on your bunny’s ears, he’s harsh in the way he pulls them until your head is leaning on his shoulder, you crying from the feeling. “You’re my good bunny, aren’t you?” He accompanies his words with a harsh thrust, followed by a steady rhythm that has you leaking like a faucet around his cock.
“Can you say it? Say I’m Woo’s bunny, hm?” Your muddled brain doesn’t even realize this is the first time you’re hearing the alpha’s name. All you know and feel right now is the pounding right against your sweet spot that has you seeing bright white. “W–woo. I’m–” you sniffle, drool slowly seeping past your lips. “Woo’s b–bunny!”
You cry in fright and tug at your own ears in search of comfort when the tiger’s fangs dig into your skin, breaking the surface. You bite on your own ear, nibbling on it to try and calm yourself down, the endorphins releasing inside your body making you lose your footing. If there weren’t strong arms wrapped around your waist, you would be a crumbled mess onto the ground.
The slap of Wooyoung’s balls is harsh against your pussy. You whine weakly when you feel him getting even larger inside of you, if that’s even possible. You gasp and your ear falls from your mouth when you feel something swell inside of you. “Gotta sit still.” Wooyoung exhales harshly, pulling back to lick over the punctures he’s made on your neck. “Sit still so it’ll take, yeah?” It takes you a good few seconds to realize what the tiger means.
Sit still so that you’re guaranteed to fall pregnant with the alpha’s cubs. You’re too delirious to think about the implications that come along with that. All you can do right now is whine weakly and thump your foot as Wooyoung drives continuously into you, threatening to push the swollen base of his cock right inside of your cervix.
"M' a good bun." You sob, sniffling over and over. "Gonna…babies. C–carry babies." You think about them: cute little cubs and possibly baby bunnies. It's everything you've ever wanted. You never thought it would happen so fast; you're entirely not prepared for it, barely in your second year of university, but the choice has already been made for you. You'll carry Wooyoung's cubs like the good little bunny you are, the good little bunny you were always meant to be.
"Fucking—" Wooyoung curses, a loud growl resonating against the walls as he drives his cock up to the hilt, nudging into your cervix, knot plopping in mercilessly. Tears and snot run down your face as you feel Wooyoung's come make home inside of you; your tummy swells from the copious amounts of it. You're so warm, so unbearably full, you cramp up from it, foot thumping uselessly. Nothing but Wooyoung's low moans and your incessant babbling echoes around the otherwise silent bathroom. Both of your breathing is loud, harsh, and labored.
Wooyoung suckles on the mark he's left on your neck. As he palms down over your swollen stomach, Wooyoung's chest vibrates with a content rumble. He can feel it, he knows it'll take. He's gonna have you pregnant and showing by next month's come. Wooyoung will have healthy and beautiful cubs by the end of the year, and along with it, a cute and obedient bunny as his mate.
「genre」: fake dating, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, smut
「summary」: after a cruel breakup with your boyfriend seonghwa, your friend wooyoung comes up with a perfect plan for you to get over him. fake dating. you need a date to prove to your ex you’ve moved on; wooyoung needs to convince people he’s capable of a real relationship. months of pretending turn into a feeling that you are no longer wanting to fake
「warnings」: implied drinking, ex bf seonghwa (he cheated), emotional manipulation, crying, mutual pining, jealousy, fboy tendencies, avoidant attachment, kissing, self-sabotage (woo), arguing, breakup, true love making :) , hickies, body worship, crying during foreplay (NOT dacryphilia), nipple play, licking, nipple sucking, clit stimulation, fingering, woo is literally so caring it needs its own warning, oral (f receiving), edging(?), bigdick!woo agenda, unprotected sex, possessiveness, missionary, cowgirl, pull-out method, aftercare, pet names including baby, darling, and others. ENJOY
「author's note」: guys this has been months in the making, and i hope it was worth the wait. it was all inspired by this request, so thank you.
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You attempt to let the music of Mingi’s apartment drown out your thoughts. You shouldn't have come, you knew that, but San insisted, and Hongjoong promised your ex wouldn't be here. You foolishly believed both of them.
Except he was there.
Seonghwa stood in the kitchen with a red solo cup in his hand, laughing at something the girl next to him said. She was undeniably beautiful, and you hated that. She has a confident smile that you were never quite able to pull off, and her hand rested on his arm so casually. The sight of it made your stomach twist into knots.
It had been a few months since you found his messages with another girl. Messages consisting of ‘I can't wait to see you again,’ and ‘I will break up with her soon.’ When you found out, he'd stammered out excuses that all boiled down to the same thing: you weren't good enough. You hated him, yet you still felt like you couldn't breathe when you saw him.
"You okay?" San appeared at your elbow, concern creasing his features as he followed your gaze across the room.
You tore your eyes away, forcing a smile that felt like shattered glass in your mouth. "Fine. I'm fine."
"You don't look fine." San's voice was gentle, the kind of gentle that made you want to cry. "We can leave. Hongjoong will understand-"
"No." The word came out sharper than you intended, and you softened it with another brittle smile. "No, I'm not letting him chase me out of my friend's birthday party. I'm fine, really."
Before you can even realize, the emotions hit you all at once. "I need some air," you mumbled, not waiting for San or Hongjoong to respond before you were pushing through the crowd toward the apartment door.
-
The hallway outside was quiet, the bass now just a muffled thump through the walls. You leaned back against the cold concrete, closing your eyes and trying to remember how to breathe normally. This was pathetic.
"Rough night?"
Your eyes snapped open to find Wooyoung leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression on his face. You hadn't even heard him come out.
He was in your Sociology class last year. Charming, funny, and always had a new girl on his arm. Somehow, despite being in completely different social circles, you'd ended up as friends.
You'd never really figured out how it happened. Wooyoung collected people often. But he'd stuck around even after the semester ended, and even now, you sometimes felt like you were waiting for him to realize you weren't interesting enough to keep around.
"I'm fine," you said automatically, then winced at how many times you'd said that tonight. "Just needed a break from the noise."
Wooyoung pushed off the wall, moving closer with that easy grace he always seemed to have. "You're a terrible liar, you know that?"
"I'm not lying-"
"You've been staring at Seonghwa like a kicked puppy." His voice was not cruel, but it still made you flinch. "San and Hongjoong look ready to fight someone for you. And now you're out here looking like you're about to cry."
"I'm not going to cry." Your voice was defensive. "And I wasn't staring."
"Right." Wooyoung stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, the same warm scent from your study sessions. "Look, I get it. Breakups suck. But that guy?" He motioned his thumb toward the apartment door. "Not worth it."
You wanted to argue, to defend Seonghwa or yourself or the relationship you had. Instead, you felt your eyes burning with the tears you'd been holding back all night. "He cheated on me."
Wooyoung's expression switched. "Yeah, I know. Which is why I'm saying he's not worth the time you're giving him."
"I know that." Deep down you knew Seonghwa wasn't worth crying over. "I know he's not worth it, but I can't just... stop feeling things. I can't just turn it off."
"I'm not saying you should." Wooyoung's voice was surprisingly gentle. "I'm just saying you deserve better than spending Mingi's birthday hiding in a hallway."
"I'm not hiding-"
"You're definitely hiding."
"Okay, maybe I'm hiding a little."
Wooyoung was quiet for a moment, studying you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Then he tilted his head toward the elevator. "Come on. Let me take you home."
"You don't have to."
"I get it." His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "You shouldn't be alone right now. And before you say you're fine-" He held up a hand to stop you. "-I’m sure you are. But you don't have to be fine by yourself."
The words hit something tender in your chest, and you found yourself nodding. "Okay."
The walk to his car was quiet, the night air cool on your cheeks. Wooyoung opened the passenger door for you, something he'd never done before, and you slid in, grateful for the privacy. As soon as he started the engine, the tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over.
"Sorry," you choked out, wiping at your face. "I'm sorry, I don't know why-"
"Hey." Wooyoung's hand found yours, squeezing gently. "Don't apologize. You're allowed to cry."
"I just feel so stupid." The words tumbled out. "It's been months. I should be over this by now. I should be over him. But every time I see him with someone else, I just... I feel like there was something wrong with me that made him-"
"Stop." Wooyoung's voice was sharp enough to cut through your spiral. "There's nothing wrong with you. He cheated because he's a selfish asshole, not because you weren't enough."
"But maybe if I had been more-"
"More what? More fun? More exciting? More whatever the hell he was looking for?" Wooyoung's grip on your hand tightened. "You could have been perfect and he still would have cheated, because that's who he is. It was never about you not being enough. It was about him being too much of a coward to end things properly."
You looked down at your joined hands, at the way his thumb was tracing small circles on your skin. "I just wish I could stop caring. I wish I could see him happy and not feel like I'm drowning."
"I understand." Wooyoung's voice was softer now. "But you will. Eventually. It just takes time."
"How much time?" The question came out small.
"I don't know. But in the meantime..." He paused, and you could feel him watching you. "You could at least pretend. Make him think you're over it, even if you're not."
You let out a hollow laugh. "I'm a terrible liar. You said so yourself."
"Not if you had help." There was something careful in his tone now, like he was testing the waters. "Not if you had someone to back up your story."
You turned to look at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
Wooyoung was staring straight ahead at the road, jaw tightening as he chose his words carefully. "I mean... what if you weren't alone at these parties? What if you showed up with someone who made it very clear you'd moved on?"
Your heart skipped. "Wooyoung."
"Just think about it." He glanced at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road. "You want to prove you're over him. I want to prove I'm capable of committing to someone. We could help each other."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I'm not suggesting anything tonight. You're upset, and this isn't the right time." He squeezed your hand once more before releasing it to shift gears. "But maybe we could talk about it. When you're feeling better. When you're ready."
Your mind was already racing, imagining walking into a party on Wooyoung's arm, Seonghwa seeing you happy, and the freedom of not having to feel pathetic anymore.
"Why would you want to help me?" you asked quietly.
Wooyoung was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, vulnerable. "Because you're my friend. And because..." He hesitated. "Because everyone already assumes the worst about me. That I'm incapable of anything real, that I'm just some player who doesn't care about anyone. And I'm tired of it - of my family asking when I'm going to settle down, of my friends making jokes about my commitment issues. I'm tired of people treating me like I don't have feelings."
You'd never heard him talk like this before. You'd always assumed Wooyoung didn't care what people thought, and that his confidence was unshakeable.
"I didn't know you felt that way," you said softly.
"Yeah, well." He let out a laugh. "I'm good at hiding it and pretending it doesn't bother me. But it does."
"We'd both be getting what we need." He pulled up in front of your building but didn't unlock the doors yet. Instead, he turned to face you fully. "Look, I'm not trying to pressure you. And tonight's not the night to decide anything. I just..." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I just want you to know that you don't have to keep feeling like this. There are options. Ways to take back some control."
"Can I think about it?" you asked.
"Of course." He reached over and unlocked your door. "Take all the time you need. And if you decide it's a terrible idea, we'll never talk about it again."
You nodded, opening the door but hesitating before getting out. "Wooyoung?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For tonight. For listening and not making me feel stupid."
His expression softened. "You're not stupid. You're just human. And humans take time to heal."
You climbed out of the car, but before closing the door, you leaned back in. "I'll text you. About... about everything."
"I'll be waiting." He offered a small smile. "Now go get some sleep. You look exhausted."
"Such a charmer," you said, but you were smiling as you closed the door.
You watched him drive away, his tail lights disappearing around the corner, and something felt strange. The idea he'd planted was taking root, the possibility stuck in your mind.
What if you didn't have to feel this way anymore?
As you got ready for bed, your phone buzzed.
Wooyoung: Made it home safe. Get some rest.
You stared at the message, warmth blooming in your chest. Then you typed back:
You: Thanks, Woo. For everything. Let's talk tomorrow?
Wooyoung: Tomorrow. I'll buy you food.
You: It's a date.
You sent it before you could overthink it, then immediately panicked. But his response came quickly:
Wooyoung: 😏
Ugh, that emoji. You fell asleep that night thinking about possibilities, about pretending, about Wooyoung's hand in yours and the way he'd looked at you like you mattered.
Maybe it would blow up in your face. But maybe it was what you both needed.
The restaurant Wooyoung chose was small and kinda secluded from campus. It was the kind of place that you would always see, but never go inside. When you stepped in, you could already see him sitting at a table in the corner, so you made your way over.
He glanced up as you approached, "Hey. You found it okay?"
"Yeah." You slid into the seat across from him, suddenly aware of all the people who could be watching.
"So I've been thinking," Wooyoung said once you'd both ordered. "We should probably establish some ground rules before we start this whole thing."
You pulled out your phone, opening your notes app. "Okay. What did you have in mind?"
"Well, first - and most important - no real feelings." He said firmly. "This only works if we both remember it's fake. The second someone catches actual feelings, we end it. Agreed?"
The words stung more than it should have. "Agreed."
"Good." He seemed to relax slightly. "Second, we need to figure out how we're going to act in public. Like, what's acceptable and what's off limits."
You considered. "Hand holding is probably necessary. Maybe arms around each other?"
"Kissing?" The word stuck between you, suddenly making you feel kind of flustered.
Your cheeks heated. "I mean... couples kiss. People would think it was weird if we never did."
"So kissing is allowed." Wooyoung's voice was neutral. "But only when necessary. When people are watching."
"Right. Only when necessary."
"What about when we're alone?" He was watching you closely now. "Do we drop the act completely, or...?"
"I think we should stay in character sometimes," you said slowly, thinking it through. "To practice. So it looks natural in public."
"Makes sense." He nodded. "Okay, what about social media? That's gonna be the most important part of this."
"Soft launch?" you suggested. "Like, subtle photos where we're together but not obviously dating. Then after a week or two, we can make it ‘official’?"
"Smart." Wooyoung was typing notes into his own phone. "We should probably go through each other's social media, make sure we know what we each usually post. And we need to get our story straight, like how we got together, when we started dating, all that."
The food arrived, and you both paused to eat. It was really good, and you found yourself relaxing into the comfort of Wooyoung's presence. This was still weird, but it was also kind of exciting.
"So," Wooyoung said around a bite of pasta. "Our story. How did we fall for each other?"
You thought about it. "We've been friends for a year. We could say... it just kind of happened naturally? We were spending time together, and we realized there was something more there?"
"That is way too vague. We need specifics in case anyone asks." He leaned back, considering. "What about this: you know how I took you home after Mingi's party last night?" he pauses to take a bite. “What if that was our turning point? You were upset, I comforted you, and we both realized we had feelings for each other."
It was close enough to the truth to be believable. "Okay. So we will be secretly dating for a little bit, and then we ‘go public’?"
"Exactly." Wooyoung looked pleased. "That gives us a backstory and explains why no one's seen it coming."
You added it to your notes. "What about the end date? How long are we doing this?"
"Two months minimum," he said. "Long enough to be convincing. We can reassess after that, see if we need to keep going or if we've both gotten what we need out of it."
"And either of us can end it at any time?"
"Either of us can end it at any time," he confirmed. "No questions asked."
You looked down at your notes, at the rules and boundaries you'd constructed. Could you really fake a relationship like this?
"You're overthinking it," Wooyoung said, reading your expression with the ease of someone who knew you well. "We'll be fine. We're already friends. This is just friendship with some hand-holding and the occasional kiss."
"Right." You forced a smile. "Just friendship with fake benefits."
"Exactly." He grinned. "Now, let's talk logistics. We should probably start spending more time together in public. Study dates, coffee runs, that kind of thing. Ease people into seeing us together."
"We already do that stuff."
"Yeah, but now we'll be doing it with intent. Sitting closer, more casual touches, looking at each other like we're..." He paused. "Like we're in love."
That word felt… weird. "How do you look at someone like you're in love with them?"
"You've never been in love?" He seemed surprised.
"I thought I was. With Seonghwa. But obviously, I was wrong about that." The bitterness crept into your voice before you could stop it.
Wooyoung's expression softened. "Hey. Just because he was an idiot doesn't mean what you felt wasn't real."
"Yeah, well. Real or not, it didn't matter in the end." You pushed your pasta around your plate. "So how do we do it? The ‘looking like we're in love’ thing?"
"I don't know." He looked genuinely thoughtful. "I guess... you just look at the person like they're the only one in the room?
"Have you ever looked at someone like that?"
"No." The admission came quickly, followed by a self-deprecating laugh. "Told you I'm bad at this stuff."
"But you've dated lots of people."
"Dating and being in love are different things." He met your eyes. "I've never let anyone get close enough for love."
He was clearly being vulnerable, and you found yourself asking, "Why not?"
He looked up at you. "I think you can be friends with someone of the gender you're attracted to, but if you spend enough time together, if you get close enough, eventually attraction develops. And once that happens, the friendship is basically over because someone always wants more."
You frowned. “But what if they both end up wanting more?”
"Maybe. But I've seen it happen over and over. Someone catches feelings, confesses, and then everything gets weird. The friendship ends, or it becomes this awkward thing where one person is always wanting more than the other can give." He shrugged. "So I keep things casual. I date people, but I don't let them get too close. That way no one gets hurt."
"Except all the people you've dated who wanted something more," you pointed out.
"I'm honest with them from the start." But he looked uncomfortable. "I tell them I'm not looking for anything serious."
"And they think they can change your mind."
"That's not my fault."
"I didn't say it was." You studied him across the table. "But maybe... your theory is wrong? Maybe men and women can be close friends without attraction ruining everything?"
"Can they?" His gaze was intense suddenly. "Really think about it. Your close guy friends. Have you ever been attracted to any of them? Even a little?"
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. You thought about your friendships, about the guys you'd gotten close to over the years. And if you were honest... "Okay, maybe there's been some attraction. But that doesn't mean the friendship ends."
"Doesn't it?" Wooyoung leaned forward. "Be honest. Those friendships where there was attraction - are you still as close with those people?"
You wanted to argue, but you couldn't. He had a point. "So what, you're saying you and I can't be friends because we might eventually be attracted to each other?"
"We're already friends," he said. "And I plan to keep it that way. Which is why this fake dating thing is perfect. We get to be close, we get what we need out of it, and then we go back to being regular friends before anything complicated happens."
There was a flaw in his logic somewhere, you were sure of it. But you couldn't quite put your finger on it. "What if we're the exception? What if we prove your theory wrong?"
"Then we'll both be pleasantly surprised." But he didn't sound like he believed it.
The conversation changed to lighter topics after that - like planning your first official appearance as a couple, deciding on pet names (he voted for "babe," you threatened to call him "woowoo" in front of everyone if he did), figuring out how to handle questions from friends.
By the time you left the restaurant, you had pages of notes and a decent plan. Wooyoung walked you home. "Might as well start practicing," he'd said with a grin, wrapping his arm over your shoulder.
"So we're really doing this," you said as you reached your building.
"We're really doing this." He held out his hand, pinky extended. "Pinky promise? Two months, or until we both get what we need. No real feelings, no drama, and we stay friends when it's over."
You hesitated for just a moment, looking at his offered pinky. This was insane. This was going to end terribly somehow. But Wooyoung was looking at you with that mix of hope and mischief that you'd never been able to resist, and you found yourself hooking your pinky with his.
"Pinky promise."
His fingers squeezed yours gently, and for a moment, you were both just standing there, pinkies linked, looking at each other in the glow of the streetlight.
Then Wooyoung grinned again and pulled his hand away. "Okay, girlfriend. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Goodbye, boyfriend," you said, testing out the word. It felt weird in your mouth.
You watched him walk away, hands in his pockets, and tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in your stomach. This was fine. This was going to be fine.
You were just helping each other out. What could possibly go wrong?
The past few weeks were surprisingly easier than you anticipated. Meeting up to do some homework in the library, the occasional surprise breakfast before class. Hell, you even babysitted his cat for a few days when he went to visit his parents.
Today was a group dinner that was planned by Hongjoong for everyone to have the chance to catch up in the midst of the busy semester. When you found out Seonghwa would be there, Hongjoong offered to uninvite him, but you assured him it was fine,
The restaurant was louder than expected. It should have made you nervous, all these people, all these eyes potentially watching, but Wooyoung's presence beside you was surprisingly grounding.
"So," Mingi said, leaning forward with a grin that was entirely too knowing. "When were you two going to tell us?"
"Tell you what?" Wooyoung asked innocently, but his thumb was tracing circles on the back of your hand under the table.
"Oh, please." Mingi gestured between you. "You two show up together, you're practically glued to each other, and you think we haven't noticed?"
"How long?" Hongjoong asked, though something in his tone suggested he already knew the answer.
"About three weeks," Wooyoung said smoothly. "We wanted to make sure it was real before we told everyone."
"Three weeks?" Jongho looked skeptical. "You kept it secret for three weeks?"
"We're good at secrets." Wooyoung's implication made several people laugh. You just rolled your eyes.
Pretending felt awkward, but Wooyoung made it easy. His hand never left yours, his attention consistently returning to you even as he joked with the group. It felt natural in a way that surprised you.
"I have to say," San said, catching your eye with a smile, "you look happy. Happier than I've seen you in a while."
The observation caught you off guard, mostly because it was true. You were happy. Maybe it was the relief of finally having a plan, of taking some control back. Or maybe it was just Wooyoung, the smooth comfort of his presence.
"I am happy," you said, and meant it.
Seonghwa shifted in his seat, and you could feel his eyes on you, but you didn't look at him. You'd spent months drowning in the weight of his gaze, of his pity or his judgment or whatever it had been. You were done with that.
-
The conversation turned more casual, talking about class and free time.
"You're teaching her to dance?" Hongjoong looked delighted. "I need to see this."
"Absolutely not," you said quickly. "I do not have any rhythm."
"She's better than she thinks," Wooyoung said, and there was genuine affection in his voice that made your heart skip. "She just needs confidence."
Seonghwa finally spoke up, his voice annoyed. "Since when do you dance, Wooyoung? I thought you said it was 'too much commitment' to take on dancing."
The table went silent. The tension could be cut with a pair of scissors, but Woo’s response was quick. "I said organized dance was too much commitment. Dancing with my girlfriend is different." He looked at Seonghwa directly, his smile pleasant but his eyes hard. "It's not a commitment when you actually want to do it."
The implication was there: unlike you, who made everything feel like an obligation. You saw Seonghwa's jaw clench, saw the flash of anger in his eyes.
"Okay!" San said brightly, clearly trying to settle the tension. "Who wants to split dessert?"
The conversation moved on, but all you could pay attention to was Wooyoung beside you, the protective way he angled his body toward yours, of the thumb still tracing patterns on your thigh. When you glanced at him, he leaned in close again.
"You okay?" he murmured, quiet enough that only you could hear.
You nodded, throat tight with an emotion you couldn't name.
"Good." His hand squeezed your thigh gently. "Because you're doing great. He can't stop looking at you, and you haven't looked at him once."
Right. This was the plan. Make Seonghwa see that you'd moved on. Prove you were happy. It was working exactly as intended.
So why did your chest ache when Wooyoung pulled away?
-
Partway through dessert, you'd ended up sharing a chocolate lava cake with Wooyoung, feeding each other bites while your friends made exaggerated gagging noises. You excused yourself to the bathroom.
For some reason, Seonghwa left the table shortly after.
He appeared behind you in the hallway. He ran a hand through his hair, that nervous gesture you used to find endearing. Now it just makes you tired. "I needed to talk to you. Alone."
"We don't have anything to talk about.” As hard as you tried to shut him out of your brain, you couldn't help but hope that he would somehow say the right thing.
"We don’t?" He stepped closer, and you turned to face him. "You and Wooyoung? Really?"
Well that is not what you wanted to hear at all.
"What about it?"
"Come on." Seonghwa's voice dropped with a pleading undertone. "You know his reputation. He's going to hurt you."
The audacity of it stole your breath. "Like you hurt me?"
He flinched. "That's not… I made a mistake, okay? I know I did. But Wooyoung?. He's just going to use you and move on like he does with everyone else."
"You don't know anything about him." The words came out sharper than intended, defensive in a way that surprised you. "And even if you did, it's none of your business who I date."
"I still care about you."
"You lost the right to care about me when you cheated." Your voice was steady and cold. "And you definitely lost the right to have opinions about my relationship."
"I just don't want to see you get hurt again."
"Then you should have thought about that before you hurt me yourself. I loved you. And you told me you loved me too."
Seonghwa looked like you'd slapped him. "That's not fair."
"No," you agreed. "It's not. But neither was what you did to me."
You looked down at his hand on your arm, then up at his face. A few months ago, this moment would have meant everything. The concern in his eyes, the attention, the clear jealousy in the way he spoke. You would have read into it, hoped it meant something, maybe even considered giving him another chance.
Now? You didnt really feel anything.
"Let go of me," you said quietly.
He did, immediately, and you saw slight fear on his face.
You left him standing there, your heart pounding but your head clear. When you walked past him, Wooyoung was waiting at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall with casualness that didn't really hide the tension in his shoulders.
"You okay?" he asked immediately. "I saw him follow you-"
"I'm fine." And you were. You were more than fine. "He just wanted to share his opinions about our relationship."
"And?"
"And I told him where he could shove those opinions." You smiled genuine. "Can we go?"
Wooyoung's look shifted into something proud, almost awed. "Yeah. Yeah, we can go." He held out his hand, and you took it without hesitation.
The group was disappointed but understanding when you announced you were leaving. San hugged you tight, whispering "I'm proud of you" in your ear in a way that made your throat tight. Hongjoong just had a knowing look on his face the whole time, but he didn't say anything. Those two could definitely see right through you.
Seonghwa returned to the table just as you were leaving, and you didn't miss the way his eyes tracked to your hand in Wooyoung's, to the way Wooyoung helped you into your jacket, to the casual kiss he pressed to your temple as you walked out.
The air was cool, clearing the remaining tension from your shoulders. Wooyoung kept his arm around you all the way to the car, and when he opened your door, he paused.
"That was..." He seemed to be searching for words. "That went really well. Better than I expected."
"Yeah." You slid into the passenger seat. "It did."
The drive back to your place was quiet. Wooyoung's hand found yours across the center console, and you let yourself enjoy the warmth, the casual intimacy, the illusion of being wanted.
When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved to get out immediately.
"So," Wooyoung said finally. "First official appearance: success?"
"Definite success." You turned to look at him. "Thank you. For everything. For defending me, for being perfect, for-"
"Hey." He squeezed your hand. "That's what boyfriends do, right?"
Right. Boyfriends. Fake boyfriends.
"Right," you echoed.
There was a moment of hesitation where you both just looked at each other. Wooyoung's eyes dropped to your lips, then back up, and your breath caught. Was he going to…
He leaned in, and your heart stopped. But instead of your lips, his mouth pressed against your forehead, soft and lingering.
"Goodnight," he murmured against your skin.
"Night," you managed, voice barely a whisper.
You practically floated up to your apartment, touching your forehead where his lips had been. This was fake. This was all fake.
But why were you starting to wish it were real?
Week One
The library was your usual haunt, the area by the window where the sun created the perfect reading light. You were hunched over your laptop, supposedly working on an essay, but mostly you were thinking about Wooyoung beside you.
It had been three days since San's birthday dinner, and you'd seen him every single one of those days. Study sessions, he'd said. Got to keep up appearances.
But right now, with his leg pressed against yours under the table and his hand occasionally reaching over to steal your highlighter, it felt less like an appearance and more like... something else.
"You're not even reading that," Wooyoung said, not looking up from his own textbook.
"Yes, I am."
"You've been on the same page for ten minutes. I can see your screen."
You scowled and scrolled down, but he wasn't wrong. You'd been distracted by the way he bit his lip when he concentrated, by the furrow between his brows, by the way he'd draped his jacket over the back of your chair like he was marking territory.
Your phone buzzed, and you glanced down to see a notification from Instagram. Someone had tagged you in a post. It was a photo from dinner, you and Wooyoung caught mid-laugh, his hand on your face, both of you looking stupidly happy.
The comments were already rolling in. Cutest couple ever. I KNEW IT! Finally! And, from San: Called it 😏
"We're official on social media," you said, showing Wooyoung the screen.
He leaned closer to look, his shoulder pressing against yours. "Damn, we look good together."
"It's a nice photo."
"It's not just the photo." His voice was quieter, more serious. "We look happy."
You did. That was the strange part. In the photo, there was no acting, no visible performance. You just looked like two people who genuinely enjoyed each other.
"Wooyoung!" A girl's voice cut through your thoughts. You looked up to see one of his classmates, Minjeong, you thought her name was - approaching the table with a bright smile. "I heard about you and..." Her eyes landed on you. "Oh. Hi."
"Hi," you said, aware of the way Wooyoung's hand had automatically moved to rest on your thigh under the table.
"I just wanted to say congratulations," She continued, though something in her smile had dimmed. "I never thought I'd see the day Wooyoung settled down."
"Yeah, well." Wooyoung's thumb traced an absent pattern on your leg. "Sometimes you meet the right person."
Minjeong's eyes flickered between you, and you could see her trying to figure out what made you special, what you had that dozens of other girls hadn't. The attention made you squirm.
After she left, you turned to Wooyoung. "Does that bother you? Everyone being surprised?"
"That I'm in a relationship?" He shrugged, but there was stiffness in his posture. "I'm used to people assuming the worst about me. At least now they have to reconsider."
"It's not the worst, thinking you prefer to keep things casual."
He met your eyes. "When it means everyone thinks you're incapable of real feelings? They think I am heartless and only care about myself."
The hurt in his voice made your chest ache. Without thinking, you reached out and laced your fingers through his. "You're not heartless."
"You're the only one who seems to think so."
"Then everyone else is an idiot."
He laughed, surprised, and the tension broke. His hand tightened around yours. "Thanks, girlfriend."
"Anytime, boyfriend."
You stayed like that, hands linked on top of the table, and went back to your work. When a notification lit up your phone twenty minutes later, you glanced down to see Wooyoung had texted you.
Wooyoung: this is nice
You looked up. He was still focused on his textbook, but there was a small smile on his face. You typed back with one hand, not letting go of him with the other.
You: what is?
Wooyoung: this. studying together. holding hands. being close.
You: we've always studied together
Wooyoung: yeah but now I get to hold your hand while we do it 😏
You bit back a smile.
You: smooth
Wooyoung: you like it
You did. God help you, you really did.
-
That night, after you'd parted ways, your phone buzzed again.
Wooyoung: get home safe?
You: just walked in. you?
Wooyoung: been home for like 10 minutes
Wooyoung: was waiting to make sure you texted
Something warm bloomed inside you..
You: you don't have to do that
Wooyoung: I know
Wooyoung: I wanted to
Wooyoung: goodnight. dream about me 😉
You fell asleep smiling at your phone like a fool.
Week Two
"You're terrible at this," Wooyoung said, laughing as you stepped on his foot for the third time.
"I told you I can't dance!" You tried to pull away, but he held firm, hands on your waist in the middle of his living room.
"You're not trying. Here, feel the rhythm." He pulled you closer, so close you could feel his heartbeat. "It's like a game. You wouldn't button-mash your way through a boss fight, would you?"
"That's completely different-"
"It's not. You're overthinking it. Just..." He started swaying, gentle, and you had no choice but to follow. "There. See? You're doing it."
You were barely moving, just a soft rocking back and forth, but he was right. You were doing it. And more importantly, you were pressed against him, his hands warm on your waist, his breath stirring your hair.
"This isn't really dancing," you said, voice softer than intended.
"It's close enough." He hummed something under his breath, a melody you didn't recognize, and guided you in a slow circle. "Besides, couples dance like this all the time."
"At wedding receptions."
"Exactly. We're just practicing for future wedding receptions."
You paused for a second, trying to not over think what he just said.
"Your turn," he said suddenly, pulling back. "Teach me one of your games."
"Really?"
"Really. Fair is fair."
You ended up showing him a co-op game that you usually play with randoms online, but this time you actually got to play with someone you knew. Wooyoung was terrible at it - his character kept running off cliffs - but he was laughing, genuine and bright, and you couldn't remember the last time you'd had this much fun.
"How are you so bad at this?" you teased as he died for the fifth time.
"I'm used to dance games! These are different."
"Dance games are so much harder-"
"Are not."
You started playfully bickering, and somewhere in the moment, Wooyoung's arm ended up around your shoulders, your head found its way to his chest, and when you finally beat the level, you both cheered and he kissed the top of your head without seeming to think about it.
The kiss froze you both.
"Sorry," Wooyoung said quickly. "I wasn't thinking.."
"It's fine." You forced yourself to relax back against him, even though your heart was racing. "We're practicing, right? For when people are around?"
"Right. Practicing."
But his arm stayed around you for the rest of the night, and when you left, he hugged you at the door longer than necessary.
Week Three
The restaurant was busy, Friday night crowds filling every table, and you'd somehow ended up in a small booth clearly meant for couples, with candlelight flickering between you.
"This feels like a real date," you said, then immediately wanted to take it back.
But Wooyoung just smiled. "That's kind of the point, isn't it?"
"Yeah. The point."
Conversation flowed easily, like it always did with him. You talked about classes and complained about professors and debated topics that randomly came up. At some point, your feet tangled under the table, and neither of you moved to separate them.
"Can I ask you something?" Wooyoung said during dessert.
"Sure."
"Do you still think about him? Seonghwa?"
The question surprised you. You'd barely thought about your ex all week. "Not really. Sometimes, but not like before."
"What's different?"
You considered, taking a bite of the cake you were sharing. "Before, I'd see him and it would hurt. Like a physical pain. But now..." You shrugged. "Now I just feel kind of indifferent. Like he's someone I used to know."
"That's good, right? That's what you wanted?"
"Yeah." You met his eyes. "It's exactly what I wanted. This whole thing-" You gestured between you. "-it's working."
Something flashed across Wooyoung's face, there then gone, too quickly to identify. "Good. I'm glad."
When he walked you home that night - he always walked you home now, even though it was out of his way - you lingered at your door.
"Thanks for dinner," you said.
"Anytime." He was standing close, hands in his pockets, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. "I had fun."
"Me too."
Neither of you moved. The space between you felt thick, Wooyoung's eyes dropped to your lips, and you stopped breathing.
He leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. But you didn't. You couldn't.
His lips brushed your forehead and you felt the loss of what could have been a real kiss.
"Goodnight," he murmured.
"Night," you whispered back.
That night, you couldn't sleep. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the past three weeks. Every touch, every smile, every time he'd made your heart race.
This was supposed to be fake. You'd agreed on rules. No real feelings.
But somewhere between the practice dates and the touches and the way he looked at you like you mattered, you'd broken the most important rule.
You'd fallen for him.
Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your spiral.
Wooyoung: you awake?
You: yeah. can't sleep
Wooyoung: me neither
Wooyoung: been thinking about tonight
Your heart stuttered.
You: yeah?
Wooyoung: yeah
Wooyoung: I think we're getting really good at this
Wooyoung: the whole fake dating thing
Wooyoung: it barely feels fake anymore
You stared at the message, reading it over and over. Did he mean...?
You: yeah. barely fake.
Wooyoung: goodnight. for real this time
You: night, woo
You fell asleep with your phone clutched in your hand, his words replaying in your mind.
It barely feels fake anymore.
No, you thought. It doesn't feel fake at all.
The text came on a random Tuesday afternoon, three simple words that made you feel… indifferent: Can we talk?
You stared at Seonghwa’s name on your screen, trying to figure out what he could possibly have to say to you now. It had been a while since you’ve broken up, more than a month since you’d started “dating” Wooyoung. What could he possibly want?
You: About what?
The reply came quickly.
Seonghwa: Us. What happened. I just want to talk, please. Coffee tomorrow?
You should have deleted the message and moved on. But some part of you - the part that still remembered loving him, even if you didn’t anymore - couldn’t quite let it go without closure.
You: Fine. 3pm at the cafe on Main.
You told Wooyoung about it that night during your regular phone call - when had nightly phone calls become regular? - and his response was immediate.
“I’m coming with you.”
“Woo, you don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” His voice was firm. “He doesn’t get to ask you to meet alone. I’ll wait outside or something, but I’m coming.”
The protectiveness in his voice made your chest happy. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Always.”
-
The next day, Wooyoung picked you up early, and you could see the tightness in his jaw as he drove.
“You okay?” you asked.
“I should be asking you that.” He glanced over. “Are you nervous?”
“A little. I don’t know what he wants to say.”
“Whatever it is, you don’t owe him anything. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
His hand found yours across the console. “And if he says anything that upsets you, I’m coming in there.”
You squeezed his hand, grateful. “My knight in shining armor.”
“Damn right.”
The place was quiet when you arrived, and Seonghwa was already there, sitting at a table with two coffees in front of him. He stood when he saw you, and you noticed he looked tired, shadows under his eyes.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Thanks for coming.”
“What did you want to talk about?” You didn’t sit yet, keeping your guard up.
“Please, just… sit? Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
You glanced out the window where Wooyoung was leaning against his car, arms crossed, watching. He gave you a small nod, and you felt braver.
You sat.
“I got you your usual,” Seonghwa said, sliding one of the cups toward you. “Mocha latte, extra whip.”
You didn’t touch it. “What do you want, Seonghwa?”
He took a breath, and you could see him gathering courage. “I made a mistake. Making you break up with me. Cheating. All of it. I was an idiot, and I’ve been miserable ever since.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Seeing you with Wooyoung these past few weeks…” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s been killing me. Seeing you happy, seeing you with someone else. It made me realize what I lost.”
“So you want me back.” Your voice was flat.
“I want a chance to fix this. Or at least try to prove that I can be better.” He reached across the table, trying to take your hand, but you pulled back. “Please. We were good together. We can be good again.”
You looked at him, the boy you’d spent years with, the one you’d planned a future with, the one who’d broken your heart so thoroughly you’d thought you’d never recover.
And you felt… nothing.
No anger, no longing, no pain. Just a distant sort of pity.
“We weren’t good together, Seonghwa.” Your voice was firm. “We were comfortable. There’s a difference.”
“That’s not true…”
“It is.” You met his eyes steadily. “You cheated on me because you weren’t happy. And honestly? I wasn’t either. I was just too afraid to admit it.”
“But we could try again.”
“No.” The word came out stronger than you intended. “We can’t. Because I’ve moved on. I’m happy now. Actually happy.”
“With Wooyoung.” His voice turned bitter. “You really think he’s going to stick around? Everyone knows his reputation.”
“Everyone knew your reputation too,” you said quietly. “The good guy. The loyal boyfriend. And look how that turned out.”
He flinched.
“Wooyoung treats me better in one day than you did in two years,” you continued, and realized with a start that it was true. “He listens to me. He remembers things I say. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel like I matter.”
“I made you feel like you mattered-”
“You made me feel like an obligation.” The truth spilled out. “Like something you kept around because it was easier than being alone. And I let you, because I thought that was the best I could get.”
Seonghwa was staring at you like he didn’t recognize you.
You stood, leaving the coffee untouched.
“I forgive you,” you said. “For the cheating, for the lying, for all of it. But I don’t want you back. I hope you find someone who makes you happy. But it’s not going to be me.”
You walked out without looking back, and the moment you stepped outside, Wooyoung was there.
“You okay?” His hands came up to cup your face, searching your expression.
“I’m perfect.” And you were. You felt lighter than you had in months, like you’d finally closed a door that had been left open for too long. “Can we go?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” His arm came around your shoulders, solid and sure, and you leaned into him as you walked to the car.
You didn’t realize you were crying until you were in the passenger seat and Wooyoung was wiping your tears with his thumb.
“Hey, what’s wrong? What did he say?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” You laughed wetly. “He said he wanted me back.”
His expression darkened. “And?”
“And I told him no.” You looked up at him, at the concern in his eyes, at the gentle way he was touching you. “I told him I’d moved on. That I was happy.”
“Are you?” His voice was quiet. “Happy?”
“Yeah.” You reached up, covering his hand with yours. “I am.”
His expression changed. It was something vulnerable and hopeful and scared all at once. He leaned forward, and for a heart-stopping moment you thought he was going to kiss you. Really kiss you.
But then he pulled back, clearing his throat. “Good. That’s… that’s good. I’m glad.”
He started the car, and you tried to ignore the disappointment curling in your stomach.
As he drove, one hand on the wheel and one hand finding yours, you stared out the window and tried not to think about how much you’d meant every word you’d said to Seonghwa.
About how Wooyoung made you feel wanted.
And about how you’d fallen completely in love with your fake boyfriend.
You couldn’t sleep.
It was 2 AM, and you’d been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment of the past month. Every touch, every smile, every time Wooyoung had looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
The forehead kisses. The hand-holding. The protective way he’d shown up for you today.
When had it stopped being an act?
Your phone buzzed on your nightstand, and your heart leaped when you saw his name.
Wooyoung: you awake?
You: unfortunately. you?
Wooyoung: can’t stop thinking about today
Wooyoung: are you really okay?
You stared at the messages, fingers hovering over the keyboard. You could lie. Keep up the act that this was all still fake and manageable.
You: I’m okay. Better than okay, actually.
You: I meant what I said to him. I’ve moved on.
Wooyoung: good. he doesn’t deserve you anyway
You: woo…
Wooyoung: yeah?
You typed and deleted three different messages before settling on:
You: thank you for being there today
Wooyoung: always. that’s what boyfriends do, right? 😏
There was a long pause. Then:
Wooyoung: doesn’t feel very fake anymore, does it?
Your breath caught. You stared at the message, reading it over and over.
You: no. it doesn’t.
Wooyoung: is that a bad thing?
Was it? You didn’t know anymore. All you knew was that you were in too deep, and there was no way out that didn’t end in heartbreak.
You: i don’t know. is it?
Wooyoung: I don’t know either
Wooyoung: goodnight. we should talk soon. actually talk.
You: goodnight woo
You fell asleep with your phone in your hand, his words echoing in your mind.
Doesn’t feel very fake anymore.
-
The next morning across campus, Wooyoung was having a crisis.
He’d been staring at his phone for twenty minutes, reading and rereading your text conversation from last night. Doesn’t feel very fake anymore. What had he been thinking, sending that? He might as well have just confessed outright.
“You look like you’re having an existential crisis,” San said, dropping his stuff into the seat next to him.
“I am having an existential crisis.”
Hongjoong appeared on his other side. “Does this crisis have anything to do with your girlfriend?”
“Fake girlfriend,” Wooyoung corrected automatically, but the words felt wrong in his mouth.
“Is she still fake?” Hongjoong asked. “Because to me, you two look pretty real.”
Wooyoung groaned, letting his head fall onto the table. “I fucked up.”
“What did you do?” San asked.
“I caught feelings. For someone I’m supposed to be fake dating.” He lifted his head, looking between his friends. “How did this happen? We had rules. It was supposed to be simple.”
“Feelings are never simple,” Hongjoong said.
“Especially not when you’re spending all your time with someone you’re pretending to date,” San added. “Kind of unavoidable."
“That’s exactly the problem!” Wooyoung ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “This is exactly what I said would happen. And now I’ve proven myself right, and I hate it.”
“Why do you hate being right?” San asked.
“It means I can’t be close to someone without fucking it up with feelings. It means-” He broke off, his fear finally surfacing. “It means I’m going to lose her.”
“Why would you lose her?” Hongjoong looked genuinely confused.
“Because that’s what happens. Someone catches feelings, things get weird, and the friendship ends.”
“Or,” San said slowly, “someone catches feelings, the other person feels the same way, and they end up together. Did you ever consider that?”
Wooyoung stared at him. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”
“Are you serious right now?” Hongjoong laughed. “Woo, she looks at you like you hung the moon. I’ve never seen two people more obviously in love while claiming to be ‘fake-dating’.”
“You think she feels the same way?”
“I think you’re both idiots who need to talk to each other,” San said bluntly. “But yes, I think she’s just as gone for you as you are for her.”
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted quietly.
“You talk to her,” San said firmly. “You tell her the truth. And you figure it out together.”
Wooyoung pulled out his phone, looking at your last text exchange. Doesn’t feel very fake anymore. No. It doesn’t.
Maybe it was time to stop pretending.
-
That evening, you were at home trying to study when your phone rang. Wooyoung’s name flashed on the screen, and your heart jumped.
“Hey,” you answered.
“Hey.” His voice sounded strange. “Are you busy?”
“Just studying. Why?”
“Can I come over? I think we need to talk.”
Your stomach dropped. This was it. He was going to end the arrangement. Tell you he couldn’t do this anymore. You’d broken the rules by catching feelings, and now…
“Yeah,” you heard yourself say. “Yeah, come over.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
He hung up, and you stared at your phone, panic rising in your chest. You had ten minutes to prepare yourself for heartbreak.
You spent those ten minutes pacing your apartment, trying to figure out what you’d say. How you’d react. Whether you should tell him the truth or keep lying.
When the knock came, you nearly jumped out of your skin.
Wooyoung stood in your doorway, hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it, eyes dark with something, you couldn’t tell what it was.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
You stood there for a second, just looking at each other. Then Wooyoung stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“We need to talk about this,” he said, motioning between you two. “About us.”
Your heart was pounding so hard you thought it might break through your ribs. “Okay.”
“I’ve been thinking about what I said last night. About how this doesn’t feel fake anymore.” He took a step closer. “And it doesn’t. At least not for me.”
You couldn’t breathe. “Woo…”
“Let me finish. Please.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I know we had rules. I know we said no real feelings. But somewhere along the way, I broke that rule. And I’ve been terrified to tell you because I thought it would ruin everything.”
“What are you saying?” Your voice was barely a whisper.
“I’m saying I have feelings for you.” He was looking at you with such intensity you felt pinned in place. “I can’t tell the difference between pretending and reality anymore because when I’m with you, it all feels real. The hand-holding, the dates, the way I want to kiss you for real instead of just your forehead - all of it.”
Your breath caught. “You want to kiss me?”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks,” he admitted. “But I was scared.” He pauses. “But then I realized,” he continued, stepping closer, “maybe my theory was wrong. Not about the attraction part - I think I was right about that. But about what it means.” He reached out, taking your hand. “Maybe the point isn’t that attraction ruins friendships. Maybe the point is that the best relationships start as friendships. And maybe sometimes, falling for your friend isn’t the end of the friendship - it’s the beginning of something better.”
Tears were streaming down your face, and you didn’t even care. “Wooyoung-”
“I think I am in love with you,” he said, the words froze in the air between you. “I’m completely, hopelessly in love with you. And I know that wasn’t part of the plan, and I know we said this would be temporary, but I don’t want temporary. I want real. I want you. Even when we met in class, I felt something for you. It has always been there.”
You were crying in earnest now, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth.
“Please say something,” Wooyoung said, and you could hear the fear in his voice. “Tell me I didn’t just ruin everything. Tell me-”
“I think I love you too,” you said, the words tumbling out. “I’ve been in love with you for weeks, and I was so scared to tell you because I thought you’d think I broke the rules, and I didn’t want to lose you…”
You didn’t get to finish because Wooyoung was kissing you.
And for once, it wasn’t a forehead kiss. It was a real kiss.
His hands cupped your face, and his lips were soft and desperate against yours, and it felt like coming home. You kissed him back with everything you had, months of pent-up longing pouring into this one moment.
When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
“We’re idiots,” you said, laughing through your tears.
“Complete idiots,” he agreed. “We could have been doing this for weeks.”
“We had rules-”
“Fuck the rules.” He kissed you again, shorter this time but no less sweet. “I don’t want to pretend anymore. I want this to be real.”
“It already is real,” you said. “It’s been real for a long time.”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “Yeah, it has.”
You kissed him again, and again, making up for lost time. And when you finally pulled back, breathless and giddy, Wooyoung took your hand.
“So,” he said. “Will you be my girlfriend? For real this time?”
“Yes.” You didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes, I want that.”
“Good.” He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
You buried your face in his chest, breathing him in, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek.
This was real. And for the first time in months, you felt perfectly happy.
Everything should have been perfect.
You were actually together. No more pretending, no more rules. Just you and Wooyoung.
Except something was wrong.
It started small. A cancelled study date here, a shorter text conversation there. Wooyoung said he was busy with dance practice, with family stuff, with a big project for class. All reasonable excuses.
But it had been almost a week since your confession, and you’d barely seen him.
You: miss you. when can I see you?
Wooyoung: sorry, got a lot going on. maybe this weekend?
Maybe. Not definitely. Maybe.
You tried not to read into it, tried to tell yourself he was just actually busy. But the familiar doubt crept in anyway.
Had you been wrong? Had he changed his mind? Had the reality of actually being together scared him off?
When you finally did see him - at a group hangout at Mingi’s place on Friday - he was different. Still affectionate, still attentive, but there was a distance in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Like part of him was somewhere else.
“You okay?” you asked quietly when you had a moment alone.
“Yeah, fine. Just tired.” He kissed your forehead, but it felt forced.
And then you saw it later.
Wooyoung, across the room, laughing with a girl you didn’t recognize. His hand on her arm, that devastating smile turned on her full force. The same charm he used to use on everyone before you.
Your stomach twisted.
“That’s Yuna,” San said, appearing at your elbow. “She’s in Wooyoung’s contemporary dance class.”
“Oh.” You tried to sound casual. “They seem friendly.”
San gave you a look. “Don’t read into it. He’s probably just being nice.”
But you couldn’t help but read into it. Couldn’t help noticing how easily he made her laugh, how she touched his arm back, how he didn’t pull away.
When Wooyoung finally came back over, you were ready to leave.
“Already?” He looked surprised. “It’s early.”
“I have an early morning tomorrow.” The lie came easily. “I should go.”
“Oh. Okay.” He walked you out, but he didn’t offer to drive you home like he usually did. “Text me when you get back safe?”
“Sure.”
You waited for him to kiss you goodbye. He kissed your forehead.
Always your forehead. Never your lips. Not since that first night when you’d confessed your feelings to each other.
“Goodnight,” he said.
You walked home alone, feeling the distance between you growing with every step.
-
By the second week, the distance had become unbearable.
Wooyoung barely texted. He cancelled more plans than he kept. When you did see him, he was distracted and distant. The easy affection had been replaced by something controlled.
You tried to talk to him about it, but he deflected every time.
“I’m just stressed about midterms.”
“I’m fine, really. Just need some space to focus.”
“You’re overthinking it.”
But you weren’t overthinking it. You could feel him pulling away, could see him reverting to his old patterns. The fuckboy who never let anyone get too close and kept everything surface-level.
The breaking point came at Yunho’s place.
You’d come with Wooyoung, but within an hour, he’d disappeared into the crowd. You found him in the kitchen, and your heart sank.
He was flirting with Yuna again. Not just friendly conversation. It was actual flirting. The smile, the eyes, the casual touches. All the things he used to do with you before it became real.
“Having fun?” The words came out colder than you intended.
Wooyoung turned, and something flickered across his face. Guilt? “Hey. Yeah, just talking to Yuna.”
“I can see that.”
Yuna looked between you, clearly sensing the tension. “I should go find Yeosang. Nice talking to you, Wooyoung.” She left quickly.
You and Wooyoung stood in uncomfortable silence.
“What’s going on with you?” you finally asked.
“Nothing. I was just talking to someone-”
“You’ve been avoiding me for two weeks.” Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. “Ever since we made it official, you’ve been pulling away. And now you’re flirting with other girls right in front of me?”
“I wasn’t flirting…”
“Don’t lie to me.” Tears were burning in your eyes. “I know you, and I know what flirting looks like. I watched you do it for months before we got together.”
Wooyoung’s jaw tightened. “You’re being paranoid.”
“Am I? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you got what you wanted. Prove you could commit, made your family happy, and now you’re ready to move on. Just like you do with everyone else.”
“That’s not fair.”
“How so?” You were starting to get upset, but you were past the point of caring. “You said you loved me. You said you wanted this to be real. But the second it actually became real, you started running.”
“I’m not running.”
“Then what do you call this?” You gestured between you. “You barely talk to me. You cancel our plans. You avoid me at parties. And when you do see me, you act like I’m someone you’re obligated to spend time with, not someone you claim to love.”
“I do love you.” His voice rose, frustration showing through. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”
You stopped, stunned. “What?”
Wooyoung ran his hands through his hair, and you could see him warring with himself. “I love you. And that terrifies me. Because we were friends, and now we’re not, because we caught feelings.”
“We’re not friends anymore because we’re together-”
“But that’s temporary too, isn’t it?” His voice was harsh, almost desperate. “Relationships end. People leave. And when this falls apart - because it will fall apart, they always do - I won’t just lose my girlfriend. I’ll lose my best friend.”
Your breath caught. “You think we’re going to fall apart?”
“I think I don’t know how to do this, and I don’t know how to treat you the way you deserve.”
“So you thought the best thing to do was to push me away and make me wonder what I did wrong?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “You are sabotaging us before we even gave it a try.”
You wanted to comfort him, to tell him he was wrong and that you weren’t going anywhere. But you were too hurt.
“So instead of taking the risk, you choose to end us before it even started?” Your voice was broken. “You’re proving yourself right by making sure we fail?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “I just know I’m scared.”
“Well, I’m scared too.” You wiped your eyes. “I’m terrified. But I’m not running away. I’m not flirting with other people to make myself feel safe. I’m choosing to trust this. To trust you.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
The words landed like a blow. You stared at him, at the boy you’d fallen in love with, and realized he wasn’t ready for this. Maybe he never would be.
“Then what are we doing?” you asked quietly. “If you can’t trust this, can’t trust me, then what’s the point?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” You laughed, but it came out bitter. “You told me you wanted this to be real. But the first time it gets hard, you act like caring about someone is a weakness instead of a strength.”
He didn’t have an answer for that.
You waited, hoping he’d say something. Anything. But he just stood there, looking miserable and lost, and you realized you couldn’t do this anymore.
“I need space,” you said. “Real space. To figure out if this is worth fighting for when you’re not willing to fight for it too. I am not doing the whole ‘not being good enough’ thing again.”
“Don’t-” His voice broke. “Please don’t do this.”
“You’re the one doing this,” you said.
You left before he could respond, pushing through the party and out into the cold night air. You made it two blocks before you had to stop, leaning against a building as sobs took over your body.
You’d fallen in love with someone who was too afraid to love you back.
And you didn’t know how to fix it.
The next two weeks were hell.
Sitting next to him at group dinners, feeling the tension between. Holding his hand because people expected it, feeling his fingers tight and desperate around yours. Catching his eyes across the room and seeing the same misery you felt reflected back.
But the second you were alone, the distance returned. He’d drop your hand like it burned. Make excuses to leave. Avoid any real conversation.
Your friends weren’t blind.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Hongjoong asked one afternoon when Wooyoung had left yet another hangout early.
“Nothing. He’s just busy.”
“Bullshit.” San leaned forward. “You two have been weird for weeks. Did something happen?”
You wanted to lie, but you were so tired of pretending.
“We’re fighting,” you admitted. “Sort of. It’s complicated.”
“What happened?” Hongjoong’s voice was tender.
“He’s scared. Of commitment, of getting hurt, of losing me. So he’s pushing me away before I can leave him.” You laughed hollowly. “Classic self-sabotage.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“I tried. He won’t really talk to me.” You felt tears threatening again. “I don’t know what to do. I love him, but I can’t make him not be afraid. And I can’t keep putting myself through this.”
San and Hongjoong exchanged a look.
“We’ll talk to him,” San said.
“Don’t. Please.” You shook your head. “He needs to figure this out himself. Either he wants this or he doesn’t. But I can’t force him to choose me.”
“He does choose you,” Hongjoong said firmly. “He’s just a dumbass who doesn’t know how to handle anything.”
“Then he needs to learn. Quickly.” You stood up. “I need to go. I have studying to do.”
You left before they could see you cry again.
-
The next couple’s appearance was Mingi’s movie night. Everyone would be there, which meant you and Wooyoung had to show up together and act normal.
You met him outside the building, and the sight of him made your chest ache. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, hair unstyled. Like he hadn’t been sleeping well either.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hi.”
The walk to Mingi’s apartment was awkward. When Wooyoung reached for your hand, you let him take it, but it felt wrong. Like you were both just going through the motions.
Inside, your friends were already sprawled across Mingi’s living room, arguing about what movie to watch. You and Wooyoung ended up on the couch, sitting close because that’s what couples did, but the space between your bodies felt like a canyon.
Halfway through the movie - some action film you weren’t really watching - he shifted closer. His arm came around your shoulders, and you stiffened.
“Relax,” he murmured, quiet enough that only you could hear. “People are watching.”
Right. You were performing. Like you had been from the beginning.
Except now it hurt so much more, because you knew what it felt like when it was real.
You leaned into him because you had to, resting your head on his shoulder. His hand came up to play with your hair, an absent gesture that used to make you feel cherished. Now it just felt empty.
“I miss you,” he whispered against your hair.
The words made your eyes burn. “I’m right here.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
You knew what he meant. You missed him too. Missed the version of you two that had been happy, that had been hopeful. Missed the boy who had looked at you like you were his whole world.
After the movie ended, and after some of the others had left, you excused yourself to Mingi’s patio. You leaned against the railing, allowing yourself to take in the fresh air of the cold night. You hear the sliding glass door open behind you.
“Hey.”
You spun around. Wooyoung stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking uncertain.
“Hi,” you managed.
“Can I…” He gestured to the balcony. “Can I join you?”
You nodded, and he stepped outside, the door closing behind him. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You both just stared out, at the lights of the buildings in the distance.
“You look beautiful,” Wooyoung said finally.
“Thanks.” Your voice was cold. “You look nice too.”
More silence.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About what you said. About how I’ve been sabotaging us.”
You didn’t respond, waiting for him to continue.
“You were right. About all of it.” He turned to face you. “I was so scared of losing you that I started pulling away. And I didn’t even realize I was doing it until you pointed it out.”
“And?” You kept your eyes on the horizon, not trusting yourself to look at him.
“And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” His voice cracked. “I’ve been miserable without you. I can’t sleep, I can’t focus. All I do is think about you and how badly I fucked everything up.”
“Woo-”
“I love you,” he said desperately. “I love you so much it scares me. And I know I handled that fear in the worst possible way. I know I hurt you. But please… please give me another chance.”
You finally looked at him, and the raw emotion on his face made your chest tight. “I don’t know if I can do this again. I can’t keep putting myself through this cycle of you pulling away every time you get scared.”
“I know. I know I don’t deserve another chance. But I swear, I’m done running. I’m done sabotaging us. I want this, I want you, and I’m ready to fight for it.”
“Are you?” The question came out sharp.
“I can’t promise I won’t be scared,” he admitted. “But I can promise I won’t run. I’ll talk to you instead. I’ll let you in instead of shutting you out.”
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly.
“When I saw you,” you said quietly. “Flirting with Yuna, a part of me wondered if you would ever change.”
He flinched. “I wasn’t flirting - okay, maybe I was. But it wasn’t about her. It was about trying to prove to myself that I could still be that person. The one who doesn’t get attached.”
“Why would you want to be that person?”
“Because that person doesn’t get hurt.” His voice had a hint of frustration. “That person doesn’t lie awake at night terrified of losing the most important thing in his life. That person is safe.”
“That person is lonely,” you said. “And I know you, Wooyoung. You don’t actually want to be him anymore.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “You’re right. I don’t. I’d rather be terrified and with you than safe and alone.”
“Then prove it.” You finally met his eyes fully. “Stop running. Stop trying to protect yourself from getting hurt by hurting me first. Just… be with me. Actually be with me.”
“I will.” He took a step closer. “I swear I will. Just please, give me one more chance. Let me show you I can do better.”
You studied his face, looking for any sign of doubt or fear. But all you saw was desperate sincerity.
“One chance,” you said finally. “But if you pull away again, if you start reverting to your old stuff, we’re done. For real this time.”
“I understand.” He reached out tentatively, and when you didn’t pull away, he took your hand. “Thank you. I won’t screw this up again.”
“You better not.”
He pulled you closer, and you let yourself lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent. His arms came around you, solid and warm, and you felt some of the tension you’d been carrying for weeks finally ease.
“I missed you,” he murmured into your hair. “I missed you so fucking much.”
“I missed you too.” You pulled back to look at him. “But we need to actually talk about this. About your fear, about your patterns. We can’t just sweep it under the rug.”
“I know. And we will. I’ll tell you everything.” He cupped your face gently. “But first… can I kiss you?”
Your heart skipped. “Please kiss me.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you time to change your mind. But you didn’t want to. You’d been wanting this too.
When his lips finally met yours, it was soft and sweet and perfect, his hands soothing on your face, your fingers curling into his jacket. You kissed him like you’d been waiting forever.
When you finally broke apart, you were both smiling.
His eyes gleamed with the shine of the light through the glass and he kissed you again, quick and happy. “Let me take you home.”
-
You both head back inside with your fingers intertwined, and the remaining members of your friend group were pleasantly surprised at how your demeanor towards each other suddenly changed.
“We’re heading out.” Wooyoung announced to them as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder.
“Okay, love birds.” San said playfully.
The walk to his car was quiet, though it didn’t feel like anything needed to be said in the moment.
He opened the car door for you and gestured towards it. “M’lady.”
“Oh my god you are so weird,” you couldn’t help but to laugh at him.
You slid into his passenger seat, a feeling all too familiar.
The drive to your apartment was quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet than the painful silences of the past two weeks. This was comfortable. Wooyoung’s hand found yours across the console almost immediately, his thumb tracing those familiar circles that made your heart race.
“I talked to my dad,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence. “After we fought. I called him and told him everything.”
You turned to look at him, surprised. “What did he say?”
“He told me I was being an idiot.” Wooyoung’s lips quirked into a self-deprecating smile.
“Your dad sounds wise.”
“He has his moments.” His hand tightened around yours. “He also said that love isn’t about protecting yourself from pain. It’s about finding someone worth being vulnerable for.”
Your throat felt tight.
“You’re worth it,” he said quietly, glancing at you before returning his eyes to the road. “You’re worth every moment of fear, every risk, everything. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that I was ruining the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak, so you just squeezed his hand, blinking back tears.
When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved immediately. The car idled, the soft hum of the engine the only sound between you.
“Do you want to come up?” The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “We could… talk more. About everything.”
Wooyoung turned to look at you, and something in his expression made your breath catch. His eyes were dark, intense in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
He turned off the engine, and the sudden silence felt deafening. You both got out of the car, and Wooyoung’s hand found the small of your back as you walked to your building, a touch that felt both protective and possessive.
The elevator ride up to your floor was torture. You were hyperaware of him beside you - the warmth radiating from his body, the scent of his cologne, the way his eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like he was holding himself back from something.
When you finally reached your door, your hands were shaking so badly you almost dropped your keys. Wooyoung’s hand covered yours, steadying them, and the touch sent shivers through your entire body.
“Breathe,” he murmured, so close you could feel his breath against your ear.
You managed to unlock the door and step inside, Wooyoung following close behind. The moment the door closed, the air between you became heavier.
You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made your knees weak.
“We should talk,” you said, but your voice came out breathy.
“We should,” he agreed. He was moving closer, backing you delicately against the door. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“So many things,” you whispered, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. You could feel his heart hammering under your palm, as fast as yours.
“Like how I’m going to spend every day proving I’m worth your trust,” he said, his hands coming up to frame your face. “How I’m going to show you that I’m all in. That I’m not going anywhere.”
“Wooyoung…”
“Like how I’ve been thinking about really kissing,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “Not just forehead kisses. Not just quick pecks. Actually kissing you the way I’ve wanted to since the night we confessed.”
Your breath hitched. “We kissed that night.”
“Yeah.” His thumb traced your bottom lip, and you felt it everywhere. “And then I got scared and pulled away. I’ve regretted it every day since.”
“Then don’t pull away this time,” you said, your fingers curling into his shirt.
He snapped. His mouth crashed against yours, and this kiss was nothing like the sweet one on the balcony. This was desperate, hungry, the emotion of your time apart poured into the connection of your lips.
You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your entire body feel like it was on fire. Your hands moved from his chest to his hair, tangling in the soft strands and pulling him closer.
He groaned - actually groaned - and the sound sent heat straight through you. His hands moved from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him.
“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against your lips, trailing kisses along your jaw, “wanted you, for so long.”
“Me too,” you managed, tilting your head to give him better access as his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear. “God, me too.”
His hands slid under your shirt, just slightly, his fingers splaying against the bare skin of your waist, and you melted into the contact.
“Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and pupils blown wide.
“Yes,” you said immediately. “Yes, this is okay. More than okay.”
He smiled that devastating smile that had always made your heart skip, and kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands stayed where they were, warm against your skin.
You tugged at his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, and he helped you, shrugging out of it without breaking the kiss. It fell to the floor forgotten.
Your heart was racing so fast you thought it might burst. “Bedroom.”
He pulled back, taking your hand, and let you lead him through your apartment. The walk to your bedroom felt like it took forever. When you finally reached your room, you turned to face him, suddenly nervous despite everything.
Wooyoung seemed to sense your hesitation. He stepped closer, cupping your face gently, his thumb stroking your jaw line tenderly.
“We can stop,” he said softly. “We can just talk, or watch a movie, or…”
“I don’t want to stop,” you interrupted. “I just… I want this to mean something. I want it to be real.”
“It is real,” he said, his voice fierce. “This is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”
He kissed you again, serene this time, pouring emotion into it rather than just heat. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I love you,” he whispered. “So much. And I’m going to spend every day showing you that.”
“I love you too,” you said, your hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. “Show me.”
His eyes darkened again, and he walked you backwards toward the bed.. When the back of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, and he followed you down, hovering over you with his arms braced on either side of your head.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, looking down at you with such intensity it made you feel like you were the only person in the world. “How did I get this lucky?”
“Woo…”
He kissed you again, and you pulled him closer, your hands exploring the planes of his back through his shirt. He made that sound again - that groan that drove you crazy - and his hand slid up your side, his touch reverent.
“Can I…” His fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt.
“Yes,” you breathed.
He sat back slightly, helping you sit up so slowly it was almost torture, pulled your shirt over your head. His eyes roamed over you, and the heat in his gaze made you feel desired in a way you’d never felt before.
“You’re perfect,” he said, his voice rough.
Your hands went to his shirt, and he helped you remove it, tossing it aside. And then you were skin to skin, his chest pressed against yours, and it felt so natural.
His hands mapped your body like he was trying to memorize every curve, every dip, every place that made you gasp. You did the same, learning the feel of him, the way his muscles tensed under your touch, the way his breath caught when you ran your fingers down his spine.
“I want you,” you whispered against his lips. “Please, I want all of you.”
“You have me,” he said, pulling back to look at you with such raw emotion it made your heart ache. “You’ve always had me, baby”
His hands cup each side of your face as he notices the tears threatening to break from your eyes. “Don’t cry, darling. I’m right here. I got you.”
He leans down to kiss you again, trying to drown out your emotions with something happier. He reaches around you to release the tension of your bra, each clasp he undoes exposes more of your skin: the swell of your breasts, the delicate dip of your collarbone. He pauses after each hook to press kisses along the new flesh, his lips soft like a worship, sending electricity pulsing across your body.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes against your sternum, his voice thick, with a hint of disbelief. "Every inch of you.”
He runs his hands over each mound, massaging deliberately in the hopes to relax you a little more. The nipple hardens instantly under his touch, and he doesn't hesitate. He gently rolls them between his thumb and pointer finger, as the remaining space of his hands cup your breasts. He wets his tongue, sliding it from the top of your navel, up to your neck, where he begins to leave messy, open-mouthed kisses that were sure to leave a mark by morning. Only quiet, broken breaths can escape your mouth.
His mouth descends, capturing the peak between his lips. He sucks softly at first, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. The sensation shoots arrows straight to your core, a slick heat blooming between your thighs as arousal soaks your panties. His tongue moves slowly, so slowly that it makes your thighs rub together in an attempt to relieve some tension.
Your fingers thread through his hair, holding him close as your desperation grows."Wooyoung," you gasp breathlessly. His eyes lift to meet yours, and your expression was enough for him to sense what you wanted him to do next.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants, meeting your eyes once again, just to make sure it was okay. You nod, and he pulls them down as you lift up your hips.
Now with the first barrier discarded, he lowers his head between your legs. Gentle kisses peppered along the flesh of your inner thighs. Once he got closer to your core, he kissed over the cotton of your already soaked panties, and the skin between the fabric and your thighs. There was no rush in his pace. He’s making sure he savors the moment for as long as possible.
The fake dates that blurred into real ones, the nights you spent pretending not to notice how his hand lingered on yours a second too long, the heartbreak when you thought it might all unravel. But here, in this moment, it's all laid bare. You love him, and from the way his eyes lock onto yours, you know he feels it too.
His fingers brush over the damp fabric of your panties, teasing the outline of your folds. You arch into him, a whimper escaping your lips when he finally pushes the material aside. His touch is deliberate, two fingers gliding through your slickness, coating themselves before circling your clit with just the right pressure.
Wooyoung's thumb presses firmer against your clit, rolling in small circles while his fingers tease your entrance. “You're so wet for me,” he whispers, voice rough with emotion. “Tell me what you need. I want to hear it.” His free hand cups your face, thumb brushing your lower lip, pulling you into a deep kiss. Your tongues tangle, tasting the salt of your skin on him, and you moan into his mouth as he finally slides one finger inside you.
The stretch is perfect. He curls it upward, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You break the kiss to gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. “More,” you plead, hips rocking against his hand. “Wooyoungie, please... I need your fingers.” The words tumble out with the desperation that's built over weeks.
He slides in another finger, making sure to brush across your spongy spot. All you can do is grip your fingers tighter into his biceps in reaction to the increased pleasure. You can feel yourself clenching around him, the feeling overwhelming - how he knows your body like it's an extension of his own, how he's memorized every gasp you make.
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, not from pain or hurt this time. Wooyoung notices, of course, he always does. He slows his movements, fingers still buried deep but no longer pumping, instead stroking that sensitive inner wall with light pressure.
“It's just us now. Let me show you.” He withdraws his fingers, earning a whine of protest from you, but then he's shifting down your body, settling between your thighs. His hands grip your hips, pulling you to the edge of the bed as he kneels on the floor. You prop yourself on your elbows, watching with bated breath as he hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them off, exposing you completely.
Wooyoung's eyes drink you in. “Beautiful,” he breathes, before leaning in. His tongue flattens against your core, licking a long, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit. The direct contact makes you cry out, your head falling back as pleasure sparks through every nerve. He doesn't rush - his licks are languid, savoring you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. He laps at your folds, gathering your wetness on his tongue, then circles your clit with the tip, flicking it lightly.
Your hands find his hair again, tugging gently as you guide him. He hums in approval, the vibration sending pleasure straight through you. One hand leaves your hip to join his mouth, fingers sliding back inside you, three this time, stretching you fuller as his tongue works your clit without mercy. The combination is devastating. You feel yourself tightening, your peak approaching fast. But Wooyoung senses it, pulling back just enough to keep you wanting more.
“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips glistening with you. “I want to feel you come around my cock. Want to be inside you when you fall apart.” He stands, quickly shedding the rest of his clothes. His cock springs free, hard and thick, and a lot bigger than you had expected.
You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length, stroking from base to tip. Your hand could barely even fit around the girth of it. He groans, hips bucking into your touch. You use your thumb to spread the bead of pre-cum across the head, massaging the sensitive spot below the tip.
Without hesitation, Wooyoung climbs back onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He lines up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, but he pauses, searching your eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks, even though you both know the answer. The vulnerability in his voice - the fear of rejection after everything - makes your heart ache.
“Yes,” you say, cupping his face. “God, I want it so bad, Wooyoung.” With that, he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. The stretch burns so good, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out. You both moan, bodies connecting in the most emotional way. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours again.
“I love how you feel,” he confesses, voice strained. “Like you were made for me.” Then he starts moving, shallow thrusts at first, grinding his hips against yours to hit your clit with every roll. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your heels digging into his back. The pace builds gradually, his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting that sweet spot over and over.
Sweat beads on his skin, dripping onto your chest as he leans down to capture your lips. The kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue, mirroring the way he's fucking you now - harder, faster, but the emotions still obvious. You can feel the love in every thrust, the way he angles his hips to give you maximum pleasure, how his hand slips between you to rub your clit in tight circles.
His hand tightens on your thigh, holding you in place. “You're mine,” he growls softly, not possessive but affirming. He continues to roll his hips deliciously as you feel your climax start to build up again. Soft grunts escape him as he finds his motion within you.
He slides out, leaving you empty and wanting more.
You place your hand on his chest to guide him to lay against the mattress. You swing your leg over his hips, straddling him. You grabbed the base of his cock and glided his tip between your folds before sinking down onto his length. His hands guide your hips, encouraging you to ride him. You do, slowly at first, savoring the slide of every vein dragging inside of you.
This time, it's you setting the pace - grinding down to take him deep, circling your hips to feel every ridge. Wooyoung's hands roam your body, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples until they're pebbled again.
You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and he sits up to meet you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You’re face-to-face, intimate, his breath mingling with yours as you rock together. “I can never get enough of you,” he admits.
The words fuel your movements; you bounce faster, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. His cock hits deeper from this position, brushing your cervix with each downward thrust. Your pleasure keeps building, coiling tighter, and you can feel him swelling inside you.
Wooyoung's mouth finds your neck, sucking marks into your skin - marks that say you're his. One hand slips between you again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in time with your rhythm. It's too much, the dual sensations pushing you towards your orgasm.
“Come with me,” he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. It doesn't take much more for you to be pushed over the edge. You grip on to his chest muscles tighter, as you cry out in pleasure. You throw your head back while you grind down on him. His movements became more uncontrolled beneath you. “Fuuuuuck, I’m gonna cum,” he urges your thighs up. When his length slips free, you rest your weight on your knees, your hand quickly meeting with his cock to milk it out. Cum spurts out in ropes, painting both of your tummies white. “Fuckfuckfuck,” he groans as you start to slow down your strokes.
As the high fades, Wooyoung eases you off him gently. You collapse together, limbs entangled with each other. He reaches up, cupping your face in his palm, thumb brushing away a stray tear of overwhelming emotion that had slipped down your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice husky and tender, “you okay? That was... you were incredible.”
You nod, a small smile curving your lips as you lean into his touch, your body still humming with aftershocks. Slowly, you shift off his lap, your thighs quivering, and settling beside him on the rumpled sheets. His arm wraps around your waist immediately, pulling you close so your side presses against his, skin sticking slightly where his release has smeared between you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just lie there, hearts pounding in unison, listening to the rhythm of each other's breathing as it gradually evens out. Wooyoung's fingers trace idle patterns along your hip. You turn your head to look at him, taking in the flush on his cheeks, the way his dark hair clings to his forehead with sweat, and the vulnerability in his gaze that mirrors your own.
He eases out from the bed and grabs a warm cloth from the bathroom, cleaning you up with care, his touches lingering. He tosses the cloth aside and joins you under the covers. You cuddle your head onto his chest with your hand resting on his abdomen.
“I can't believe we're here,” you whisper finally, your voice thick with the weight of everything. “After all that pretending... it feels like a dream.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. “Not a dream. It’s as real as it gets.” His hand moves up to tangle in your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. “I kept thinking, during those early 'dates,' how much I wanted to just grab you and kiss you for real. Not for show. But I was scared you'd pull away.”
You prop yourself up on one elbow, gazing down at him. “I was scared too. Scared of feeling this much after what happened before. But you... you make me feel safe. Like I can let go.”
He covers your hand with his, guiding it to rest over his heart. “You do the same for me. Every time you smile at one of my dumb jokes, or when you lean into me during those movie nights... it chipped away at my walls.” He pauses, his expression turning serious, eyes searching yours. “I love you. Not the version we pretended to be. The real you - the one who overthinks everything, who always puts others before herself, who makes my world brighter just by being in it.”
Tears well up again, but they're happy ones, spilling over as you lean down to press a soft kiss to his lips. It's not heated like before; it's gentle, tasting of salt and devotion. When you pull back, he wipes your cheeks with his thumbs, his touch like a feather. “No more tears unless they're from laughing at me,” he teases lightly.
You laugh, a soft, watery sound, and settle back down, your head finding its place on his shoulder. The sheets are cool against your overheated skin now. Wooyoung shifts slightly, reaching for the edge of the comforter and pulling it up over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. But he doesn't rush into full cuddling yet - instead, he rolls onto his side to face you fully, one leg draping over yours in a lazy tangle.
“Tell me something,” he says, his fingers now exploring the curve of your spine, dipping into the dimples at the base of your back. “What's your favorite memory from us? The real ones, I mean.”
You think for a moment, your hand mirroring his, stroking along his side, feeling the rise and fall of his ribs. “That night at San's, after the games. We were all pretending everything was fine, but when you pulled me aside in the kitchen... you didn't say much, just held my hand and squeezed it.”
His eyes soften, and he nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I remember. You looked so tired, but strong. I wanted to hold you right there, tell everyone to leave so I could take care of you.” His hand pauses its tracing, resting flat against your lower back, pulling you closer. “Mine's the drive home after we confronted Seonghwa. You were quiet, staring out the window, and I thought I'd lost you. But then you turned to me, smiled that small smile, and said, 'Thanks for being my fake boyfriend.' I almost crashed the car laughing.”
Minutes stretch as you talk, voices low, bodies gradually relaxing into each other. You watch him, heart swelling at the tenderness, the way he meets your eyes every few seconds as if to check if you're comfortable. “You're too good to me,” you say softly, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair.
He smiles. “Just getting started.” Crawling back under the covers, he draws you into his arms properly now, your head cuddling onto his chest, hand resting on his abdomen. The transition feels so natural.
“Stay with me tonight,” you say, nuzzling closer, inhaling the familiar scent of him.
“Every night,” he echoes, his arms tightening around you, fingers resuming their lazy traces over the skin on your back. The steady beat of his heart lulls you, as sleep begins to tug at the edges of your consciousness.
── established relationship, rockstar!hongjoong x fem!reader
“You’re a dog on a leash. You bark when I come home. You bite when I leave. But you never actually run away.”
He knows exactly what to say to make you snap. You know exactly what to say to make him stay. Everything between you is escalation: words that cut, tension that hooks, and a line you keep daring each other to cross. Nobody’s leaving clean. Nobody’s coming out untouched.
Genre: smut, angst
Trigger Warnings: (spoilers ahead), extremely toxic & abusive relationship dynamics, adult language, emotional manipulation, infidelity themes, physical violence, blood, injuries, verbal abuse, emotional trauma, abandonment, tobacco use, mentions of alcohol addiction, both reader and hongjoong are toxic to each other, lies, explicit sexual content (MDNI!!!), rough sex, p in v, raw sex, heavy degradation, hair pulling, choking, scratching, bruising, overstimulation, power imbalance, spit, objectification, name-calling, hate sex, marking, face slapping, praise kink (mocking), sensory overload, bloodplay (unintentional), impact play, scratches, open wounds, biting, fighting for dominance, semi-clothed sex, bratting
WC: 17k
Mon’s Note: This one isn’t an easy read. It’s triggering, it’s twisted, and yes — it’s filthy. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!
It’s heavily inspired by “forget me too” by mgk and Halsey, so if you know the vibe… you already know what you’re walking into!
Read responsibly and enjoy! 🖤
“Oh fuck no!” you cursed, hearing the key slide into the lock. You grabbed the plate you were about to wash from the sink and stormed out of the kitchen, arriving just in time to meet Hongjoong crossing the threshold.
Without hesitation, you hurled the plate against the wall near his head. It shattered, ceramic shrapnel raining down on his expensive leather jacket. Hongjoong didn’t even flinch. He just closed his eyes for a second, sighed, and kicked the door shut behind him. He looked at the broken shards, then up at you with a look of pure exhaustion.
“Three months,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “I’ve been back for ten seconds, and you’re already proving why I didn’t call.”
“Get the fuck out of my apartment!” you screamed, grabbing another plate from the kitchen island, your knuckles white.
“My apartment,” Hongjoong corrected effortlessly, stepping over the mess like it didn’t exist. “My name is on the fucking lease, sweetheart. Your money doesn’t change that.”
“Like hell it is,” you snarled. “Who’s been paying the bills for last three months while you were busy living your rockstar fantasy?!”
Hongjoong’s eyes flashed dangerously as he took another step forward.
“I’m not playing your damn games, Hongjoong! Go back to the hotel. Go back to that blonde stylist you dragged out of the VIP section in Chicago!”
Hongjoong paused. The arrogance slipped from his face for a split second. “How do you—” He stopped himself, his eyes narrowing. “You really are sick, you know that?” a short, sharp sound that echoed in the tense air. He didn’t look guilty; he looked annoyed. He ran a hand through his dark blue hair, shaking his head as if dealing with a confused child. “You’ve been trawling the fan accounts again, haven’t you? God, you’re pathetic. She’s a stylist. She fixes my clothes. She touches me because it’s her literal job. But of course, in your twisted little head, that means I’m fucking her.”
He walked closer, his presence sucking the air out of the room. “You invent these narratives to justify being a psycho. You track my location, you stalk my staff… it’s suffocating.”
You didn’t blink. You just gripped the second plate tighter, feeling the rim dig into your palm.
Let him talk, a voice hissed in the back of your mind. Let him dig his own grave.
He thought you were guessing. He thought you were piecing together shadows from blurry Twitter pictures and letting your jealousy fill in the blanks. He didn’t know about the vibration of your phone at 3:12 AM two weeks ago. He didn’t know that the “stylist” wasn’t just fixing his clothes; she was fixing to take your spot.
It wasn’t a fan theory. It was a direct message. A single photo sent from a number you didn’t recognise, but with a caption that made you wretch: He says I listen better than you.
The picture had been dark, sure, but you could clearly see his blue hair sprawled on the white pillow, the tattoos visible, him passed out. You knew the way his hair looked when he was passed out. It wasn’t the first time he’d strayed—you weren’t stupid—but it was the first time the other woman had reached out to make sure you knew it. She wanted to twist the knife, and now, watching him stand there with that arrogant look on his face, you wanted to bury that knife in his chest.
“You’re a liar,” you whispered, the venom in your voice shaking. “You are a pathological, narcissist liar.”
“And you’re hysterical,” he countered, his voice dropping an octave, dangerous and low. He was within arm’s reach now. “Put the plate down.”
“Don’t you dare come near me.”
“I said,” he lunged forward, his movement sudden and predatory, “put it down!” He didn’t wait for you to comply. His hand shot out, clamping around your wrist with bruising force. The shock of his touch—electric, familiar, and terrifying—sent a jolt through you.
“Let go!” you screamed, trashing against him, but his grip was iron.
“Stop it! Stop acting like a crazy bitch for one second!” his face was inches from yours. You could smell the stale airplane air and the faint, lingering scent of whiskey on his breath.
“Why don’t I ever fucking see you sober?” you leaned even closer, letting the words spill through clutched teeth.
His hand is still on your wrist. Fingers locked around bone. A grip that says mine without ever needing to say it. You can feel your pulse panicking under his thumb, the stupid animal part of you trying to survive while the rest of you tries to win.
Hongjoong’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something nastier.
“Because being around you requires a damn fucking sedative,” he says, voice flat and cold. “Actually, no—being around you makes me wish I’d overdosed on one. At least then I wouldn’t have to hear you speak.”
You look at him and you see every fight you’ve ever had, stacked in his posture. The way he leans like he’s bored of you. The way he keeps coming back anyway. The way he likes you sharp and rabid.
“You cheated,” you say, and your voice does that thing—soft, terrifying, too controlled. “Again.”
Hongjoong rolls his eyes so slowly it’s almost theatrical. “Here we go,” he mutters. “The Greatest fucking Hits.”
You lift your chin. “She sent me a photo.” That stops him. Not completely. But you see the micro-second of it. The tiniest hitch in his breath. The flicker of recognition in his eyes that he tries to bury under contempt. “She’s got a lovely camera. Very high-def. I could see the sweat on your skin.”
“You’re fucking delusional,” his voice lacks the conviction it had thirty seconds ago.
“Don’t,” you warn, and your body lurches forward without permission. You hate how he does that to you. How he can pull you like a hook under your ribs.
His gaze drops to your hand. To the plate. Back to your face. “You know what’s crazy? It’s not the plate. It’s not the screaming. It’s not you stalking me like it’s a hobby.” His thumb shifts on your wrist, a slow stroke that feels like a threat dressed up as tenderness. “It’s that you always act surprised when I treat you like what you are.”
Your vision tunnels.
Say it. Say it again. Call me it.
“Say it. Go on. Say the name you love.”
Hongjoong’s eyes gleam, satisfied. Like you just handed him the blade and asked him to press it in. “Psycho,” it’s quiet enough that it feels like he’s breathing it into your mouth. “You’re a jealous, controlling psychotic bitch.”
Your lungs seize. Your stomach twists in that sick familiar way, like pain and desire share the same nerve.
You lift the plate.
Not to throw—no. Not yet.
Your whole body goes hot, rage blooming under your skin like fever. You can hear the building’s pipes humming. You can hear your own heartbeat, loud as a siren. Somewhere, far away, a neighbour’s television laughs at something. You see, in a flash, the police at your door that one night. The way Hongjoong smiled over your shoulder, polite and charming, while your hands shook and your eyes were wild. The way he made you look like the disaster and him like the calm.
Hongjoong’s other hand comes up—slow, deliberate—and cups your jaw like he’s going to kiss you, like he’s going to bless you, like he’s going to break you. His thumb presses into the corner of your mouth. “Go on. Give me a show.”
The ceramic edge bites into your palm. Hongjoong’s thumb is a burn against your lip, smelling of tobacco and the sterile air of a first-class cabin. He’s mocking you with his closeness, his chest rising and falling in a slow, arrogant rhythm that says he isn’t afraid of the jagged weapon in your hand. He wants you to break. He needs the explosion so he can stand in the debris and feel superior.
“You like this, don't you?” the words are muffled by his pressing thumb. “You love having someone to blame for the shit-show your life is.”
Hongjoong’s eyes darken, the blue of his hair looking almost black in the dim overhead light. He leans in until his forehead brushes yours. “I like that you’re predictable, I like that no matter what you’re always exactly where I left you, waiting for me.”
“I wasn’t waiting,” you spit, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“Liar.” He says it with that smirk that never reaches his eyes. Those eyes don’t soften, don’t warm. They measure you. He looks at you like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved and got bored of halfway through. “You know what you are?” Hongjoong murmurs, voice quiet enough to force you to lean in. His thumb is still at your mouth, pressing, controlling. “You’re a dog on a leash. You bark when I come home. You bite when I leave. But you never actually run away.”
“You don’t get to talk to me like—”
“I get to talk to you however the fuck I want,” he cuts in, sharp. No volume. No screaming. Just authority. “Because you never leave. You never learn. You just keep on waiting for me.” He leans closer, forehead almost touching yours, intimate in the ugliest way. “I can disappear for three months, fuck whoever I want, let them call me baby in hotel sheets you’ll never touch—”
Your throat tightens like you’ve swallowed glass. “—and I come home, and you’re right where I left you. In my kitchen. In my space. With my name on your collar. With your hands shaking around a plate like it’s a weapon instead of a tantrum.” His thumb pushes into the corner of your mouth, forcing your lips apart. “You’re nothing but a stray I let sleep in the bed,” his gaze dropped to your parted mouth.
With a scream that tears at the back of your throat, you wrench your head back, slipping his grip. Before he can react, you whip your arm around. The ceramic plate catches the light for a fraction of a second before it leaves your hand.
It doesn’t hit the wall this time.
The plate connects with a sound that’s too solid to be satisfying.
Not a crash. Not a cinematic shatter.
A brutal, ugly thunk—ceramic meeting bone—followed by a split-second of silence where the whole apartment seems to flinch.
The plate fractures. It spiderwebs across his cheek and explodes, shards detonating outward. A jagged piece skates his skin and opens him up right along the cheekbone, just under the eye—close enough that your stomach drops, close enough that the room smells like dust and metal immediately.
Blood wells fast. Thick. Bright. It cuts a line down the side of his face, disappears into the sharp edge of his jaw, stains the collar of his jacket.
Hongjoong’s head snaps to the side. For one heartbeat, his hand stills on you like he’s buffering, like his body hasn’t decided what to do with the fact that you actually did it.
“You bitch.”
Hongjoong lunges. You try to scramble back, your socks sliding on the floor, but his hand catches the back of your neck, his fingers tangling painfully in your hair. He yanks you forward, hard enough that your neck cracks, hard enough that your vision whites out for half a second. Your back slams against the wall, and suddenly he’s there, all of him, pressing you flat with the weight of his body. His breath is ragged against your face, and you can feel the hot drip of his blood landing on your collarbone, sliding down into the hollow of your throat.
His blood is hot where it hits you, shockingly alive, sliding down the dip of your collarbone like he’s christening you with it. Your back scrapes the wall as you try to twist away, but he’s too close, too heavy, too everywhere.
“You wanted a show,” it’s quiet enough that it feels like you‘re saying it into his teeth. “You got one.”
Hongjoong’s palm stays buried in your hair, fistful at the back of your scalp like reins. He yanks once, just to make you look at him. His cut cheek smears when he moves, blood slicking across his skin, across your skin, across the space between you like a stain you can’t wash out. His eyes are blown wide and dark, not with fear with that vicious, ugly satisfaction of being proven right.
“You hit me,” it sounds almost wonderingly, like he can’t decide if it’s hilarious or holy. His thumb presses into your throat, not choking, just pinning you there, making your swallow a conscious choice. “You actually hit me.”
Your hands are up between your bodies, palms flat against his chest, trying to push him off and failing because pushing him off has never been the point. “Get the fuck off me,” you choke, but it comes out smaller than you want.
Hongjoong’s mouth curls. “You don’t get to tell me what to do in my apartment,” the words are sharp as broken ceramic. “With my blood on you like a fucking necklaces.” He dips his head and inhales near your throat, right where the blood is cooling. The gesture is disgusting. Possessive. Intimate in a way that makes you want to vomit and bite.
Your pulse jumps under his thumb “You’re insane,” you whisper.
He laughs once, breathy, right against your jaw. “No. You’re insane. I’m just the one who knows how to use it.” His knee nudges between your legs, not gentle, not subtle—just an invasion of space that makes your whole body jolt. He watches your face like he’s waiting to see which part of you flinches first: the part that hates him, or the part that wants him. “I could have moved,” his grip in your hair tightens again, a sting that turns your eyes watery with rage. “Do you understand that? I saw it coming.”
Your breath catches.
“I let you,” he continues, like he’s explaining something simple. “Because I wanted you to feel what it’s like to cross the line and realise there’s no way back.” He drags his blood down your collarbone, slow, obscene. The touch is warm at first and then cooling, sticky, a mark that says mine in a language you hate that you understand. “And now,” his mouth is close enough that his words brush your lips, “you don’t get to cry about consequences.”
“I’m not crying,” you spit, but your voice cracks on it, traitorous.
His eyes flick to your mouth. Hungry. Mean. “Say you’re sorry.”
You laugh, sharp and broken. “For what? For finally doing what you deserve?”
His expression shifts. It’s subtle, but it’s there: the click of something turning crueler.
Hongjoong’s hand leaves your throat. For half a second you think you’ve won something. Then he grips your jaw instead—hard—forcing your mouth open just a little, forcing you to look at him like he’s a god and you’re a mistake. “You’re not sorry for the plate,” he murmurs. “You’re sorry you didn’t break my teeth.”
Your stomach twists, heat and nausea braiding together.
“And you know what? I think you should try again.” Your eyes go wide. Hongjoong shifts his weight just enough to free one arm. Without letting you go, he reaches past you—down, down—his fingers scraping along the floor until they close around something jagged.
A shard.
He lifts it into your line of sight, catching the light. The edge is wicked. Still dusted with white, still wet at one corner with red.
Then he presses it into your palm and folds your fingers around it. “Go on,” he whispers, smile slow and brutal. “If you’re going to be the psychotic bitch I keep calling you, at least be a convincing one.”
Your hand trembles around the shard.
Hongjoong’s blood is on your skin. On your collarbone. On your throat.
“You wanted to be fucking brave, so be brave.”
The shard bites deeper into your palm as your fingers twitch around it. Ceramic dust and sweat make everything slick. Your wrist trembles—not fear, not exactly. Something worse. Something that wants.
You bare your teeth. “Get off.”
Hongjoong laughs, a harsh little exhale, and it’s ugly how close it is to a moan. He angles his face just enough for you to see the cut along his cheekbone, still open, still wet. He looks beautiful in the most hateful way. “Make me,” he says.
You try. You slam both hands into his chest, shoving with every ounce of fury you’ve got, and for a second—just a second—he shifts. Not because you’re strong enough. Because he lets you think you are.
“That’s it. That’s the girl I came home to.”
Your shoulder hits the wall again. The frame rattles. A picture on the hallway hook shudders, tilts, and falls face-down with a sharp crack of glass.
Hongjoong’s eyes flick to it like it’s entertainment. Then he grabs your jaw harder, forcing your face up. “You see? Even the house is sick of you.”
Something detonates behind your ribs. Your knee drives up between you, not clean, not pretty—pure spite. It catches him high enough that he hisses, and his grip loosens in a reflex he hates.
You take it. You twist, wrenching free, and the movement tears a strand of hair out under his fist. Pain flashes white. You don’t even get to process it before you’re moving—half stumbling, half sprinting, socks sliding on the floor like you’re running on ice.
You get two steps away before Hongjoong grabs you again—this time not your hair, not your throat.
Your wrist. Right where your skin is raw from him earlier. His fingers clamp down and he yanks you back like you’re not a person, like you’re a cord he can just reel in when you try to run.
You slam into him.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” he snarls, breath torn up, face smeared and shining with red. “Huh? Running away now? After you finally got brave?”
“Let go of me,” you rasp, and it’s supposed to be sharp, but your voice breaks halfway through because your body is stupid and your eyes are even stupider and the tears show up like traitors with badges.
Hongjoong sees it immediately.
Of course he does.
His mouth curls, nasty and satisfied. “There it is,” he sounds almost delighted. “The tears. You hit me and now you want to cry like you’re the victim.”
“I’m not—” you try, but your throat tightens, and the word dies on your tongue. He tugs your wrist harder, dragging you closer until your faces are inches apart. His cut cheek is right there, split open, still oozing—your fault, your proof—and instead of looking hurt he looks alive. Like you finally fed him.
“You are, you always are. You scream, you throw things, you claw at me like you want to kill me, and the second I bite back you start shaking like I’m the monster.”
“You are a monster,” you spit, and the tears spill anyway, hot and humiliating. “You’re a fucking liar. You’re disgusting.”
Hongjoong’s eyes flash. “Disgusting?” he repeats, incredulous, then laughs—one short, vicious sound. “Baby, you’ve choked on my cock and begged for more. Don’t pretend you’ve got dignity now.”
Your face goes hot. Rage and shame, twin blades. “You think you’re so fucking special,” you yank at your wrist again. His grip doesn’t budge. “You think you can come in here and talk to me like I’m—like I’m nothing—”
“You are nothing,” he cuts in instantly, like he’s been waiting to say it. Like it’s the only line he knows by heart. “You’re a walking mistake I keep fucking because you’re pathetic enough to always be available. That’s it. That’s all you are. A wet hole I come back to when I'm bored of pretending the others matter.” Your breath stutters. Your chest aches like you’ve been punched from the inside. “I leave, and you fall apart. I come back, and you throw plates like it’s foreplay. You don’t want love. You want a cage.”
He leans closer, and you hate that your body leans into him because it remembers the shape of him. It remembers the way he fills space—
So you do the only thing you can to stop yourself.
Your hand moves before your brain can talk you out of it. The slap cracks across his face, sharp and clean, loud enough to bounce off the cabinets. The sting blooms in your palm instantly, a hot imprint of his skin, and for half a second you feel triumphant—like you’ve shoved him back into a distance you can survive.
“That all you’ve got, sweetheart?” his voice is low and filthy with amusement. “You flinch and then you hit me like it cancels out the part where you leaned in.”
“Fuck you,” it comes out broken. It comes out true.
He bares his teeth. “That’s the only thing you say that ever sounds honest.”
Your tears keep coming, furious now, like they’re angry at you too. You swipe at your face with your free hand, smearing them, wiping them away like that’ll undo anything, like it’ll make you less pathetic.
Hongjoong watches you do it and his expression twists—something meaner than contempt, something closer to hate. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Crying because you finally realised I don’t care.”
“I don’t care either,” you lie, and you hate yourself for how fast it comes out, for how desperate it sounds.
Hongjoong’s grip tightens, knuckles whitening. “Bullshit, you care so much you turned yourself into a fucking ghost haunting my life. You care so much you’d rather die than let me go.” He yanks you forward again, hard enough that your shoulder hits the wall with a dull thud. “And I hate you for it,” he says, voice shaking with something raw. “I hate that you make me feel—” He stops, jaw clenching, like the rest of the sentence tastes like weakness.
You laugh, wet and ugly. “Make you feel what? Guilty? Human? God forbid.”
His eyes go black. “You fucking bitch,” he breathes, and it’s not a throwaway insult. It’s reverent. Venomous. Like he’s naming you.
You spit it right back, voice cracking open. “You arrogant fucking dick. You think you can ruin me and I’ll thank you for it.”
Hongjoong’s breath stutters. Blood slips lower down his cheek, darkening at the edge of his jaw. He doesn’t wipe it. He just stares at you like he wants to break something and can’t decide if it’s your mouth or his own restraint. “I could leave, I could walk out that door right now and never look back. Is that what you want?”
“Say you’re done,” he demands, suddenly. “Say you’re done with me.”
Your throat tightens so hard it hurts.
You open your mouth.
And nothing comes out.
Hongjoong’s smile is sharp as glass. “Yeah, That’s what I thought. You’d die before you let me leave.”
“Leave, then,” you swallow hard, forcing the tears back like that means you’re winning. ”Watch me die here without you.”
“Keep talking. Keep pushing. I’ll go. I’ll fucking go and you’ll rot in here with your plates and your stalking and your crying and your pathetic little—”
“Do it,” you cut in, leaning forward like you’re daring a dog to bite. Your voice is hoarse, wrecked, but it’s mean again. It’s yours again. “Leave.”
Hongjoong freezes.
You wipe your cheek with the heel of your hand, smearing tears across your skin, and you smile like it hurts. “But you won’t,” you whisper. “Because you need me to be crazy so you can keep being a piece of shit.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
You tilt your head, “I’m talking about your little hobby,” you say, voice quiet. “Your girls. Your hotels. Your backstage bathrooms. Your ‘I’m so free, I can do whatever I want’ act. It’s not gonna be fun anymore.”
His jaw works. You can see him trying to find the angle, the comeback, the exit—but you've already closed every door.
“You can fuck whoever you want,” you continue, and the words taste like poison. “You can smile at them, tell them they’re special, make them think they’re the first person you’ve ever wanted.” You let your gaze drop for half a second, then drag it back up to his eyes. “But it’s not going to work anymore.”
Hongjoong’s throat bobs. He tries to scoff, but it catches.
“You’re delusional,” he says, voice too flat.
You smile. It’s mean. It shakes. “Am I? Because I think you’ve got a problem.”
“You think cheating is about them,” you say. “You think it’s about being wanted, being worshipped, being the fucking Captain of everything, the star, the god.” You lean in, just enough to make it intimate. Just enough to make it disgusting. “But it’s not,” you whisper. “It’s about me.”
“Shut up.”
“You know why?” you continue, voice shaking but steady enough to cut. “You can lie to them, charm them, make them think they’re the only one. But when you’re inside them, when you close your eyes—”
You step closer, close enough that your breath mixes with his.
“—you’re thinking about me."”
“I said shut the fuck up,” he snarls, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are blown out, two black holes of pure, unadulterated need. The blood on his cheek has dried into a dark, rusty streak.
“You’ll be with them, and you’ll close your eyes—just for a second—and you’ll see this.” You gesture at the mess. The blood. The broken plates. The tears you refuse to hide. “Because it’s the only thing that makes you feel anything.”
His breathing turns uneven. The cut on his cheek pulls when his mouth tightens.
“You’ll get off,” you whisper, voice vile, intimate, truthful. “Thinking about me looking at you like I hate you. Thinking about me screaming. Thinking about me throwing something at your face.”
“You’re sick,” it sounds like a confession, not an insult.
You laugh, wet and furious. “And you’re addicted. You get off on it. Even when you’re with them, you’re thinking about me. You’re thinking about how I’m back here, losing my mind, stalking you, waiting to tear your throat out. That’s the only reason you can even touch them. I’m the ghost in every bed you crawl into. I’m the one you’re actually fucking.”
The back of his knuckles cracks across your cheek, clean and sharp, and your vision flashes white at the edges. The sting blooms hot, immediate, crawling up to your eye.
For half a second, the room goes silent except for your breathing.
You blink once. Twice. Then you laugh. It’s wet. It’s ugly. It’s cruel.
“Oh my God,” you rasp, tasting iron, eyes bright with it. “Look at you,” you tilt your head, letting the burn show, letting him see what he did. “Captain of the world,” you whisper, voice shaking with mockery. “Rockstar. God complex.” Your smile sharpens. “And you have to hit a woman to feel big. Pathetic.”
“I didn’t hit you because you’re a woman,” he spits. “I hit you because you’re you.”
“That’s even worse,” you breathe. “Because that means you’ve decided I’m not a person at all.”
Hongjoong’s face twitches. Something cracks behind his eyes. “Listen to yourself, you really think you’re some kind of curse.” His eyes rake over you—your wet lashes, your shaking hands, the blood on your neck like a bruise you’re wearing on purpose—and his mouth twists. “You’re not that special,” he says, voice flat with contempt. “You’re not that good.”
The words hit hard because they’re aimed. Because he knows exactly where you keep your pride, tucked behind all your rage.
He steps closer anyway, like he can insult you and still claim the space between you. “I’ve had better,” Hongjoong continues, cruel and casual, like he’s talking about room service. “Prettier. Quieter. Easier. Girls who don’t make me feel like I’m babysitting a fucking bomb.”
Your throat tightens but you laugh, it comes out wrecked. “Yeah? Then go back to them. Go back to the ‘prettier’ ones. Go back to those quiet, easy girls who look at you like you’re a god instead of a goddamn mess. Go find someone who doesn’t know that the only reason you act so big is because you’re terrified of being empty.”
Hongjoong’s eyes narrow, the muscle in his jaw pulsing like a drum. He looks at you with a cold, focused hatred, but he doesn’t move.
“They’re just placeholders,” you whisper, leaning in until your nose brushes the drying blood on his cheek. “You use them like white noise. You fuck them to drown out the silence, but even then, you’re failing. You’re bored, Hongjoong. You’re so bored of being worshiped that you’ve started to rot from the inside out.”
“You don’t know shit.”
“I know that the only time your heart actually beats is when I’m trying to break it,” you reach out, your finger tracing his jaw. “You don’t want ‘quiet.’ You don’t want ‘easy.’ You want to be destroyed. You want someone to look at you and see the pathetic, lying piece of shit you really are—and still want to touch you. You’re not leaving me because you’re terrified that without my hate, you’ll realise there’s nothing left of you at all.”
You let out a sharp, mocking laugh right into his face. “You aren’t even a man anymore. You’re just pathetic—a used-up, hollowed-out shell of a person who fucks strangers because even you can’t stand to be alone with what's left of you.”
The air in the room suddenly vanishes.
The sound of his knuckles hitting the studs behind the plaster is a heavy, dull thud that vibrates through the floorboards and into the soles of your feet. It’s the sound of the air finally escaping a pressurised room. Plaster dust puffs out in a white cloud, settling on his dark sleeves like funeral ash. He doesn’t flinch. He just stays there, anchored to the structure of the building by his own violence. The only sound is the frantic, wet whistle of his breathing and the slow tick-tick-tick of a shard of ceramic settling on the floor.
“Go fuck yourself,” he says.
You blink, stunned for half a second, because it’s so simple. So clean. So dismissive. And then you laugh. It’s ugly. Broken. You can’t stop it. “That’s it?” you choke out, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “That’s your big exit line? ‘Go fuck yourself’?”
When he yanks his hand back, the skin is shredded, the white of his tendons flashing through the red for a split second before the blood wells up to coat it all. He looks at his hand with a strange, detached curiosity. You stare at his ruined hand, at the way the blood drips steadily onto the floor between you, pooling in the grooves of the floorboards. It should horrify you. It should make you flinch, apologise, reach for him.
Instead, it makes you feel alive.
Hongjoong is still holding up that mangled hand, the blood sluggishly tracing the lines of his palm. Through the red smears and the white plaster grit, you see it. On the outer blade of his hand, right along the bone he just used to shatter the wall, is the ink. Your initials. Faded, a little blurred at the edges from years of skin stretching and healing, but stark against his pale skin.
You let out a breathy, taunting laugh that sounds like a serrated blade.
Your eyes fixed on the tattoo. “Even when you’re out there, letting some nameless girl hold your hand, she has to see my name. She has to see who owns the hand that’s touching her.”
Hongjoong’s chest hitches. He tries to pull the hand away, to tuck the evidence into a fist, but you’re faster. You reach out, your fingers slicking through his warm blood to trace the letters.
“Did you tell any of them what it stands for?” you goad, your voice dropping to a vile, intimate purr. “Or did you lie about that, too? Tell them it was a mistake from a life you outgrew? Except you didn’t outgrow it. You just took it with you to every hotel bed. You brought me into every room. You made them touch me every time they touched you.”
“You’re pathetic, Hongjoong. You carved me into your skin so you’d never have to be alone, even when you’re cheating. You’re so obsessed with me that you’ve turned yourself into a walking shrine to our failure.” You look up at him, your smile cruel and jagged. “Does it burn? Knowing that no matter how hard you hit that wall, you can’t break the part of you that’s mine?”
Hongjoong’s uninjured hand moves with the speed of a snapping trap. He doesn’t slap you again; he doesn’t shove. He lunges forward and clamps his hand around your throat, his palm wide and hot against your skin. He slams you back against the wall, the impact rattling your teeth. His grip is firm—not enough to stop your breath entirely, but enough to make every swallow a struggle, enough to feel the frantic, staccato beat of your pulse thrumming against his calloused thumb.
“You think you’ve got me figured out? You think I’m that simple?”
“I think you’re a clichè,” your heart is trying to kick its way out of your throat. “The rockstar with the god complex who needs a ‘crazy’ girl at home to make his life feel like a movie. Without me, you’re just another guy in a leather jacket with a drinking problem and a failing conscience.”
His grip tightens, just a fraction, just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. You can feel the individual ridges of his fingerprints pressing into your windpipe, can taste the panic flooding your mouth. But underneath all that primal fear, there’s something else—something hot and sick and exhilarating that makes your thighs clench together involuntarily.
“Go on,” you rasp, the words scraping past his palm. “Tighter. Do it.” Your lips curve into something sharp and hungry. “Show me I’m right.”
His hand tightens. Not all the way. Just enough to make your breath turn thin and sharp, to make your pulse kick against his palm like it’s trying to escape him. The pressure forces a sound out of you—half laugh, half choke—and Hongjoong’s eyes flare like he hates that your body still knows how to answer him.
Your free hand claws at his wrist—not to pull him away, but to anchor yourself to him, to make sure he doesn’t let go. The ugly truth is your body doesn’t fight it—it recognises it. His hand around your throat turns the whole room into one sharp point: pressure, heat, the scrape of his callouses, the frantic drum of your pulse trapped under his palm. Your lungs burn and your vision feathers at the edges, and instead of panic there’s a brutal, illicit calm that floods in, like the screaming in your head finally got shoved under water. You hate him for how easily he can do this, for how quickly your hands betray you—fingers tightening on his wrist, not to escape, but to keep him there. You could pry him off if you wanted to. You don’t. Because in the squeeze of his grip you don’t have to be jealous or righteous or heartbroken; you just get to be wanted in the simplest, sickest way—held still, reduced to breath and heartbeat and the certainty that he hasn’t left you yet.
And then—he lets go.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. He just releases you like you’ve burnt him, his hand jerking back so fast that you collapse forward into the space he leaves behind. You gasp, the air rushing back into your lungs in a painful, greedy flood. Your throat aches where his fingers were, and you can already feel the ghost of bruises forming beneath your skin.
Hongjoong stumbles back a step, his ruined hand hanging at his side. His chest is heaving, his face pale beneath the dried blood on his cheek. “You’re sick,” he breathes.
“I’m sick? You’re the one who can’t let go. You’re the one who keeps coming back for this.”
Hongjoong takes a step back. Then another. His eyes flick to the door. He stares at the heavy brass key still sitting in the lock, the keychain—a stupid, matching heart you’d bought years ago—dangling like a taunt. He takes a step toward it. The floorboards groan under his weight. He’s moving in slow motion, his hand reaching out for the handle. The ceramic shards from the plates crunch under his boots, a sound like a million tiny teeth breaking.
“Die here, then,” he says, his voice flat and drained of colour. “Rot in the fucking quiet. I'm done playing the monster in your story.”
He grabs the handle. The latch clicks—cold, definitive, unbearable. Your lungs seize. All the venom you’d thrown at him moments ago evaporates, leaving you hollow and freezing. The space between you stretches into an abyss. Through the widening crack of the door, you see the hallway light bleeding in. The stale smell of the building’s stairwell—cigarette smoke and industrial cleaner—drifts towards you, a reminder of the world outside. The world where he doesn’t belong to you.
“Hongjoong,” you breathe. It’s not a command. It’s a leak in the dam.
He stops but doesn’t turn around. He just stands there with his hand on the door, the cool night air hitting the side of his face. “Say it,” his is voice flat. “Tell me to leave. One more time. Mean it, and I’ll be gone before the door even clicks shut.”
You look at his back, at the way the leather of his jacket is scuffed where the plate hit him. You look at the blood on the floor. You feel the sting in your palm where the ceramic bit in.
You take a step forward. Then another. Your feet find the gaps between the shards. “You’re a coward if you go,” you whisper “And I’m a psycho if I let you.”
Hongjoong lets out a sound—halfway between a sob and a laugh. He slams the door shut. The force of it rattles the frames on the walls. He spins around, his face is a ruin of sweat, blood, and a raw, naked desperation that makes the air in the room vanish.
“We’re both going to hell,” he rasps, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying, wild clarity.
“We’re already there.”
He stalks toward you, the scent of fresh blood and pulverised gypsum hitting you before he does. “You don’t get to be right,” Hongjoong’s cut cheek shines wet under the light, blood dragged into a dark smear along his jaw. “Not you. Not after everything you’ve done.” He leans in until his nose drags against yours, the friction sparking heat you hate yourself for feeling. “You know what you are?” he whispers. “You’re a goddamn parasite. You latch on, you dig in, you call it love so you don’t have to admit it’s just hunger.”
A drop of blood falls from his busted knuckles onto your—his— oversized shirt, blooming dark and slow. He watches it like he enjoys making a mess of you. “And don’t ever again start with the ‘I’m the only one’ bullshit,” he continues, jaw tight, eyes too bright. “I’ve had quiet. I’ve had soft. I’ve had easy.”
His mouth curls.
“I’ve had better.”
The words are meant to land clean. To humiliate you. To make you shrink. But something in his face betrays him—one tiny hitch, like he hates himself for saying it. He swallows, hard, and the next words come out rougher, like they’re being dragged up from somewhere he keeps locked. “I don’t feel anything,” he snarls, as if volume could make it untrue. “With them it’s just… Skin. Weight. Nothing. I’m lying there and I’m wondering if I’ve finally gone deaf. If I’ve finally stopped existing.”
His laugh is jagged, broken at the edge. “But you? You’re loud. You’re the only thing that’s loud enough,” he admits, like it disgusts him to say it. “You bite back. You throw plates. You bleed and you still look at me like you want me.” His bleeding hand hovers an inch from your throat—close enough that the heat of the injury radiates against your skin without touching. “And I hate you for it,” Hongjoong whispers. “Because you make me feel real. I need the screaming. I need the plates. I need to see you looking at me like you want to watch me burn, because at least then I know I’m still on fire.”
“Tell me I’m a piece of shit again,” he commands, his voice a low, vibrating hum that you feel in your marrow. “Tell me I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you. Say it while I’m bleeding for you. Give me the fucking truth.”
Your breath hitching, you reach out, your fingers curling around his wrist—right where the blood is wettest. You smear the red across his skin, your eyes never leaving his. “You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me,” for the first time tonight, the words don’t feel like a weapon. They feel like a vow. “And you’re never going to be free of me. Not even when you’re dead.”
Hongjoong’s pupils catch the light, a flash of pure, terrified triumph. He lets out a ragged groan and closes the distance, his mouth finding yours with a desperate, crushing force that tastes entirely of iron and the end of the world.
Hongjoong kisses you like a punishment. His mouth slams into yours, hot and bruising, tasting like stale whiskey and iron and the last thin thread of his self-control snapping. The sound that leaves him is ugly—half growl, half exhale—and it vibrates straight through your bones. His good hand fists in your—his— oversized shirt at the waist, dragging you tight enough that there’s no space left for pride, no space left for denial, no space left for anything except him.
Your back grinds against the door and then his ruined, shaking hand slides up the frame beside your head, bracing, trembling.
You make a sound into his mouth that you hate because it’s not anger.
It’s relief.
His kiss turns sharper in response, like he heard that and took it personally. Like he’s offended by how easily you melt and determined to make you pay for it. He angles his head and deepens it, dragging his mouth across yours with a slow, vicious insistence that makes your knees feel useless.
When he pulls back, it’s only an inch. Only enough to breathe. Your lips sting. His eyes are wrecked. Pupils blown wide, dark and wild, like he’s staring at a fire and daring it to take him.
“Say it,” he rasps, mouth hovering over yours again. His breath is hot. Trembling. “Say you want me.”
You swallow. Your throat aches where he held you earlier, and the movement makes his gaze flick down like he can’t help it. “I hate you,” you whisper, and it comes out broken, desperate.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and then he kisses you again—harder, like he’s trying to erase your mouth before you can cut him open with it. He bites your lower lip, just enough to sting, and you jerk—more from shock than fear.
He pauses with his teeth still there.
His eyes lift to yours, daring you to flinch.
You don’t.
You open your mouth a fraction, breathing him in like you’re making the same bad choice on purpose. Hongjoong’s exhale shudders. His forehead drops against yours, just for a second—just long enough to feel like a crack in the monster mask. “Say it again.”
“I hate you.” Your hands are fisting in his jacket now, pulling him closer even as the words try to push him away. “I hate that you make me feel like this. I hate that I can’t let you go. I hate that you’re the only thing that makes me feel alive.”
Hongjoong’s laugh is short and savage. “Good,” he breathes against your mouth. “Because I hate you too. I hate how you get under my skin. I hate that I can’t fuck you out of my system. I hate that every time I walk away, I’m already planning how I'm going to come back.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you properly—lips swollen, eyes bright, blood drying in dark streaks across his cheek—and his expression turns ugly with want.
“I hate you,” he repeats between kisses, the words dissolving into your mouth like venom and honey mixed together. “And I’m never going to stop.”
And you whisper, right into the space between your mouths: “Don’t. Stop.”
He kisses you again—slower this time, deeper, like he’s decided he’s going to take his time breaking you open until you say something you can’t take back.
Your hand shoots up and grabs his hair at the roots, fingers fisting hard enough to make his scalp pull. Not a cute little tug. Not a “please.” A claim. You yank his head back mid-kiss, teeth clicking against yours, and the sound is sharp—ugly—real.
Hongjoong makes a noise that’s half shock, half something that could’ve been a laugh if he wasn’t already breaking apart.
You use the grip like a handle. You drag him down again and kiss him like you’re trying to start a fire in his mouth. His breath stutters into yours. His body reacts before his pride can. That’s the whole point. You feel it—his weight shifting, the instant, involuntary press of him into you like he can’t help answering.
He tries to pull back.
Not because he wants to stop.
Because he wants to regain the upper hand.
So you pull harder.
His head tilts at your mercy, throat exposed, jawline tight. His busted cheek pulls where the cut is drying, and when his lips part on a sharp inhale, you taste blood—metal on your tongue, warm, intimate and obscene.
“You’re—” he starts, voice wrecked, like he’s about to insult you into submission. You don’t let him. You bite his lower lip—quick, punishing—then yank his hair again to make him feel it. To make it impossible to pretend this is just anger.
Hongjoong’s eyes flash. His good hand comes up to your wrist, fingers clamping down. Not gentle. Not careful. He tries to peel you off him like you’re a problem he can solve.
You twist your wrist just enough to keep your grip and smile into his mouth like a dare.
“Let go,” he growls, but his voice is already too low, too shaken—too fucking honest.
“No,” you whisper, and you say it like a decision.
Hongjoong’s breath punches out of him. His gaze drops to your mouth, then flicks back up to your eyes like he hates that he’s looking. “Christ,” he spits, and then he moves. He shoves into your space hard enough to rattle you against the door again, the impact jolting through your spine. His stupid, ruined hand slides down.
“You want violent? You want real?” His forehead knocks against yours, not affectionate—threatening. He’s breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, dark and feral. He leans in and bites your jaw—hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave something behind—right under the bruise he’s about to give you. You feel the heat of it bloom under your skin, sharp and electric, and your grip in his hair tightens on instinct—pulling him closer even as the sting registers. His teeth drag, releasing slowly, and when he pulls back just enough to look at you, there’s something feral in his eyes—something that says he's done pretending this is anything other than what it is.
He doesn’t bother with finesse.
His good hand drops to your waist and drags you forward—hard, possessive, like he’s pulling you into a fight he intends to win with his body. The movement forces your hips flush against his, and the contact is immediate, you feel his hardness pressing insistent against you, and the friction makes your breath catch in a way that feels like losing.
“Feel that?” he rasps against your ear, voice rough and degrading. “That's what you do to me. Every fucking time.”
He fumbles with the button of his jeans, his movements frantic and clumsy. His zip catches. He curses under his breath, yanking it down with enough force that the sound cuts through the air like a blade. When his jeans fall open, he doesn’t waste time—his hand goes straight under your oversized shirt to your waistband, fingers hooking under the fabric with bruising urgency.
“Off,” he demands, tugging hard enough to make you stumble forward into him. “Now.”
"You’re so desperate,” your hands are already moving—shoving at your waistband, helping him strip you because waiting feels impossible. The fabric catches on your hips and he growls, impatient, yanking harder until it gives.
“Shut up,” his voice cracks on the words, and when your underwear hit the floor, his eyes rake over you like he’s cataloguing damage he’s about to make worse. His hand slides up your thigh, rough and possessive, fingers digging in hard. He hooks his arms under your knees and hoists you up, the cold door scraping against your shoulder blades as he pins you there. You lock your ankles behind his back, your bare skin stinging where it meets the rough wood of the door scraping against your shoulder blades as he pins you there.
“You gonna fuck me in this fucking leather jacket of yours?” you taunt, your voice a jagged rasp. You reach up, grabbing the lapels of the heavy, expensive hide. “Go on. Keep it on. Keep the armour. Don’t want those ‘easy’ girls to think you’ve actually got a heart beating under there, do you?”
He loves it.
You see it in the way his pupils blow out until there’s no light left in them. You see it in the way his mouth twitches, a dark, hungry ghost of a smirk finally breaking through the rage. He doesn’t want a submissive girl who weeps and begs; he wants the one who tries to burn the house down while he’s still inside it.
“You’ve got a real big mouth for someone who’s currently pinned to a wall door with legs spread open.” he grabs both your wrists and slams them against above your head, his leather sleeves creaking with the effort. He hitches your legs higher, his hips grinding into yours.
“I’ll wear the fucking jacket,” he leans in until his lips are brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ll wear it while I remind you exactly why you haven’t leave this apartment. I’ll wear it while I’m inside you, and you’re going to scream my name loud enough that the neighbours call the cops again.”
His hand slides between your bodies, and when his fingers find how wet you are, his breath catches. The sound is involuntary, honest, and it makes you feel powerful. “You’re soaked. All that attitude, all that fighting—and you’re fucking dripping for me.” He circles your clit with deliberate pressure, watching your face like he’s studying for an exam he intends to ace. When your breath hitches, he smirks. “Three months and all it took was me shoving you against a door to make you wet. You’re so fucking easy for me. That’s what I wanted to see. You, coming apart. You, forgetting how to hate me.”
“I could never forget,” you manage, but your voice is threadbare, breaking at the edges.
Hongjoong leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Good. Remember it when I make you come. Remember exactly who’s doing this to you.” He wraps his fingers around himself, positioning at your entrance with zero ceremony. The blunt pressure makes you inhale sharply, and he watches your face like he’s waiting for you to flinch—like he wants you to.
He enters you with a sharp, unforgiving lunge that makes the world go white. You can feel him everywhere. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming, your body resisting and yielding all at once, and a moan tears out of you.
His forehead drops to yours, his breathing ragged as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours.
A choked, broken sound leaves your throat—half-sob, half-snarl. It’s not soft. There is no warmth in it. It’s a collision of two bodies that have spent months trying to outrun their own rot. He’s moving with a jagged, desperate rhythm, his hips slamming into yours with a bruising force that rattles the door in its frame. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound echoes through the apartment, rhythmic and violent.
You lean in, licking the sweat and plaster dust off his temple, your voice dropping to a vile whisper. “You might be a pathological liar, a shitty boyfriend, and a mediocre man, but God… this?” You grind down on him, hard, deliberate. “This cock? It’s the only thing about you that isn’t completely fucking worthless.”
Hongjoong’s response is immediate and vicious. His hand releases your wrists only to wrap around your throat—not choking, but claiming—his thumb pressing just enough to make you feel owned. “Keep talking,” he growls, his hips snapping harder, faster, punishing. “Keep running that fucking mouth whilst I fuck the fight out of you.” His leather jacket creaks with every thrust, the sound obscene and raw, mixing with your ragged breathing and the relentless percussion of your bodies colliding.
You dig your nails into his neck, hard enough to make him hiss. “Then do it,” you spit back, your moan breaking through the words. “Fuck me like you mean it. Do your fucking job, Rockstar. Give me what I waited three months for and then get the hell out of my sight.”
Hongjoong’s face darkens. He pulls back, his hips hitting you with a brutal, rhythmic thud that makes the door rattle in its frame.
“They were better than you,” he lies, his voice trembling with the effort of the thrusts. “They were quiet. They didn’t make me want to put my head through a wall.”
“But they didn’t make you hard like this, did they?” You lean in and lick the dried streak of blood off his cheek.
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. He slams his mouth against yours, a messy, bruising collision of teeth and tongue. You can feel the leather of his jacket—thick, unforgiving—scraping against your bare thighs with every brutal thrust, the rough texture catching on your skin like it wants to leave marks. The cold metal of the zipper bites into your hip bone, a sharp counterpoint to the heat radiating from where your bodies meet.
“Fuck,” Hongjoong groans, the word torn from his throat, raw and broken. His hips stutter, then slam forward harder, and the sound that leaves him is almost a whimper. “You feel—God—”
“What?” you gasp out, your voice cracking on a moan as he hits deep inside you. “Can’t finish your sentences now? Where’s that big mouth?”
The door behind you is unrelenting—hard wood digging into your spine, your shoulder blades grinding against it with every impact. The rhythm is punishing: thud, thud, thud—your body jolting upward with each thrust, your back scraping raw against the surface. You can hear the hinges creaking, protesting under the force, a high-pitched whine that cuts through the symphony of your combined breathing.
He’s got you pinned so hard your spine feels like it’s merging with the wood of the door. As he pulls back to gasp for air, his mouth open and desperate, you lean forward and spit right onto his cheek, the fluid trailing down.
Hongjoong freezes. His entire body turns to stone, the only movement the frantic, jagged heave of his chest. Then, his eyes snap to yours, burning with a light that is purely homicidal.
“Go on. Tell me again how much better they were. Tell me while you’re wearing my spit.”
The reaction is instantaneous.
His hand flies out—the uninjured one—and slaps you across the face. The force of it snaps your head to the side, the stinging heat blooming across your cheek like a brand. Your ears ring, and for a second, the world turns into a blur of grey and red.
He doesn’t let you recover. He grabs your jaw, his fingers digging into the bone until you’re forced to look at him again. “You like being treated like trash?” he starts moving again, but it’s different now—crueler, deeper, his hips hitting you with a rhythmic thud that makes your vision jump. “You want to play the brat? Fine. Let’s talk about how you spent the last ninety days.”
He leans in, his breath hot and smelling of the whiskey he drank to forget you.
“You sat here,” his thumb presses into the bruise forming on your cheek. “You sat in this dark, pathetic apartment, wearing my clothes, staring at the door, waiting for me. Stalking my staff. Counting my breaths through a fucking screen. You’re such a good little bitch, aren't you? So loyal. So desperate.”
He lets out a mocking, jagged laugh as he drives into you, his leather jacket creaking with every brutal thrust. “I bet you even slept on my side of the bed,” he taunts, his teeth grazing your ear. “Crying into the pillows because you knew I was out there putting my hands on someone who actually knows how to keep her mouth shut. You waited like a dog for a scrap, and now you’re acting like you’re the one in control?”
“I’m the one... who’s in your head,” you gasp out, your fingers clawing at the leather of his sleeves, trying to find the skin underneath to draw blood. “You’re... you're obsessed with me. You’re fucking... miserable.”
“Shut up,” he pants, but there’s no venom in it—just desperation. Another thrust and he moans again, louder this time, unguarded. “Shut up, shut up, fuck—”
“Make me,” you challenge, but the words dissolve into a broken cry when he adjusts the angle, driving deeper. Your nails rake down his neck and he keens, the sound high and wrecked.
Inside you, he’s impossibly deep, stretching you until the pleasure borders on pain—a burning, overwhelming fullness that makes your nerves sing and scream all at once. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the way he drags against your inner walls with each withdrawal, only to slam back in with enough force to punch the air from your lungs. The slick, obscene sound of your bodies meeting fills the space—wet and raw.
“You’re—ah—you’re so fucking tight,” Hongjoong gasps against your throat, voice shredded. “I can’t—I’m not gonna last if you—”
His hand on your throat is firm, the calluses on his fingers rough against your pulse point. You can feel your heartbeat thundering beneath his palm, frantic and wild, and you wonder if he can feel it too—if he knows how completely he’s breaking you. The pressure isn’t enough to restrict your breathing, but it’s enough to remind you that he’s in control, that he could take more if he wanted to.
“You're killing me,” the words cracks like glass. Another thrust, another broken moan. “You're fucking killing me.”
“Then die,” your own voice is breaking, your body clenching around him. “Die inside me, Rockstar.”
Sweat drips from his hairline onto your collarbone, trailing down between your breasts in a slow, ticklish path that makes you shiver despite the heat. Your own skin is slick with it, your thighs trembling where they’re locked around his waist, muscles burning from the effort of holding on. The salt of him is on your tongue when you lick your lips—bitter and human and real.
“Say my name—fuck—say it so I know this is real—”
“Hongjoong,” the sound of it makes him moan so loud you’re certain the neighbours can hear. “Joong, God, right fucking there—”
Every nerve ending in your body is alight, sparking and crackling. The friction, the pressure, the relentless pace—it’s building something violent inside you, something that feels like it might shatter you from the inside out. Your nails dig deeper into his neck, breaking skin, he hisses, and the sound vibrates through his chest into yours, and somehow that makes it worse—makes it better.
“I hate you,” you sob out, but your body is betraying you, clenching around him like you never want to let go. “I hate you so much—”
“I know,” Hongjoong moans, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. “I know, I know, I know— ” His voice breaks completely. “But you're mine. Say you're mine.”
“Never,” you gasp, but the word dissolves into a moan that sounds too much like his name. You’re shaking, your breath coming in high, thin whines, but you force your eyes open. You find his—black, dilated, and drowning—and you spit again, a smaller, jagged spray that hits the bridge of his nose.
He doesn’t wipe it away. Instead, he leans into it, his hips driving forward with renewed brutality, the slap of skin against skin echoing through the apartment like a war drum. “That's my girl.”
The leather creaks again, a low, rhythmic groan that matches the movement of his hips. You can smell it—rich, earthy, mixed with the sharp tang of sweat and sex. Your vision blurs at the edges, reality narrowing down to this: the brutal push and pull, the way your body yields and resists, the way he’s breaking you apart. Hongjoong looks down at where you’re joined—at the mess of sweat, his blood. It’s the most humiliating, beautiful wreckage he’s ever seen. He’s hitting that spot now, the one that makes your brain go quiet, and you hate yourself for the way your body betrays you—the way you arch into his cruelty, your legs locking tighter around his waist as if you’re trying to merge your bones with his.
“Yours,” you finally choke out, the admission ripping from somewhere deep and primal as the pleasure crests into something unbearable. “I’m yours, fuck, I’m yours—” The words taste like defeat and the moment they leave your lips, Hongjoong shatters completely, his moan raw and guttural as he drives into you one last time with enough force to make the door shudder violently in its frame. “It’s always been you, you pathetic, lying bastard.”
He grabs your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh with bruising force as he hikes you higher, your back sliding up the door until the top of your head hits the frame. He drives into you with a final, unhinged ferocity. It’s not a rhythm anymore; it’s a series of collisions, each one harder than the last, his leather jacket squeaking and straining as he hammers his weight against you. The door is rattling so hard you can hear the brass knocker outside slamming in a frantic, metallic rhythm.
“You... fucking... bitch!” he gasps out, each word a punch.
He’s falling apart. You can feel the muscles in his thighs spasming, the way his heart is trying to kick its way through his ribs and into your own chest. You moan, your head thumping against the wood, your vision tunnelling into a blur of grey and dark blue hair.
He lets out a wrecked, agonised groan as his body finally snaps. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking deep into your shoulder—not a nip, but a claim, a mark that will turn black and blue by morning. He spills into you with a heat that feels like a physical burn, his entire frame racking with long, violent shudders.
You can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything but feel the aftershocks rolling through you in waves as your own climax crashes over you—violent and inevitable, your body clenching around him so tightly that he whimpers against your skin. The world tilts, your vision going white at the edges, and for a moment you’re not sure if you’re still breathing or if you’ve simply forgotten how.
He doesn’t pull out. He stays there, heavy and trembling, his weight pinning you to the door. When he finally pulls his head back, his face is a ruin of sweat, tears, and blood. He looks at the red mark on your cheek from the slap, then at the blood on your lips, and he lets out a jagged, hollow laugh.
“You look like shit,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and wrecked.
“Yeah?” He traces the bite mark on your shoulder with his thumb. “You don’t look much better.”
Hongjoong pulls out, and fixes his jeans but he doesn’t let you go. He keeps you pinned to the wood, his forehead pressed against yours. He’s breathing like he’s just clawed his way out of a grave
He slides you down the door until your feet hit the cold floor, but the moment you’re steady, he’s on you again. His mouth crashes against yours, desperate and messy. He’s walking you backward, blind and frantic, heading toward the bedroom.
You stumble through the hallway together, a tangle of limbs and desperation. His hands are everywhere—dragging your shirt up, over your head, the fabric catching on your chin before he tears it free and tosses it somewhere you can’t see. Your hands fumble with his leather jacket, shaking too much to grip it properly, and he makes an impatient sound low in his throat before shrugging it off himself. It hits the floor with a heavy thud.
“Too many fucking clothes,” he mutters against your mouth, voice still wrecked. His hands find the clasp of your bra, and he struggles with it for a moment—fingers clumsy and trembling—before he gives up and just yanks, the elastic snapping against your skin as the hooks give way. You gasp and he swallows the sound with another kiss.
You claw at his shirt, pulling it up, and he breaks away just long enough for you to drag it over his head. His hair is a mess, sticking up in wild tufts, and there’s a red mark blooming on his collarbone where you bit him earlier. You press your thumb into it and he hisses, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.
“Off,” you demand, tugging at his jeans, and he nods, his hands already working the button. The jeans are shoved down his thighs once again, and he kicks them off together with his shoes somewhere behind him.
For a moment, you just look at each other. His chest is heaving, his body a mess of bruises and blood and need. You can see the way his hands are shaking, the way his jaw is clenched so tight you think his teeth might crack. “Bedroom. Now.”
He drags you there like a bad decision.
You let him take two steps.
Three.
The hallway narrows, the air colder, the light uglier. Hongjoong’s mouth stays on yours as you move, messy and relentless, like he’s trying to swallow your next insult before it can cut him.
You pull back just enough to inhale. He chases you so you take control. Your hands slide up his chest, and you shove him sideways—hard—until his back hits the hallway wall with a dull, satisfying thump.
Hongjoong exhales like you hit a nerve.
You kiss him again before he can recover.
Not soft.
Not pleading.
A kiss that says mine, and then immediately, worse than mine.
Your palm spreads over his throat—not squeezing, just holding, just claiming the spot he keeps using on you like a button. You feel him swallow under your hand. You feel the tiny tremor of it. You smile into his mouth because he thinks he’s the only one who gets to make people shake. Your fingers trail down—over his ribs, his stomach—slow, deliberate, touching him like you’re appraising a weapon.
His other hand finds your waist but he doesn’t push back. He lets you pin him there, lets you take what you need from his mouth like he’s finally learning what surrender tastes like. His mouth crashes into yours—not a kiss so much as a collision. It’s hungry, a desperate, brutal thing, like he’s trying to swallow your very breath whole. For a second, the world is just the wet, hot pressure of his lips and the frantic rhythm of his heart drumming against your ribs.
Then, the reversal.
His palms slam into your shoulders. He shoves you off him with a jagged, sudden force. There is no gentleness in the motion, no lingering slide of fingers. It’s a rejection of gravity and—
—your socks skid on the polished hardwood. For a heartbeat, you’re weightless—a stupid lack of balance where your heels find no purchase.
“Fuck—”
The word is cut short by the wall. You go sideways, the momentum carrying your weight until your shoulder slams into the drywall with a dull thud. Your head follows, snapping back. The back of your skull connects with the edge of a heavy, framed vinyl.
The frame rattles, tilting on its wire for a fraction of a second before the nail gives way.
The crash is deafening in the narrow space. Glass explodes—a harsh, bright shriek of crystalline shards that rain down, ricocheting off the floorboards and peppering your bare skin. The record pops loose from its housing, a black disc clattering and spinning across the wood like a dying coin.
Pain blooms. It’s a mapping of heat: thin, stinging lines across your forearm and a sharp, pulsing ache at the base of your throat where a shard grazed the collarbone.
You inhale, and the air is different now—cloying with dust shaken from the wall, the metallic tang of blood, and the fading sweetness of his mouth.
Hongjoong freezes. His chest heaves, his mouth is a ruined smear of red and wetness. His eyes, dark and blown wide, flick from the glittering debris on the floor up to the crimson bead forming on your shoulder. His fingers twitch, his body leaning forward as if his muscles are screaming to catch what they just threw away.
Then his jaw locks. The tendons in his neck cord stiffening. He looks at you not with pity, but with a simmering, self-loathing resentment, as if your bleeding is a personal insult to his control.
You shift, pushing off the wall. The movement causes the glass to chime. A shard crunches beneath your foot, a dry, crystalline snap. You let out a laugh—quiet, wrecked, and dangerously delighted.
You lean your head back against the dented drywall, watching the way his nostrils flare. Even with the wreckage between you, even with the blood cooling on your skin, his gaze hasn’t left your face. It’s fixed, starving, pinned directly to your swollen mouth.
“You missed a spot,” you whisper, the words raspy and mocking.
“You're bleeding.” The voice isn’t his—not the one he uses for the stage or the one he uses to command a room. It’s thin, stripped of its armour, vibrating with a frequency that suggests he might shatter if you touched him. He stares at the crimson bead tracking a hot path down your collarbone, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a hard swallow.
“I’m aware,” you breathe, tilting your head. The movement pulls at the shallow cut on your arm, a sharp, stinging reminder of the impact. You don’t wince. “Is that what’s stopping you?”
His jaw works, a muscle leaping in his cheek. He takes a half-step forward, his hand twitching at his side as if to reach out and stem the flow, but he catches himself. His fingers curl into a fist so tight the knuckles turn a ghostly, translucent white.
“You threw me, Hongjoong. You broke your favourite record with my head. And yet...” You take a step toward him and the glass crunches. You stop when you’re close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, the frantic, erratic pulse in his throat. “You’re still looking at me like I’m the only thing in this hallway that matters.”
His breathing hitches. The fist at his side trembles, and for a moment you think he might actually back away—might finally prove that he has some shred of self-preservation left. But then his eyes drop to your mouth again, and you know he’s already lost.
His hand lifts—slow, trembling—and cups the side of your face. The gentleness of his palm against your cheek is more violent than the shove. It’s a surrender. His skin is fever-hot, damp with the sweat of his own internal war, and as his thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, he finally stops fighting the gravity of you.
His thumb wanders, catching a stray drop of blood near your collarbone and smearing it against your skin like war paint. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath shuddering out in a long, broken sigh.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word a confession, a secret he never intended to tell. “Look at you. Standing in the middle of the wreck I made, laughing at me. You’re a goddamn masterpiece, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hand slides from your face to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair with a possessive tug that tilts your head back. There’s no more hesitation, no more trembling restraint. He stoops, one arm hooking firmly under your knees and the other supporting your back, hoisting you up in one fluid, desperate motion. You instinctively hook your arms around his neck, your fingers digging into the damp hair on the nape of his neck.
“Hongjoong—”
“Quiet,” he commands, though the edge is gone, replaced by a low, vibrating intensity. He carries you through the hallway like you’re something stolen, something he needs to hide before anyone sees. His grip tightens when you shift, fingers digging into your thigh hard enough to bruise, and you wonder if he even realises he’s holding on like you might disappear.
The bedroom is a cavern of deep shadows. He doesn’t even make it to the middle of the room. Hongjoong stumbles, his knees hitting the edge of the mattress, and he brings you down with him in a tangle of limbs and slick skin.
The bed—the one he hasn’t slept in for ninety days—is cool for only a second before the furnace of your bodies turns the sheets into a trap. He pins you down, the light from the streetlamp outside cuts through the blinds, painting his back in jagged stripes of orange and black. A stray drop of sweat rolls from his temple, disappearing into the blue silk of his hair. He looks down at you, his blue hair plastered to his forehead. He looks at the blood on your arm, the bite on your shoulder, and the smear of red on your lips, and he finally, truly breaks. He grabs your wrists, pinning them to the pillow on either side of your head, his fingers locking like iron. He stares at the damage. The thin, red signature of the glass on your arm. The blooming purple of the bite on your shoulder. The way your lip is puffed, stained with a mixture of his saliva and your own metal-tasting blood.
A low, broken sound vibrates in his chest—part sob, part growl.
“Look at you,” he rasps, his voice a jagged edge of ruin. “Look what I did. You’re pathetic like this.”
“You want this?” he chokes out, his face dropping until his nose brushes yours, his hot breath ghosting over your mouth. “You want me to break the rest of you? You’re already ruined, sweetheart. What’s left to destroy, hmm?”
His grip on your wrists is bruising, his thumbs pressing into the delicate pulse points there. He’s shaking, looking at your mouth, then back to your eyes.
“Tell me,” he commands, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper that vibrates through your skull. “Tell me you’re not going to leave after this. Tell me I get to keep every scar I just gave you.”
He shifts his weight, his knee forcing its way between your thighs, he’s hard again, his cock pressing into your hip, and the desperation of his body is more honest than anything he’s said in years. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the very edge of the cut on your collarbone. He tastes the salt there, his tongue a fleeting, searing wetness against the wound.
“Mine,” he mutters against your skin. “Everything. The blood, the bruises. All of it. You’re nothing without me marking you up.”
As his hand leaves your wrist to reach for the waistband of his boxers, you don’t let the limb fall limp. You snap your arm up, your fingers tangling into the damp, blue silk of his hair. You yank, hard enough to make his head hiss back, forcing his wide, startled eyes to lock onto yours. The pain of the glass in your shoulder is a distant, electric hum compared to the fire of his skin against your inner thighs.
“You don't get to keep them, Joong, I’m letting you have them. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” You dig your nails into his scalp, pulling him down until your lips graze the shell of his ear. “Because the second I decide I’m done with you, I’ll walk out of here and leave you to rot in this empty house with nothing but your gold records and your regrets. You’re nothing. A washed-up, desperate little boy playing at being a man. So don’t talk to me about keeping. Talk to me about begging, like the pathetic dog you are.”
His jaw drops open, a soft, wrecked sound catching in his throat. For a heartbeat, he looks like he might recoil, but then the arrogance snaps back into place—darker, heavier, fuelled by the sheer friction of your bodies. He stops fumbling. In one violent, fluid motion, he shoves his boxers down his legs. He’s thick and rigid against your thigh, the heat of him intoxicating.
“Then beg for my cock, you filthy whore,” he counters, his thumb finding the slick, aching heat of you with a bruising pressure. “Beg for it like the desperate whore you are.”
His hand slides down your body. You gasp, your back arching off the mattress as the first wave of his touch crashes over you. It’s too much—the cold air of the room hitting your damp skin and the furnace-heat of his hand between your legs. He’s not being gentle; his touch is rhythmic and demanding, his calloused palm rubbing against your sensitive skin with a friction that makes your toes curl into the sheets.
“Hongjoong—”
“Say it,” he commands, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your shoulder right beside the bruise that’s already blooming there. “Tell me you want every inch of me. Say you’re mine. Say you’re just a worthless little toy.”
He shifts, his weight settling between your knees, the blunt, heavy tip of his cock probing at your entrance. You can feel the twitch of his muscles, the sheer, agonising restraint it’s taking for him not to just lunge into you.
You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him flush against you. The contact is electric—slick skin meeting slick skin, the friction of his coarse hair against your thighs, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart against your ribs.
“Fuck me,” you choke out, your fingers tightening in his hair until his scalp must burn. “Stop talking and fucking do it, you useless piece of shit.”
He doesn’t hesitate. He lunges forward, a single, deep thrust that fills you so completely it steals the air from your lungs. You cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder, your nails scoring twin tracks down the muscles of his back. He’s buried to the hilt, his hips pinned hard against yours, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps against your ear.
He doesn’t move. He stays buried deep, his pulse hammering against your internal walls, a frantic, rhythmic drumming that matches the one in his throat.
He begins to withdraw. It’s agonisingly slow. You feel every ridge of him, the friction of skin on skin, the slick, hot suction as he pulls back until he’s barely holding on at your entrance. You whine, a thin, involuntary sound that escapes your throat before you can catch it, and your heels dig deeper into the small of his back, trying to force the contact back.
Hongjoong lets out a soft, jagged huff of a laugh. He catches your wrists again, but he doesn’t pin them this time. He intertwines his fingers with yours, forcing your palms flat against the pillow, his knuckles brushing the damp fabric.
“Look at me,” he commands.
You open your eyes. The orange light from the streetlamp catches the dampness on his cheeks—not tears, just the sheer physical exertion of holding himself back. He thrusts again, but it’s a crawl. A slow slide of fire that inches back into your heat. He watches your face with a terrifying intensity, tracking the way your pupils dilate, the way your lips part to catch a breath that won’t come.
“There,” his hips rotating in a tiny, devastating circle that grinds his pelvic bone against yours. “Tell me how that feels. Tell me what I’m doing to you. Tell me how much you need this, you needy whore.”
The sensation is a slow-motion riot. The blunt pressure of him is stretching you, a heavy, dull ache that blooms into a sharp, electric spark every time his weight shifts. The salt of his sweat drips onto your collarbone, mixing with the cooling smear of blood.
He leans down, his mouth hovering just a fraction of an inch from yours, close enough that you can taste the heat of him.
“You’re shaking,” he withdraws again, further this time, the cold air momentarily biting at the entrance he’s left weeping and open. “Is it too much? Should I stop? Or are you just too weak to handle me?”
He doesn’t wait for your answer. He rips his hands from yours, and for a split second, you feel the cool air hit your palms before he’s seizing your throat. Not enough to choke—just enough to pin you, the heel of his hand pressing firmly against your windpipe, forcing your chin up and your mouth open. The pressure is a heavy, rhythmic pulse that matches the throb of the blood in your ears.
He pulls back—all the way out—the absence of him feeling like a hollow ache. Then, he slams home. It’s not the slow crawl from before. It’s a brutal, bottoming-out thrust that jars your entire frame against the headboard. The crack of wood against the wall punctuates the wet, heavy slap of skin hitting skin.
He does it again. And again.
The rhythm is jagged, angry, and utterly relentless. He isn’t asking anymore. He’s taking. Each strike is a jagged line of fire, his hips bruising yours as he drives into you with a frantic, punishing strength. The smell of the room has shifted—the ozone and old perfume drowned out by the raw, primal scent of sex and salt.
“Tell me,” he gasps, his face inches from yours, his eyes two burning coals in the shadows. “Tell me you’re still in control when I’m ripping you apart like this. You’re nothing. Just a tight little hole for me to use.”
You try to speak, but the sound is caught in your throat, squeezed out as a wrecked, high-pitched moan. You dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders, scoring deep, red crescents into his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He seems to thrive on it, his pace quickening, his breathing turning into a series of harsh, animalistic grunts.
He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers find the place where you’re joined, and he begins to play with your clit.
“Look at me, I want to see the moment you break. I want to see you lose that goddamn laugh. I want to see you cry like the pathetic little bitch you are.”
He’s hitting a frantic, desperate depth now, his body a blur of motion above you. Every thrust is a declaration of war. You can feel the tension in his thighs, the way his muscles are knotted. He’s close—you can feel it in the way his internal rhythm begins to stutter, the way his grip on your throat tightens just a fraction more.
“I hate how much I fucking love you,” he gasps, the words coming out as a bruised confession, messy and unpolished. He’s hitting you so hard your breath hitches. “I love you so much it’s rotting me out. Do you hear me? I love you but you’re still just a worthless slut who’s only good for this.” He says it like a curse, like he’s trying to spit the feeling out of his lungs and into yours. He lunges again, his forehead slamming into yours, his eyes wet and wild. “Say it,” he demands, his voice cracking. “Say it before I lose my goddamn mind. Say you love me, you disgusting whore.”
“I love you, Joong” you choke out, the name finally breaking past your lips, stripped of all its mockery and replaced with a raw, desperate truth. “I love you, you pathetic, broken scumbag.”
“There,” he groans, a sound of pure victory. He pins your legs so wide they ache. The world narrows to the point of a needle. Your vision smears into stripes of orange streetlamp and the dark, sweating planes of his face. You can feel the orgasm rising—a wave of heavy, liquid gold that starts in the marrow of your bones and rushes toward the surface.
“Hongjoong—I’m—”
“I know,” he gasps, his teeth baring in a feral grin. “I’ve got you. I’ve fucking got you. God, I love you. My perfect slut.”
He gives you one last, devastatingly deep surge, pinning your hips so hard they crack, and his thumb presses down with a final, kinky firmness.
It hits.
The climax is a violent, white-out explosion that robs you of your senses. Your internal muscles clamp around him in a series of fierce, rhythmic spasms that draw a strangled, echoing cry from his lungs. Your back arches so high only your heels and your head are touching the bed, your breath hitching into a broken, high-pitched keening that you can’t stop.
Hongjoong follows you over the edge a heartbeat later. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body seizing as he pours himself into you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. He’s a dead weight, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against your own, his skin slick and fever-hot.
The silence that follows is heavy, thick with the scent of spent adrenaline and the cooling iron of the scratches on his back. He doesn’t move. He stays buried inside you, his breath coming in long, ragged shudders against your damp skin.
His fingers, still digging into your hips, slowly begin to relax, though he doesn’t let go. He just holds you there.
Hongjoong stays buried inside you for a long time, his forehead pressed against the dip of your shoulder. The only sound in the room is the wet, rhythmic hitch of your combined breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. For a few heartbeats, the air is thick with the scent of spent adrenaline and the metallic tang of the blood.
Then, the heat breaks.
Hongjoong pulls out of you with a slick, clinical sound that feels louder than the screams from minutes ago. There is no cooling-off period, no gentle transition from the violence of his climax back to reality. He simply vacates the space, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you shivering against the damp sheets.
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t even check to see if you’re breathing. He just stands, his naked back red from your fingernails, and stalks toward the door.
“Joong?” your voice cracks, the sound thin and pathetic in the cavernous silence of his bedroom.
He doesn’t answer. You hear his bare feet against the hardwood of the hallway, then the heavy thud-drag of his leather jacket being hauled off the floor where it landed amidst the shattered ceramic of the plate you threw. You get up on your shaky legs to follow the sound, wrapping a shirt from a chair standing beside the bed around your nakedness. By the time you reach the foyer, he’s already stepping into his jeans, the denim rough and loud in the quiet apartment. Then he sits down on the bench by the door, pulling on his heavy designer boots and yanking the laces tight. He looks like a man preparing for a war he’s already won.
“Hongjoong, where are you going?” your hands are shaking as you reach for him. “You can’t just—we were just—you said you loved me.”
Hongjoong doesn’t look at you. He looks at the jacket in his hands. His fingers trace a jagged, serrated tear in the expensive calfskin where a shard of your redirected rage—that white ceramic plate—had sliced through the material.
“Look at this,” he hooks a finger through the hole in the leather and yanks it toward you, forcing you to see the damage. “Three months of silence, and I come home to you acting like a psychotic bitch again. You’re a fucking liability.”
“I’m a liability?” Your voice is a jagged wreck, the adrenaline from the bed curdling into something sour and sharp in your gut. You pull the oversized shirt tighter around your frame. “You walked in here after three months like nothing happened! You didn’t call, you didn’t text, you just—"
“I was on tour,” he snaps, turning his head so the smoke drifts into your eyes, making them sting. He looks down at the floor, at the white dust and sharp fragments. “I worked so I could pay the mortgage on this place. So you could sit here and break my shit while you wait for me to come back and fix your life.”
He digs into the jacket pocket. He finds the crumpled pack, taps out a single cigarette, and bites down on the filter. The clack-hiss of his silver lighter illuminates the hollows of his cheeks and the dark, bruised look in his eyes. He exhales a thick cloud of grey smoke directly into the space between your faces. It’s bitter, clashing with the lingering scent of sex. He stands up, the leather of his jacket creaking as he shrugs into it. He looks down at you, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and the expression on his face is one of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. He looks at you like you’re a chore he’s finally finished.
“Move,” he says standing up, the cigarette bobbing between his lips.
“No! You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come in here, fuck me, and then walk out like I’m a service you’re finished with!” You reach out, your hand trembling as you try to grab his arm, to find some shred of the man who was just buried inside you, gasping about how much he loved you.
He recoils as if your skin is caustic. He steps back, his heel crunching a piece of the plate into fine white powder against the hardwood.
“Don’t,” he warns. The ‘love’ he’d confessed in the dark feels like a fever dream now, a symptom of a sickness he’s already over. He taps a long pillar of ash onto the floor, right next to your bare foot. “I told you in there. It’s rotting me out. Looking at you, smelling you… it’s like staring at a fucking car crash. I can’t do it.”
“This is our home.”
“No, this is my apartment. My name is on the deed, my money is in the walls. You’re just the person I haven't kicked out yet.”
He steps toward the door, his movements fluid and cold. He doesn't look back at the bed, or the mess, or the way your knees are shaking. He just wants the air to be clear of you.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from the smell of you,” he says, his hand gripping the heavy brass handle of the front door. He pauses, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, the smoke curling around his bruised cheek. “Clean this shit up. I want the shards gone by the time I decide if I’m coming back. And for god’s sake, take off my shirt. You look pathetic.”
“Don’t go,” you whisper, the anger suddenly collapsing into something hollow and sharp. You slide your hands down his chest, your forehead dropping to his shoulder. “Please. Not like this. Just stay. We can fix it, we can—”
“Fix what?” He doesn’t push you away, but he doesn't hold you, either. He stands there like a statue, letting you weep against the leather. He takes another long, lung-burning drag and exhales it over the top of your head. “The plates? The wall? Or the fact that I love you so much it’s turned into rot?”
He reaches down, his fingers locking around your wrists. He doesn’t pull them gently; he wrenches your hands off his jacket and steps back, his heel crunching a piece of the ceramic into fine white dust.
“I’m going to the studio,” he says, his voice terrifyingly calm as he reaches for the heavy brass handle. “I want the keys on the island by noon tomorrow. If you’re still here when I get back, I’m calling the police. I’m done being haunted by a bitch who won’t leave.”
“You son of a bitch!” you scream, your voice cracking. “I hate you. God, I hate you so much.”
Hongjoong doesn’t just leave; he exhales. It’s a long, slow release of smoke that looks like a ghost leaving his body. He looks at you and the flick of his eyes from your messy hair down to his own shirt hanging off your frame is clinical. It’s the look of a man auditing a loss.
“I hate you,” you spit again, the words tasting like the copper from the cut on your lip. You want it to hurt him. You want it to be the thing that finally breaks that composure. “I fucking hate you, Hongjoong!”
He finally reaches for the handle, the heavy brass cold and indifferent. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look angry anymore—just bored. He takes a final pull of the cigarette.
“Yeah,” he rasps, the smoke curling around his teeth as he flashes that sharp, jagged smirk—the one that usually preceded a kiss but now feels like a blade. “I bet you do.”
He steps out, and the draft from the hallway hits you—sterile, air-conditioned, and smelling of nothing. He doesn't slam the door. He closes it with a slow, deliberate click that echoes through the empty rooms.
You’re left standing in the dark, the silence rushing back in to swallow you. You look down at your feet. There, ground into the expensive hardwood by the heel of his boot, is the ash from his cigarette and a smear of your own blood from the bedroom.
You’re wearing his shirt, standing in his apartment, surrounded by the shards of a plates you can’t put back together. He took the only thing that felt like life in this place and walked out into the night, leaving you to haunt a home that was never yours to begin with.
The elevator dings in the distance. He’s gone. And the worst part isn’t the hate—it’s the fact that you’re already waiting for the next time he decides to come home and break something else.
“You don’t get to promise me things,” he whispered, “the day before you marry him.”
He’s the florist for your wedding.
Also your first love.
Also the reason you can’t breathe.
Genre: romance, exes to lovers, love triangle, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, suggestive/smut
Trigger Warnings: emotional infidelity, heartbreak, implied sexual content, minor injury
WC: 24.1k
Mon‘s Note: this one is a part of @everyonewooeverywhere valentine’s day fic exchange, dj thank you so much for hosting! it was my first time participating in such exchange and i had lots of fun! and now drumrolls!! i was @yeonlymine ’s secret cupid!! i hope this little story won’t disappoint you, writing for you was a pleasure! 🤍
dearest Mau, happy valentine’s day 🤍
The bell above the door gave a soft, tired jingle when you pushed inside. The scent hit you first—a heavy, intoxicating mix of eucalyptus, damp earth, and sweet lilies. It was a sharp contrast to the sterile, air-conditioned chill of the bridal planner’s office you had just come from.
You adjusted your grip on your bag, stepping fully inside. The shop was quaint, cluttered in an intentional, artistic way. Buckets of hydrangeas lined the floor, and dried herbs hung from the exposed wooden beams. It was the kind of place that felt like a secret.
“Just a moment,” a voice called out from the back room.
Your breath hitched. The voice was deep—baritone and smooth, vibrating through the quiet hum of the refrigerator units. It sounded like warm honey. It sounded like late-night phone calls under comforter covers. It sounded like him.
It can’t be, you told yourself, shaking your head slightly to dispel the ghost. He got the scholarship. He went to Seoul. He’s probably an architect or a designer by now. He didn’t stay here.
You stared at a bucket of white roses, trying to focus on why you were here. The wedding. The comfortable, sensible wedding to a man who checked every box on a list. You needed bouquets. You needed to be a bride.
The curtain to the back room swept aside.
“Sorry about the wait, I was just finishing up a—”
The apology died in the air and for a beat, the whole place seemed to tilt. Time didn’t just stop; it collapsed. The years of university, the long-distance drift, the polite breakup that masked how much it actually hurt—it all vanished. You were just two kids who had promised forever, standing in a room full of flowers meant for someone else’s forever.
He was different, yet devastatingly the same. His hair was blonde now, a soft halo under the shop lights that made his dark eyes look like pools of ink. He wore a beige apron stained with chlorophyll and water spots. He looked broader, older, but his posture—that reserved, slightly curled-in stance of someone who tries to take up less space—was identical to the boy you had loved at sixteen.
Kang Yeosang.
Your lungs forgot their job. Your chest tightened so fast it was almost humiliating, like your body had been waiting for this moment and didn’t care about the ring on your finger or the life you’d built somewhere else.
Yeosang didn’t move. He just stared at you like you were something he’d dreamed up on accident.
Then his throat worked once. A swallow.
When he spoke, his voice was lower than it used to be. Not the soft boy from the back row. Not the laugh you could pull out of him with one look. It was deep now, controlled, carefully placed.
“Welcome,” he said, and the word was polite. Neat. Professional. Like he could set it down between you and keep it from shattering. “How can I help you?”
Your mouth went dry.
“I… I’m here because,” you managed, and you hated how small you sounded. “Your shop has really good reviews. People said you’re the best in town. Especially for weddings.”
His gaze flicked once, just briefly, to the binder on the counter. To the order forms. To the pen lined up perfectly with the edge like he’d put it there to give his hands something to obey.
He nodded, slow.
“I can do wedding work,” he said. “Yes.” The pause after it was wrong. Too long. Like there was a different sentence he’d almost said and forced himself not to.
You swallowed, throat burning.
“Yeosang,” you whispered.
“I didn't know you were back in town,” he said before you could ask him any question. His voice was polite. Terrifyingly polite.
“I... I didn’t know you were still here,” you stammered, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard it hurt. “I thought you left for university. I thought you moved away.”
“Plans change,” two words. Flat. Contained. Like the rest was locked in a drawer you didn’t have the right to open anymore. He didn’t mention his mother. He didn’t mention the funeral you missed because you were halfway across the world. He just wiped his hands on a rag, avoiding your eyes. “You’re here for an order?”
The professional mask was up. He was the owner of ‘Ethereal Blooms’, and you were just another client.
Your heart hurt in a way that didn’t make sense, except it did, because it was Yeosang.
His dark eyes scanned your face, searching for something. For a second, you saw the softness there, the kindness that used to be yours. You saw the boy who used to walk you home. But then, you saw his gaze drop to your left hand.
To the diamond ring catching the light.
Yeosang blinked, and the shutter came down. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering near his ear. He set the shears down on the counter with a deliberate, heavy clack. When he looked up again, his face was smooth. impassive.
“Congratulations,” he said.
His voice didn’t break.
It would’ve been easier if it had.
You cleared your throat. “Yeosang, I didn’t— I didn’t come here to—”
“Wedding date?” he cut in immediately, not looking at you as he opened a binder and reached for the pen. His fingers wrapped around it with that careful, controlled grip, like he was afraid of what his hands might do if he let them float.
The word was a period. Not a question. A full stop.
You stood there with the binder open between you like a shield, the glossy pages too bright under the warm shop lights. Your ring caught again—another cruel little flash—and you hated that you couldn’t stop noticing how his eyes didn’t.
You blinked. “Yes. It’s in a bit over three weeks—”
“Specific date?” he asked, finally lifting his gaze, expression smooth in a way that didn’t match the tension in his jaw.
“May fifteenth,” you answered automatically. “It’s on a Saturday.”
He wrote it down in neat, small lettering. The scratch of the pen felt too loud in the quiet. “And the venue?” he continued.
You swallowed. “It’s at— it’s at the The Orangery. You know, the old—”
“Outdoor ceremony, indoor reception?”
“Outdoor ceremony,” you murmured, because he was giving you no space to breathe around the words. “Reception inside, yes.”
He nodded once. The motion was minimal. Efficient. Like he was conserving energy. “Guest count?”
“About two hundred and twenty,” you said. Then, because you couldn’t help yourself, because you were standing in front of the boy who used to count the stars with you from the hood of his mom’s car, you added softly, “I didn’t know you opened a shop. It’s really beautiful. I—”
“Bridesmaids?” he interrupted, pen already moving again.
Your heart stuttered, irritation and grief tangling into something hot and ugly in your chest. “Four. Four bridesmaids.”
“Groom’s side?” he asked.
You flinched at the word groom like it was a slap. “Four as well.”
He hummed a single note, more reflex than sound. “Colour palette?”
You glanced down at the binder, at the rows of bouquets photographed in perfect lighting, each one captioned with a name that sounded like a promise. Moonlit Cream. Antique Blush. Summer Silence.
“White,” you started. “And—um. Green. Maybe some pale—”
“Any accent colour?” he cut in.
You felt yourself clench. “Blue,” you said, sharper than you meant. Then your voice faltered. “Seonghwa likes— he likes—”
Yeosang’s pen paused.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious. It was just… the tiniest hitch. Like a machine catching on grit.
“Noted,” he said, and started writing again, like your fiancée’s name was just another line item. “Do you still hate gerbera daisy?”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. “I—” Your laugh came out wrong, too thin. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he said, still not smiling. “Me too.”
The words landed like a ghost of familiarity.
“You do? You used to—”
“Seasonal availability,” he cut in, voice even. “May is peony season. Ranunculus starts tapering. You can do roses year-round.”
“And you don’t want lilies inside the venue,” he added after a second.
Your heart lurched. “I didn’t say—”
“You get headaches,” he continued, still calm, still professional. “You always did. You’ll think you can handle it because you’re stressed and trying to be easy, but the smell will sit behind your eyes and you’ll spend the reception smiling through pain.”
Your breath caught because that wasn’t a florist talking. That was Yeosang, sixteen, tilting your chin in his hands and telling you you looked like moonlight. Every time you tried to step closer, he moved the counter higher. He slid the clipboard between you and made it official. He kept you on the safe side of his life.
You swallowed, throat raw. “Yeosang.”
He didn’t react.
You tried again, softer, like you could sneak your way past his walls. “Can we… can we talk for a second? Not about the— not about the wedding. Just—”
“Budget range,” he interrupted, and this time he finally looked at you fully. His eyes were dark and unreadable, but there was something in them—something tight, exhausted, buried under years of being good and quiet and responsible.
You stared back, anger flickering because it hurt, because it was unfair, because you were the one who left and somehow you were still the one bleeding.
“Yeosang,” you said, your voice trembling now, “please.”
For a second, his expression shifted. Not softness exactly—something worse. Something like restraint cracking at the edges.
Then he inhaled. Slow. Controlled.
And his face smoothed again.
“Tell me your budget,” he repeated, voice lower, almost gentle. Almost kind. Like he was offering you an exit that wouldn’t shatter either of you. “So I can tell you what’s possible.”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I— Seonghwa’s handling most of the payments. I just… I wanted it to be— I wanted it to be pretty.”
Yeosang’s jaw flexed once, a small muscle feathering near his ear like it did when he used to hold back words. “Everything is pretty,” he said.
And the way he said it—flat, controlled—made it sound like an accusation. He flipped to a fresh page in the binder and slid it toward you with two fingers, careful not to touch your hand.
“Okay,” he continued, voice steady again. “Ceremony arch. Aisle markers. Bride bouquet. Bridesmaids. Boutonnières. Table centerpieces. Sweetheart table. Any installations.”
You stared at the list and the words swam. Because all you could think about was how he’d said “Everything is pretty,” like you’d walked in and asked him to decorate the knife you were going to bury in his chest.
You forced your voice to work. “Do you— do you ever—”
“Do you want the bouquet round or cascading,” he interrupted, not even blinking. “And do you want it looser, garden-style, or structured?”
“Why are you doing this?” you whispered.
The pen stopped. Yeosang’s eyes lifted to yours, and for the first time since he’d walked out from the back room, the professional distance faltered. Just a fraction. Enough for you to see the boy underneath—tired, stubborn, too kind for his own good.
His voice, when it came, was so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the hum of the refrigerators. “Because you asked,” he said.
Then, like he hated himself for letting even that much slip, he straightened.
“Round or cascading?” he repeated, polite to the point of cruelty.
And your mouth opened—
because you didn’t have an answer about flowers.
Because you had a thousand questions about him.
And you didn’t know which one would destroy you first.
So you stood there, your mouth parted, the silence stretching so tight it felt like it might snap and take both of your heads off.
Round or cascading? Structured or loose?
You couldn’t answer. The words were stuck in your throat, thick and suffocating and Yeosang watched you struggle. He watched the way your hands trembled where they gripped the edge of his counter. He let out a breath—a quiet, ragged sound that sounded too much like defeat. He looked away, his eyes dropping to the blank line on the order form.
“Wisteria,” he said. The word was quiet. It wasn’t a question this time.
You blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone. “What?”
“You'll want white wisteria,” Yeosang murmured, his pen hovering over the paper. He wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at the wood grain of the counter. “For the sweetheart table.”
He remembered.
“I...” You swallowed hard. “Yes. I do want those.”
Yeosang nodded slowly. His jaw tightened again, the muscle feathering. He finally clicked the pen, writing the word down in harsh, sharp strokes. “I don't have them,” he said flatly.
You frowned, confusion piercing through the heavy emotional fog in your head. “You don’t have wisteria? Yeosang, they’re... they’re one of the most common flowers for weddings. Every florist has them.”
“I don’t,” he countered, his voice snapping back to that rigid, icy professionalism. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.
Yeosang didn’t stock them. He didn’t stock the universally requested flower in the wedding industry because of you. Because working with it every day for other people weddings meant looking at the ghost of a girl who left.
He would never admit that out loud.
“It’s a business decision,” he lied. It was a terrible lie. “I can ask my supplier,” he added loudly so you would’t ask any further questions. “I’ll call her in the morning. I can get them for you.”
He was offering to work with the one flower he couldn’t bear to look at, just so your table would be exactly the way you wanted when you sat next to another man.
“Moving on,” he said, louder than necessary, as if volume could drown you out. He dragged the binder closer and flipped a page so hard the laminated paper snapped. “Bouquet. Round or cascading?”
You blinked, pulling in a breath that tasted like eucalyptus and apology. “I don’t— I don’t know. I hadn’t—”
“Garden-style or structured,” he cut in, pen poised again. His hand was steady. His voice was not.
You tried to find the bride inside you. The sensible one. The one who nodded and smiled and made decisions. But the girl you used to be kept pressing her palms against your ribs from the inside, begging to be let out.
“Yeosang,” you said again, softer, because you couldn’t help it. Because his name had always tasted like home but now it tasted like grief. “Why did you— why don’t you carry—”
Then he spoke without looking up, voice flat like a line drawn in ink.
“And your fiancé’s boutonnière,” Yeosang said. “Does he like white roses, or does he prefer something more… restrained?”
Your stomach dropped because you heard it, suddenly, underneath the professionalism.
Does he like what you like? Does he know you? Does he deserve you?
And before you could answer, Yeosang clicked his pen again and whispered—
“Don’t look at me like that,” the words teared out of his throat.
“Like what?”
“Like you're sorry,” his dark eyes were frantic, searching your face, dropping to your lips, and then darting back up to your eyes. “Because if you’re sorry, Y/N... if you’re actually sorry, then why are you—”
Ding-dong.
The bell above the door chimed—cheerful, sharp, and entirely out of place. Yeosang flinched violently as if he had been burned. The air in the shop, which had been thick and electric a second ago, shattered like glass.
Seonghwa stepped inside and took in the shop in one quick glance. Then his eyes find you and his smile deepened like the most natural thing in the world. “Hi love,” his voice was smooth, melodic, and perfectly composed. “I’m sorry for running late, the fitting took longer than expected.”
You turned too slowly. Or maybe you turned at the right speed and it still felt wrong, because Yeosang was right there. Because the counter was right there. Because the binder was still between you like a barrier that had started to feel less like paper and more like stone.
Seonghwa stepped closer, naturally, like he’d done it a thousand times before. His hand landed at your lower back, light pressure. A small, steadying touch. Not possessive. Not performative.
Just familiar.
You felt it anyway like a stamp.
He looked immaculate, as he always did. He wore a tailored charcoal coat over a black turtleneck, his dark hair perfectly styled, bringing with him the scent of spring air and expensive, subtle cologne. It completely overpowered the smell of damp earth and eucalyptus.
Seonghwa’s gaze shifted. Not dramatic. Not hostile. Just a politely, the way kind people do when they realise someone else exists in the room and deserves recognition. His smile didn’t vanish. It simply adjusted—smoother, more formal, the curve you wore for strangers you wanted to like you.
“Hi,” Seonghwa said, and he offered his hand across the counter without hesitation. “I’m Park Seonghwa, the lucky groom. Thank you for fitting us in on short notice.”
Yeosang stared at that hand. You watched the exact moment the life drained out of his eyes. The raw, desperate boy from three seconds ago vanished, locked away behind a fortress of ice. His jaw clenched so hard you thought his teeth might crack. For a terrifying second, you thought he wasn’t going to take it. You thought he might vault over the counter or tell Seonghwa to get out.
But Yeosang was always the one who endured so he slowly reached out and gripped Seonghwa’s hand.
“Kang Yeosang. Welcome to ‘Eternal Blooms’,” he said. The words came out perfect and polished. The exact tone you used when you were trying to keep something from shaking. Then his gaze slid back to the order form like it was the only safe thing left in the universe.
Seonghwa’s eyes drifted over the shop—over the hydrangeas, the orchids, the expensive, absurd blue delphiniums—honest appreciation in the lift of his brows. “This place is beautiful,” he said, smiling again. “Your work is really stunning.”
Yeosang didn’t smile nor he said thank you. He just nodded once, short and efficient, and said, “We were discussing bouquet style.”
You swallowed and it felt like trying to swallow a blade. Seonghwa leaned slightly closer to the counter, still gentle. His attention moved to the binder, the numbers, the blank lines waiting to be filled. He read quickly. You’d always loved that about him—the way he could process details without making it feel like work. The way he could turn chaos into a checklist.
Seonghwa looked up at Yeosang, his expression shifting easily into the relaxed, confident demeanour of a man who was used to paying for the best. “I want to make sure she has exactly what she envisions, Yeosang-ssi. Spare no expense.”
Yeosang didn’t blink. He just stared at the space on the counter between them. “Of course.”
“Excellent,” Seonghwa said. He reached inside his tailored coat. The sound of the leather wallet sliding free seemed too loud in the quiet shop.
You felt a cold knot form in your stomach as Seonghwa opened the wallet.
“We haven't finished the consultation yet, Hwa,” you said quickly, your voice higher than normal. “We don’t even have a total. We can just pay the invoice when he emails it—”
“Nonsense,” Seonghwa said warmly, pulling out a heavy, matte-black credit card. He didn’t hand it to Yeosang but placed it flat on the wooden counter and slid it forward with two fingers. The metal card made a dull, heavy snick against the wood. “Let’s secure the date now.”
Yeosang stared at the black card. It sat there on the counter, a sleek, undeniable symbol of everything Seonghwa was and everything Yeosang wasn’t. It was security. It was status. It was a man saying, I take care of what is mine.
Something in Yeosang’s chest went painfully, stupidly soft—like his ribs remembered a different kind of counter. A different kind of you.
His fingers tightened around the pen.
Ink didn’t come.
Memory did.
In his head, the florist shop lights flickered out and the world rewound into fluorescent hum and dusty sunbeams, into a hallway that always smelled faintly of floor cleaner and somebody’s ham sandwich.
First year of high school.
Back when his hands still shook openly. Back when he didn’t know how to hide it.
He’d been holding the bouquet behind his back so long his wrist ached.
It was small—embarrassingly small compared to what he could make now, compared to what he’d made for strangers with big budgets and neat timelines. Back then, it was something scraped together from what he could afford and what he could steal without getting caught.
A few pale pink carnations.
A sprig of baby’s breath that made his nose itch.
One stupid little white ribbon he’d bought from the craft aisle, fingers sweaty on the roll while the cashier stared at him like he was buying contraband.
He’d wrapped it too tight. Then too loose. Then too tight again. He’d watched three YouTube tutorials the night before with his phone brightness turned all the way down under his blanket, heart battering his ribs every time the video said “now secure the stems” like he had any idea what he was doing.
His palms had been damp when he finally shoved the bouquet behind his back and waited for you in a park in front of your house, pretending the cold was the reason he couldn’t stop shaking.
He told himself it was nothing.
He told himself it was just flowers.
He told himself he wasn’t about to hand his whole heart to the person who’d been holding it casually for years without even realising.
You were his best friend.
You were the person who stole bites of his lunch and leaned your shoulder into his when you laughed and said his name like it was the safest sound in the world. The idea of ruining that—of saying the wrong thing, of making you look at him differently—had made his stomach feel like it was full of live wires.
He’d tried to practice.
I like you.
Too small. Cowardly.
I love you.
Too big. Too sharp. Like stepping off a roof.
He’d arrived with his throat full of cotton and his brain full of disasters. You rejecting him. You getting awkward. You walking away. You telling someone. You laughing.
You leaving.
He’d been standing there, hands clenched behind his back so tight his knuckles hurt, when he saw you jogging toward him across the sidewalk—hair messy from the wind, cheeks pink, smiling like you’d been excited just to exist in the same space as him.
It almost killed him.
You slowed in front of him, breath fogging, eyes bright. “You’ve been waiting long?”
Yeosang’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
You tilted your head, and the way you looked at him—like you expected kindness from him, like you’d never once had to doubt it—made his chest ache so hard he thought he might throw up.
“Sangie?” you asked, softer. Concern threaded through your voice. “Are you okay?”
He nodded too quickly. Then shook his head. Then nodded again like an idiot. And because you were you, because you always made room for him without demanding he fill it perfectly, you stepped closer until the tips of your shoes almost touched his.
You smelled like coconut shampoo and winter air.
He swallowed. “I… I did something,” he managed, voice cracking on the last word.
“Did you get in trouble?”
“No.” He sounded offended at the idea, which was ridiculous because he absolutely looked guilty. His ears were burning so hot he thought they might melt off.
You smiled anyway. “Then what is it?”
He stared at your mouth.
Then your eyes.
Then down at the slush on the pavement because the world was too bright.
His fingers tightened around the stems behind his back. The ribbon cut into his skin. “I just—” he started, and his voice betrayed him again, soft and wrecked. “I just wanted to… give you something.”
You waited.
God, you waited so patiently.
He pulled the bouquet out from behind him like he was confessing to a crime. The carnations were slightly crushed from how hard he’d been gripping them. The ribbon was uneven. The baby’s breath was shedding tiny white flecks onto his sleeve.
For a horrible second, he thought you’d laugh.
For a horrible second, he thought he’d ruined everything.
Then your eyes widened. And your face—your whole face—shifted like the sun had found you.
“Oh Sangie…” you breathed, and your hands came up carefully, like you were afraid touching it too fast might break it. “You made this?”
He nodded once, small. Humiliated. Hopeful.
“It’s not—” He tried to apologise. He tried to preempt the rejection. “It’s not good, I just—”
You cut him off without meaning to, because your smile got too big for your mouth. “I love it,” you said, instantly, fiercely. Like it was obvious. Like it was always going to be obvious.
Yeosang froze.
Because you didn’t mean the flowers.
Not really.
Your fingers brushed his as you took the bouquet, and you looked up at him—still smiling, still bright, still you—and said it again, quieter this time, like it was just the truth and not a weapon.
“I love it.”
The world narrowed to the space between your hands.
His throat burned. He’d meant to be careful. He’d meant to protect you from the weight of it. He’d meant to keep being your best friend and nothing more if that was all you’d ever let him be.
But you were holding what he’d made for you like it mattered.
And his chest—his stupid, unguarded chest—gave up.
“I love you,” he said.
It came out like a fall. Not practiced. Not pretty. Just honest.
Your smile stuttered, just for a second, like your heart had tripped over the words. Then your eyes softened in a way that made his whole body go loose, like he’d been clenching for years and didn’t realise it.
You stepped closer. So close your breath warmed his chin.
“I know,” you whispered, and it wasn’t smug. It was tender. It was awe. Like you’d been waiting for him to catch up to something you’d already been carrying. “I’ve been trying not to say it first.”
Yeosang let out a sound that wasn’t a laugh, wasn’t a sob, something broken and relieved. “What?”
You lifted the bouquet, carnations brushing his chest, and you looked up at him like he was the only person on earth.
“I love you too,” you said.
His hands came up without thinking, fingers hovering at your sleeves like he didn’t know where he was allowed to touch. Like he was terrified that if he held you wrong, you’d vanish.
You solved it for him and leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. And you just stayed there, both of you shaking, both of you breathing like you’d just outrun something enormous.
His first love you.
Your first I love you.
And the bouquet between you—slightly crushed, imperfect, real—smelled like carnations and winter and the beginning of a life he thought he was allowed to have.
“I don’t have an itemised quote prepared,” Yeosang said snapping back to reality. He sounded like a machine. “Company policy requires a signed contract before I can take a deposit.”
“Consider it a retainer, then,” Seonghwa offered easily, completely missing the suffocating tension radiating from the other side of the counter. “Put five million won down. That should more than cover the initial procurement and secure your time for the fifteenth. We can settle the rest later.”
Five million won just dropped on the counter for some wedding flowers that Yeosang was going to have to look at while he built the arrangements for the girl who was his first and only love.
“Seonghwa, please,” you whispered, the plea slipping out before you could catch it. You couldn’t watch this. You couldn’t watch Yeosang be reduced to hired help by the man you were supposed to marry. “Let’s just go. We’re going to be late for the caterer.”
“It will only take a second, love,” Seonghwa murmured, patting your arm. He looked back at Yeosang, offering an encouraging, polite smile. “Go ahead, Yeosang-ssi. Run it.”
Yeosang didn’t look at you. If he looked at you, he would break. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he reached out. His fingers, stained with dirt and chlorophyll from working with his hands all day, picked up the pristine black card. He didn’t say a word. He turned to the register. He punched in the numbers on the keypad. Each aggressive, sharp tap echoed in the quiet shop.
Five. Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero. Zero.
He inserted the card into the terminal.
The machine let out a cheerful, chirping beep. Approved.
It was the sound of Yeosang selling his own heartbreak.
The receipt printer whirred to life, spitting out the paper. Yeosang ripped it off the machine. He took the black card and placed it on top of the receipt. He didn’t hand it back to Seonghwa. He slid it across the counter, stopping exactly halfway.
“Thank you for choosing our service,” Yeosang said. He lifted his eyes then. But he didn’t look at Seonghwa. He looked directly at you. His dark eyes were utterly hollow, stripped of the anger, the desperation, and the raw longing from just five minutes ago. There was nothing left but a devastating, quiet acceptance.
He can buy the flowers, that look said. He can buy you.
You felt like you were going to be sick.
“Perfect,” Seonghwa said, slipping the card and the receipt back into his wallet, oblivious to the silent execution that had just taken place. He turned to you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist. “Shall we? We don’t want to keep the chef waiting.”
“Yeah,” you forced out. Your voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Let’s go.”
Seonghwa guided you toward the door. You couldn’t stop yourself from looking back over your shoulder. Yeosang was still standing behind the counter. He hadn’t moved. He was just staring at the blank order form, his hands resting flat on the wood, the pen discarded beside it. He looked like a ghost in his own shop.
The door chimed. The heavy glass shut behind you, cutting off the scent of damp earth and eucalyptus, replacing it with the cold, sterile air of the city. Seonghwa was talking—something about the venue, the seating arrangements, how the chef had promised to prepare a tasting menu—but his voice felt like it was coming from underwater. You nodded mechanically, your hand limp in his as he led you down the pavement. Inside your chest, something cracked clean in half, and you wondered distantly if Yeosang could still see you through the shop window, or if he’d already turned away.
The brass bell above the door settled into silence, but to Yeosang, it sounded like a ringing in his ears that wouldn’t stop. The heavy glass door clicked shut.
You were gone.
Yeosang stood completely frozen behind the counter. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He just stared at the order form sitting perfectly square on the wood, right next to the carbon copy of a receipt for five million won.
Park Seonghwa. The name on the receipt.
Y/N. The name he had carefully written at the top of the form, his handwriting neat and precise, hiding the way his hand had been shaking so hard his wrist ached.
The curtain to the back room swept open with a loud, metallic scrape of rings against the rod.
“Hey, did the compressor on the back fridge sound weird to you?” Wooyoung asked, his loud, boisterous voice shattering the fragile quiet of the shop. He walked out wiping his wet hands on his own dark green apron, entirely oblivious. “Because it’s making this awful rattling noise, and if we lose that batch of white roses before Saturday, I swear to God I’m going to—”
Wooyoung stopped. He had known Yeosang since they were kids. He knew Yeosang’s quiet moods, his stressed moods, his focused moods. But the man standing behind the counter right now didn’t look like any of those.
Yeosang looked hollowed out. His skin was pale, his shoulders hunched, and his hands—still pressed flat against the wood of the counter—were trembling violently.
“Yeo?” Wooyoung’s voice dropped, the teasing completely gone. He tossed the towel onto a bucket and hurried over. “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you sick? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
Yeosang didn’t answer. His throat felt like it had been packed with glass. He just stared at the receipt.
Wooyoung stepped behind the counter, following Yeosang’s blank, devastated gaze. He looked down at the clipboard. He saw the massive deposit amount first. Then, he saw the name written at the top of the page.
Wooyoung inhaled sharply, the air hissing through his teeth.
“No,” Wooyoung whispered, his eyes flying up to Yeosang’s face. “Tell me that’s a coincidence. Tell me it’s a different girl.”
Yeosang finally blinked. A single, heavy tear broke loose, tracking silently down his cheek, catching in the harsh light of the overhead bulbs.
“She brought him, Woo,” Yeosang rasped. His voice sounded wrecked, as if he hadn't spoken in days. “She brought him in here.”
“Oh my god,” Wooyoung breathed. The protective anger flared instantly, hot and sharp. “I’ll cancel it. I’ll call them right now and say we’re overbooked. You are not doing this. I’m ripping up this check—”
Wooyoung reached for the receipt, but Yeosang’s hand snapped out, his fingers wrapping around Wooyoung’s wrist like a vice.
“Don't,” Yeosang said, his voice cracking.
“Yeosang, are you actually insane?” Wooyoung demanded, trying to pull his arm back, but Yeosang’s grip was desperate. “You can’t do the flowers for her wedding! Do you have any idea what that’s going to do to you? You just spent the last eight years trying to scrape yourself off the pavement after she left, and now you’re going to arrange her bridal bouquet?!”
“I have to order wisterias,” Yeosang whispered.
Wooyoung froze. The fight completely drained out of him at the word. He looked at Yeosang, his heart breaking for his best friend.
“Yeosang...” Wooyoung said softly, his voice thick with pity.
“She asked for them,” Yeosang choked out, his grip on Wooyoung’s wrist finally failing. His hand dropped to his side. The dam broke. The professional, contained owner of ‘Ethereal Blooms’ completely collapsed. “She looked right at me, Woo, and she knew I didn’t have them. She knew why I didn’t have them. And he... he just threw his black card on the counter like I was... like I was nothing.”
Yeosang turned away from the counter, pressing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes. A ragged, ugly sob tore its way out of his chest, echoing in the quiet shop. “He’s perfect for her,” Yeosang wept, the humiliation and the grief finally spilling over. “He has the money. He has the coat. He has the ring. And I’m just standing here with dirt under my fingernails, charging him five million won to watch him marry the only person I’ve ever loved.”
Wooyoung didn’t say anything else. There was nothing to say. He just stepped forward and pulled Yeosang into a fierce, tight hug. Yeosang buried his face in Wooyoung’s shoulder, his hands gripping the back of his friend’s apron like it was a lifeline, crying for the girl who had just walked out the door with another man’s ring on her finger.
On the counter, the receipt for five million won sat perfectly still, securing a date that was going to destroy him.
The penthouse was too quiet.
Seonghwa’s bedroom was a masterclass in modern, minimalist design. The air was temperature-controlled to a perfect, crisp twenty one degrees. The sheets were high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, cool and smooth against your skin. Beside you, Seonghwa breathed in a steady, rhythmic cadence, completely at peace in the life he had built.
You lay flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, feeling like you were suffocating. Every time you closed your eyes, you didn’t see the cascading orchids or the elegant table settings you were supposed to be dreaming about. You saw the dark, hollowed-out look in Yeosang’s eyes when he handed back that receipt. You heard the dead, mechanical tone of his voice.
You lifted your left hand in the dark. The streetlights from the city below filtered through the expensive sheer blinds, catching the facets of the heavy diamond on your ring finger. It flashed, sharp and clean, a tiny star trapped in metal. It was beautiful in the way money was beautiful. Heavy. Certain. Designed to last longer than feelings.
It sat on your ring finger like it had always belonged there.
It didn’t.
You rotated your hand slowly, watching the facets flare and die.
This is what you chose.
Safe. Sturdy. Predictable.
A ring that said I’ll take care of you in a language that didn’t require tenderness.
Your throat tightened because the flash of the diamond didn’t make you think of vows or dresses or May fifteenth. It made you think of a stairwell that smelled like concrete and dust. It made you think of fluorescent lights that buzzed like a trapped insect. It made you think of Yeosang’s hands—warm and careful like he was holding something breakable.
You blinked, and the ceiling above you wasn’t a ceiling anymore. It was peeling paint. It was a metal handrail cold under your palm. It was the soft, awful quiet of a school stairwell where the rest of the world couldn’t reach you.
And Yeosang was there.
Last year of high school.
Last year of waiting.
You’d been counting down to graduation like it was a door you could finally open. University, freedom, the future that felt like it was hovering just out of reach. Everybody talked about it like this huge, sparkling “after.”
But with Yeosang, it felt like there was an “always,” too.
He didn’t look at you at first. Yeosang never did when he was about to do something reckless. He stared straight ahead, jaw set, the soft curve of his mouth pulled into that not-quite-pout he got when he was trying to be serious and failing.
You bumped your shoulder against his, playful. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what.” Deadpan. Offended. The audacity that you had noticed him existing.
“That thing where you act like you’re not about to say something stupid.”
Yeosang’s eyes finally flicked to you, dark and flat in that way that always made people underestimate him. Like he wasn’t quietly paying attention to everything. Like he wasn’t keeping a whole secret world inside his chest. He didn’t answer. Just slowed down a little, guiding you toward the side stairwell like it was an accident, like it wasn’t the place you always ended up when you wanted to be alone without saying you wanted to be alone.
The stairwell door creaked when he pushed it open.
Inside, it was cooler. Dustier. The noise from the hallway dulled immediately, like the whole school had been muted.
Yeosang let the door swing shut behind you.
You turned to him, eyebrows raised. “Okay. Suspicious.”
“I’m not suspicious.”
“You’re literally radiating guilty energy.”
He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. His shoulders were tense, but his hands were steady when he reached into his pocket. And you expected, for a second, something dumb. A candy. A note. One of those tiny paper stars he used to fold when he was bored in class, the ones he’d flick at you until you got annoyed and then you’d keep them anyway.
Instead, he pulled out a flower. Not a bouquet. Just one small thing, delicate and fresh like he’d stolen it from the universe five minutes ago. A tiny white blossom, petals soft as breath. The stem looked like it had been snapped off with fingers, not cut. Improvised. Personal.
You stared.
Yeosang held it out in front of him like it weighed more than it should. “Before you say something,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the flower like it was safer than your face, “it’s not— it’s not a big deal.”
“That’s what people say when it’s a big deal,” you whispered.
His ears went pink instantly. “Shut up.”
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. “No.”
Yeosang’s gaze finally snapped up to yours, and there it was. That soft, lethal sincerity. The thing he tried to hide behind sarcasm and silence because if he let it show too much, it would spill everywhere.
He swallowed. Then, with a stubborn little frown like he was mad at himself for being like this, he reached for your hand. Your skin tingled the second he touched you. He didn’t lace your fingers together. Didn’t hold your hand the normal way. He just turned your palm upward, like he needed to see it. Like he needed to convince himself you were real.
“Yeosang,” you said, softer now, “what are you—”
“Stop talking,” he said, not mean. Just… desperate. Like if you kept talking, he might lose the nerve.
Your mouth snapped shut.
Yeosang lifted your left hand and stared at it for a long moment, his thumb brushing over your ring finger like he was mapping it. Then he took the little flower and—carefully, ridiculously carefully—tucked the thin stem against your finger, folding it in a loose loop so the blossom rested on top, right where a ring would sit.
A fake ring.
A stupid one.
A perfect one.
It looked so fragile you were afraid breathing too hard might break it.
Your throat closed up. “Oh my god,” you breathed, the words coming out like a laugh and a sob had met in the middle and decided to ruin you together.
He still wouldn’t look at you. His voice came out low, rough around the edges. “There.”
You stared at your hand. At the flower sitting on your ring finger like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. Your eyes burned.
Yeosang finally looked up, and when he saw your expression, he flinched like he’d been hit. “What,” he said quickly, alarmed. “What. Is it bad? I told you it’s not a big deal, it’s just—”
You shook your head hard enough your hair slapped your cheeks. “No. No, it’s not bad.” Your voice cracked on the next word. “It’s… Yeosang, it’s—”
His mouth twisted, defensive. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It’s literally a flower ring,” he argued, like that was evidence he could put into a court and win. “It’s biodegradable. It’s— it’s the opposite of practical.”
You laughed, wet and breathless. “You’re the opposite of practical.”
“I am extremely practical,” he snapped automatically, then hesitated, eyes dropping back to your hand. The flower trembled slightly with the movement. His voice softened when he added, “I just… wanted to see it.”
“See what?”
He pressed his lips together. You watched him fight with himself in real time, like he was trying to decide if it was safer to make a joke or tell the truth. Yeosang chose both.
“I wanted to see what it would look like when I finally put a ring on you,” he said, then immediately grimaced like the words tasted too honest. “But not like— not like soon. Not like right now. We’re kids. We’re literally in school. You still can’t even decide what you want to major in without changing your mind every—”
“Every hour,” you finished, smiling through your tears.
“Exactly.” He nodded once, grateful for the lifeline. “So it’s not— it’s not serious. It’s just…”
He trailed off. The silence swelled in the stairwell, thick and warm and terrifying.
You lifted your hand slightly, watching the petals catch the weak stairwell light. It was so small. But it felt like a promise.
“Sangie,” you whispered, “are you joking?”
His eyes flashed up. “Of course I’m joking.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“You’re not.”
He stared at you, jaw tense, and then his shoulders sank like he’d lost the strength to pretend. “I’m joking,” Yeosang said, voice quieter now, “because if I don’t joke, I’ll—” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I’ll say something that makes it real.”
Your heart kicked hard. You stepped closer. Close enough to smell his laundry detergent and the faint sweetness of whatever he’d eaten at lunch. Close enough that your breath brushed his chin when you spoke.
“Make it real,” you said.
Yeosang’s eyes widened, panicked for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to say yes.
Then his gaze dropped to the flower on your finger again. And his voice came out raw. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Okay?”
Your chest tightened.
He kept talking, fast now, like he had to get it out before fear could grab it back. “We just… have to wait a little longer,” Yeosang said, and his throat bobbed. “Just until graduation. Just until we’re not stuck in this place. Just until I can actually—” His mouth tightened, frustration flickering. “Until I can actually give you something that isn’t going to die in, like, an hour.”
You laughed again, shaking.
“I mean it,” he insisted, eyes dark, steady. “I’m serious. I know you want big things. I know you want out. I know you’re scared that if you leave first, I won’t follow, and if I don’t land the scholarship you’ll leave without—” He stopped like the thought hurt. Like he couldn’t even say it out loud.
You reached up and grabbed his sleeve, fingers curling into the fabric. “I won’t,” you whispered.
Yeosang’s breath stuttered. He leaned forward before he could stop himself, forehead almost touching yours. His voice dropped to something barely there. “Forever,” he said, like it was a word he didn’t trust the world with. “Yeah?”
You lifted your hand between you, the little flower-ring trembling. “Forever,” you echoed, and your voice didn’t shake on it. “But we just need to wait a little longer.”
Yeosang’s eyes flicked to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
His hands hovered at your waist, unsure, like he was still learning where he was allowed to touch.
You made the decision for him, like you always did.
You stepped in. And Yeosang finally held you like he’d been starving for it—careful, but so tight it made your ribs ache. Like he wanted to fuse you to him and call it a solution. His mouth pressed against your temple for a second, a kiss so soft it almost didn’t count as one, except it did. It counted like everything.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he murmured.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “I’m literally going to marry you.”
Yeosang’s eyes went wide. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why?”
“Because then I’ll believe it.”
You smiled, tears slipping down your cheeks anyway. “Then believe it.”
Yeosang stared at you like you were sunlight. Like you were something too bright to be safe. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse. “Okay,” he whispered.
And then, because he couldn’t stand the tenderness without trying to hide inside a joke, he nodded at your hand and said, very seriously, “You better take care of that ring.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Or what?”
Yeosang’s mouth quirked. “Or I’ll buy you a real one and make it your problem.”
Your laugh broke wide open and Yeosang smiled like he’d just admitted the entire universe lived inside your hands.
Right as the stairwell door creaked.
A shadow fell across the concrete.
Footsteps.
A voice, muffled through the door: “Hello? Anyone in there?”
Yeosang froze with you in his arms, eyes flashing like a startled cat—caught, guilty, and still refusing to let go.
You lifted your flower-ringed hand between you, breath caught in your throat, and Yeosang’s gaze locked on it like it was the only thing keeping him brave.
“Hey,” you whispered, barely moving your lips. “Sangie.”
His eyes flicked to yours. And for one terrifying, perfect second, you both knew: this wasn’t a joke.
Not really.
The bell above the door chimed, bright and cheerful.
It was wrong in this light. The morning was the colour of dishwater, the sky pressed low over the city like a lid, and the shop smelled like wet stems and cold metal and something sweet that kept trying to turn into a memory in the back of your throat.
Yeosang was at the stainless steel prep table in the middle of the room, sleeves pushed up, hands moving with that brutal, efficient rhythm—click, clack, click—as he stripped thorns from a dozen white roses. Like if he kept his hands busy enough, his heart wouldn’t get any ideas.
He froze the second he saw you.
For one split, disorienting moment, the shears hung in the air. Then his jaw locked, and the motion started again as if nothing had happened. As if you were just a delivery. As if you hadn’t once been the center of his entire universe.
“We’re closed for walk-ins until eleven,” he said, not looking up.
“I know,” you managed. Your fingers tightened around your bag strap until the leather bit into your palm. “I didn’t come to buy anything. I came to talk to you.”
Click, clack, click.
He didn’t even blink. “If you want to change anything about the order, email the shop to book an appointment.”
“Stop,” you said, stepping closer. The scent of roses hit you hard and stupidly familiar, like a punch to the ribs. “Stop talking like I’m— like I’m a stranger.”
Snap.
The shears slipped, and he cut a stem clean in half. The ruined rose rolled, soft and helpless, across the metal surface. Yeosang stared at it for a second too long, like he could see something else bleeding out there instead of a flower. Then he scooped it up and threw it into the waste bin without looking.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, too even. Too practiced. “The wisteria is secured. You’ll have it for your wedding.”
“Why did you take his money?” you blurted out, the question that had kept you awake finally tearing free. “Why did you let him do that to you? You should have told us to leave. You should have thrown us out!”
Yeosang finally stopped. He set the shears down on the metal table. The sound rang out, sharp and final. He braced his hands on the edge of the table and slowly lifted his head. His eyes were exhausted. There were dark circles bruised into the skin beneath them, evidence of his own sleepless night. He didn’t look angry; he just looked incredibly, profoundly tired.
“Because I am a florist,” Yeosang said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “And you walked into my shop and asked for my services. What did you want me to do, Y/N? Throw a tantrum? Beg you to take the ring off in front of your fiancé?”
“No! I wanted you to... to not let me hurt you like that!” you cried, gripping the edge of the table. “I didn’t know you owned the shop. If I had known, I never would have brought him—”
“But you did bring him,” Yeosang cut in, his voice rising just a fraction, the control finally slipping. “You brought him, and you stood there, and you let him drop five million won on my counter to buy the flower I had to throw away years ago because I couldn’t look at it without thinking about you.”
The tears spilled over, hot and fast.
“Yeosang, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t,” he breathed, shaking his head, taking a step back from the table. He looked at your tears, and you could see the exact moment it killed him to not reach across and wipe them away. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come in here and cry because you feel guilty. You have what you wanted. The big ring and the black card and the outdoor ceremony.”
“It’s not that simple,” you choked out.
“Yes, it is,” Yeosang said softly. The fight drained out of him, leaving only that devastating, hollow acceptance. “It is that simple. You are marrying him. And I am doing the flowers. That is the reality we live in now.” He picked up the shears again, though his hands were trembling so badly he could barely hold them. “If you came here to absolve your guilt, I forgive you,” he said to the roses. “But if you have any mercy left in you at all... let me just be the florist. Please. Go home to your fiancé, Y/N.”
“Don’t do that,” you whispered.
His hands didn’t stop moving, but his knuckles were white around the shears. “Do what?”
“Pretend you don’t remember.” You swallowed hard, heart hammering while you looked around the shop. “You still hate marigolds,” you said, voice wobbling. “Just like I do.” Your throat seized. “There’s not a single marigold here.”
Yeosang’s jaw jumped. His eyes stayed on the roses.
“You still line up the tools,” you pushed, because the words wouldn’t stop now that they’d started. Because the silence in Seonghwa’s bed had cracked something open inside you. “Parallel. The way you used to line up your pencils in class. You’d get mad if I took one.”
Click, clack, click.
“You still call me—” your voice broke. “You still call me by that silly nickname in your head, don’t you?”
The shears stopped. The quiet that followed was so loud it rang. Yeosang set the shears down on the table with a careful, deliberate clink—like if he did it gently enough, nothing else would shatter. He braced both palms on the steel, shoulders tense, head bowed.
When he finally spoke, his voice was flat, but it wasn’t calm. It was the voice of someone holding a scream between their teeth. “Don’t.”
You stepped closer anyway, until the edge of the prep table pressed into your hips. “Do you remember,” you whispered, eyes stinging, “when you put that stupid little flower on my ring finger in the stairwell? And you joked about it like it was nothing, but your hands were shaking so bad I thought you were going to drop it—”
“Stop.”
You didn’t. You couldn’t.
“You said ‘wait for me,’” you said, tears spilling hot and fast now. “You said just a little longer and then it would be real.”
His head lifted, slow.
His eyes were exhausted. Bruised underneath. Devastatingly awake.
“Is this why you’re here?” he asked quietly. “To recite my own memories back to me like I haven’t been choking on them for eight years?”
“I’m here because you looked at me yesterday like—” Your voice turned thin, ugly with panic. “Like I killed you.”
Yeosang’s laugh came out once. Not humour. Just air scraping past broken glass. “You didn’t kill me,” he said. “You left me alive. Which was somehow worse.”
You went still. He stared at you for a long moment, and you saw it—how badly he wanted to be gentle. How badly he was fighting it.
“You don’t get to do this,” he said, voice low. “You don’t get to walk into my shop, in your coat that probably costs more than my first year’s rent, wearing a ring that could buy my mother’s—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. His throat worked like he was forcing something back down. “You don’t get to come in here and start talking about stairwells.”
“I didn’t know it was your shop. I didn’t think—”
“No,” Yeosang cut in, eyes burning now, finally looking at you like you deserved the truth. “That’s the problem. You didn’t think. You never stopped to look at me and think, ‘He’s still in this town. He’s still breathing. He still has to wake up and live in the aftermath of what I did.’”
You shook your head hard. “Yeosang, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t,” the word was so soft it almost sounded like it hurt him more than shouting. He took a step back from the table, like distance could keep him from reaching for you. Like he was scared his hands would betray him. “Don’t come in here with tears and call it love.”
“It was love,” you choked.
Yeosang’s mouth twisted, something sharp and wounded flashing across his face. “It was,” he said. “It was the only real thing I’ve ever had.”
“Do you want to know why I can’t look at you?” he asked.
You barely managed a nod.
Yeosang’s eyes flicked to your ring finger. Just once. Like touching a bruise. “Because you left,” he said, each word measured like he was placing stones on your chest. “You left, and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me the truth about why.”
Your breath caught. “I— I did tell you.”
“You told me it was ‘for the best,’” Yeosang spat, and the bitterness in his mouth finally showed. “You told me you were ‘being practical.’ You told me you ‘didn’t want to hold me back.’” His laugh broke again, ugly this time. “As if I wasn’t already behind. As if I wasn’t already drowning.”
He stepped closer, and the air tightened.
“You know what you didn’t tell me?” Yeosang asked, voice shaking now. “You didn’t tell me you were ashamed.”
Your stomach dropped.
Yeosang’s eyes were glossy, furious, wrecked. “You looked at my life and decided it was too small,” he said. “You looked at my hands—hands that were stained with dirt and flower sap and cheap soap from the school bathroom because I was working after class—and you decided you didn’t want that.”
“No,” you whispered, horrified. “That’s not—”
“Yes, it is,” Yeosang said, voice cracking. “Because if it wasn’t, you would’ve stayed. Or you would’ve taken me to London with you. Or you would’ve fought your parents to stay here. You would’ve done anything except disappear and leave me holding the shape of you like a fucking ghost.”
“You didn’t leave because you had to. You left because you finally believed everyone who told you I wasn’t enough.”
Tears blurred your vision. “I was young. I was scared.”
“Of what?” he demanded, and his voice dropped into something raw, almost pleading. “Of struggling? Of being broke? Of your parents being right about me? Of loving me and still not getting the life you wanted?”
He shook his head once, fast, like he couldn’t stand the thought.
“I didn’t get to be scared,” Yeosang said, and his voice went quiet in a way that was worse than shouting. “I didn’t get to leave. I didn’t get to start over. You went to university and built a new life, and I stayed here and watched the seasons change through the same window, waiting for a text that never came.”
His throat bobbed.
“I threw away wisteria,” he whispered, eyes shining with something devastated. “It was supposed to decorate the entrance of this shop. Do you understand how insane that is? I threw it away because I couldn’t look at it without seeing your stupid little flower ring on your finger. And then you walk in here years later and ask me for it like it’s nothing.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
“Like I’m nothing.”
Your hands were shaking. Your chest felt split open.
“Yeosang,” you whispered, and his name tasted like blood.
He looked at you like he hated how much he still loved you.
“If you have any mercy left,” he said, not looking up, “let me just be the florist. Please.” His voice went softer, almost gentle, like he was offering you a way out that wouldn’t destroy you both in public. “Go home to your fiancé.”
He lifted the shears.
Click, clack, click.
And you stood there with your throat full of everything you should’ve said eight years ago, realising with a sick, cold clarity that you didn’t just leave Yeosang.
You left him behind to pay for it alone.
The bridal shower was a curated kind of joy. Everything was pale and pretty and intentionally effortless—white linen, champagne flutes, a balloon arch that looked like it had been breathed into existence by someone who’d never struggled a day in their life. The room smelled like vanilla candles and expensive perfume, sugar-sweet to the point of nausea.
You stood in the middle of it with a plastic smile glued to your face, accepting compliments.
“Look at you,” someone cooed, pressing a hand to your arm. “You’re glowing.”
You wanted to laugh. You wanted to scream. You lifted your left hand on instinct, like the diamond was a script you could follow when you didn’t know what else to do. The ring flashed under the warm light and everyone sighed like it was the most romantic thing they’d ever seen.
Across the room, Seonghwa’s friends were talking about venues and menus and photographers, all confident voices and clean laughter. The kind of people who said things like “investment” and meant it.
You kept nodding.
Kept smiling.
Kept pretending your chest wasn’t packed with wet cement.
Then the door opened. A gust of cold air slipped in, sharp and real, cutting through the room’s perfumed softness like a blade.
And Wooyoung walked in carrying flowers. Not a cute little bouquet. Not a polite arrangement. A whole statement—buckets and boxes, greenery spilling over the edges, white blooms wrapped in crisp paper. He looked like he’d wrestled a garden and won. Black jeans, dark jacket, hair a little messy from the wind, cheeks pink from the evening cold.
He didn’t look like he belonged here.
One of Seonghwa’s friends, bright smile, perfect nails—clapped her hands. “Oh! You must be the florist delivery! Hi!”
Wooyoung gave a quick, friendly smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi,” he said, voice easy. Warm. Professional. Like he’d practiced it.
“I’m Wooyoung, I work for ‘Eternal Blooms’” he added, and his gaze cut across the room and landed on you. It was like someone had snapped a rubber band against your skin. His smile faded immediately not into anger but into something worse.
Recognition.
He set the boxes down carefully on a side table, moving with the kind of precise restraint that screamed I’m holding myself back from doing something stupid. He started unpacking. White roses. Greenery. Soft baby’s breath. Cream peonies that looked like they’d never known dirt. Everything expensive. Everything perfect.
“Wow,” someone breathed. “These are gorgeous!”
Wooyoung hummed politely. “Thank you.”
He didn’t look up again.
Not until you moved.
You didn’t mean to. It just happened. Your feet carried you toward the side table like you didn’t have control over them. Like the scent of those flowers—wet stems, sap, something green and alive—was a rope tied around your ribs. Wooyoung’s hands kept working as you approached, arranging with quick, practiced movements. He didn’t need to think. He was doing the job with his body while his mind was somewhere else.
When you got close, you realised his fingers had tiny scratches on them. Small red lines.
Thorns.
You remembered Yeosang’s hands.
You remembered dirt under his nails.
“Hi, it’s good to see you,” you said, softly, because you didn’t know what else to say.
Wooyoung finally looked up with sharp eyes. “Hi,” he echoed.
The air between you felt electric. Dangerous.
You tried again. “Is… is Yeosang okay?”
Wooyoung’s laugh came out under his breath, short and humourless. “Wow.”
You flinched. “I’m serious.”
Wooyoung leaned closer to the table, tucking greenery into a vase like he needed to keep his hands busy so he wouldn’t put them on you. “You’re asking me if he’s okay,” he said quietly, “while you’re standing in a room full of people playing ‘guess the lingerie’ and sipping champagne through a straw.”
Heat rose in your face. “This isn’t—”
“What,” Wooyoung cut in, still quiet, still controlled. “What is it, then?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Wooyoung’s eyes flicked to your ring. He stared at it like it was a weapon. Then he looked back up at you and something in his expression shifted—anger, yes, but also grief. Like he was mad at you and mad at the universe and mad at Yeosang for still loving you.
“Come here,” Wooyoung said, voice tight.
You blinked. “What?”
He nodded toward the hallway. Toward the coat closet. Toward a door leading to the quieter side of the house. “Now. Before I say something insane in front of all these rich people.”
You swallowed hard, pulse tripping. “Wooyoung—”
“Y/N.” He said your name like it was a warning.
You followed him. The hallway was dimmer. Cooler. The noise from the party dulled behind you, muffled by expensive walls. You stopped near a framed photo of Seonghwa and you—engagement shoot—both of you smiling like a magazine cover.
Wooyoung turned to face you. Up close, you could see it—he was shaking a little. Not fear. Adrenaline. Rage held in a careful fist.
“You don’t get to ask if he’s okay,” Wooyoung said. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The quiet was more brutal than shouting. “You don’t get to say his name like you didn’t carve a crater in him.”
Your breath hitched. “I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did,” Wooyoung snapped, and the control cracked for half a second. “You left, and you acted like it was… like it was a normal breakup. Like you two were just some high school couple who grew apart.”
Your throat went tight. “We were kids.”
Wooyoung’s mouth twisted. “Yeah. And Yeosang loved you like he was already an adult.” Wooyoung took a step closer, lowering his voice even further, like he didn’t trust himself with volume. “Do you know what he did after you left?” he demanded. “Do you know what it looked like? Because I do. I watched it.”
“I didn’t— I didn’t know—”
“No,” Wooyoung cut in. “You didn’t want to know.” The words landed like a slap. He pointed, sharp and furious, toward your ring hand. “That thing on your finger? That’s not just a ring to him. That’s proof.”
“Proof of what?” you whispered, voice breaking.
Wooyoung’s laugh came out again, bitter. “Proof that he was right.”
Your stomach dropped. “Right about—”
“About why you left,” Wooyoung said, and now his eyes were wet. He looked angry about the tears, too, like they were another betrayal. “You left because you were scared. But not the cute kind of scared. Not the ‘we’re too young to be this much in love’ scared.”
He leaned in, and his voice went razor-thin.
“You left because you looked at Yeosang’s life and you decided it wasn’t enough for you.”
“No,” you choked out, horrified. “That’s not true. That’s not—”
Wooyoung shook his head once, hard. “Don’t lie to me,” he snapped. “I’ve heard every version of your ‘it was for the best.’ I’ve heard the ‘I didn’t want to hold him back.’” He mimicked the words with a cruel softness that made your skin crawl, because it sounded too much like you. “Do you know what he heard?” Wooyoung demanded. “He heard, ‘I’m embarrassed of you.’ He heard, ‘I don’t want to struggle with you.’ He heard, ‘I want a life where love is optional as long as the countertops are marble.’”
Your eyes burned. “That’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s what happened,” Wooyoung said, voice breaking on the edge of fury. “And you know what’s fucking insane? He still never hated you.”
You swallowed. Your lungs wouldn’t work right. “Wooyoung…”
Wooyoung’s gaze flicked toward the party. Toward the laughter. The clinking glasses. The soft, shiny world where everyone was congratulating you for being “lucky.”
Then he looked back at you like you were the only person he could hold accountable.
“He didn’t stay in this town because he wanted to,” Wooyoung said. “He stayed because life happened to him. Because responsibility happened to him. Because grief happened to him. And through all of that, he still loved you.”
His voice went quieter. Deadlier.
“And then you walked back in with him. With the ring. With the black card. With the date. And you didn’t just reopen the wound.”
Wooyoung stepped even closer. His eyes were blazing now.
“You made him package it up,” he whispered. “Wrap it in ribbon. Put a price tag on it. And hand it back to you with a smile.”
Your chin trembled. “I didn’t ask him to—”
“You asked him to do the flowers for your wedding,” Wooyoung cut in, sharp. “You asked him to build the prettiest version of the worst day of his life.”
A sob climbed up your throat like acid.
Wooyoung’s expression flickered—something like pity, something like disgust, something like I hate that you’re crying because it makes me feel bad for you.
He took a breath. His shoulders rose. Fell.
Then he said it—slow, cruel, and heartbreakingly simple.
“Do you know what you’re doing to him?” Wooyoung whispered. “You’re making him prove he’s still good. You’re making him show you he can be gracious. Professional. Talented. Quiet. You’re making him swallow it. You’re making him be the kind of man who doesn’t fall apart—” his voice cracked “—because if he falls apart, then you get to tell yourself you were right to leave.”
The words hit so hard you felt dizzy.
“No,” you breathed, barely audible. “No, I don’t— I don’t want that.”
Wooyoung held your gaze, relentless.
“Then stop,” he said.
The simplicity of it was brutal.
You blinked, tears spilling. “I can’t just— it’s all booked, and Seonghwa—”
Wooyoung’s eyes flashed. “There it is,” he said, voice sharp. “Seonghwa. Seonghwa’s schedule. Seonghwa’s money. Seonghwa’s wedding.”
He pointed at your ring again.
“You know what Yeosang had?” Wooyoung demanded. “He had a fucking flower on your finger and a promise you made in a stairwell. And he treated it like it was sacred.”
His voice dropped, wrecked.
“And you traded it for a diamond.”
Your breath hitched so hard it hurt.
Wooyoung looked away for a second, like he couldn’t stand seeing you cry.
When he looked back, his voice was low. Final. “I took this delivery because Yeosang couldn’t,” he said. “He smiled and said he was busy. He said it was fine. But his hands were shaking so bad he kept cutting himself instead of the thorns, and he didn’t even notice until the blood hit the sink.”
Your stomach turned.
“He’s not okay,” Wooyoung whispered. “And if you leave him to do that wedding… you’re going to watch him die on his feet and call it ‘beautiful.’”
The party noise swelled suddenly behind you—someone laughing loudly, a chorus of “Awwww!” as a gift was opened.
Wooyoung turned slightly, ready to go back out there, to put the mask back on. Then he paused. He glanced at you one last time, voice quiet enough it felt like it was meant for only you.
“And the worst part?” he said. “He’ll still do it. He’ll still make it perfect. Because he loves you. And because he’s too fucking good.”
He opened the door.
Light spilled in.
Laughter.
Perfume.
Pretty.
Wooyoung looked back over his shoulder, eyes sharp as a blade.
“So what are you going to do about it?”
And you stood there in the dim hallway with your hands shaking and your diamond ring flashing like a threat, realising the next move was yours.
It was two days before the wedding, and the city was caught in the grip of a spring rain. You huddled under the awning of ‘Ethereal Blooms’, staring down at your phone.
Seonghwa: Stuck in a board meeting, love. Running late. Can you approve the final bridal bouquet mockup without me? Put it on the black card. Love you.
You locked the screen, the glowing rectangle mirroring the hollow pit in your stomach. Not anger, just a terrifying, familiar relief.
You pushed the door open. The brass bell chimed softly, a cheerful sound that felt entirely out of place against the low thrum of anxiety in your chest.
Yeosang was standing behind the stainless steel prep table.
He froze when the bell rang, his hands pausing over a massive bucket of imported white orchids. His gaze flicked past you, waiting for the tall, immaculate figure of your fiancé to step through the door behind you. When the door clicked shut and it was just you, the air in the room instantly thickened, heavy with unspoken things.
“He couldn’t make it,” you said, your voice sounding entirely too loud in the sudden quiet. “Work.”
Yeosang’s jaw tightened, a hard line etched into his profile. He didn’t say anything. He just reached for a towel, wiping the water and soil from his hands with slow, deliberate movements, like each gesture was carefully measured to prevent a tremor.
“I have the mockup ready,” he said quietly, his voice perfectly polite. Perfectly distant.
He stepped into the back cooler, the heavy door hissing shut behind him, leaving you alone for a few agonising seconds. He emerged a moment later, holding a bridal bouquet.
It was stunning. It was exactly what you and the wedding planner had designed—a cascading waterfall of pristine white orchids, heavy white roses, and silver-dusted greenery. It looked flawless. It looked expensive. It looked exactly like the life Seonghwa was offering you.
Yeosang walked around the counter and held it out to you.
You reached for it. As your fingers closed around the thick bundle of stems wrapped in heavy white satin, Yeosang didn’t immediately let go. His hand was warm beneath yours, a familiar, electric current that shot straight up your arm.
“Look down,” Yeosang murmured, his dark eyes fixed on your face, not on the bouquet. His voice was a low, rough whisper that barely carried over the drumming of rain against the window.
You blinked, confused, and slowly lowered your gaze to the top of the bouquet.
From the outside, it was a solid wall of perfect white. But buried deep in the absolute middle of the arrangement—tucked so perfectly that it was only visible if you were the one holding it, cradling it close—was a single, soft pink camellia.
“The planner said Mr. Park wanted pure white,” Yeosang continued, his voice dropping even lower, laced with a familiar, aching tenderness. “But I remember you told me once that all-white arrangements… they look like apologies.”
A cold shockwave ripped straight through your chest, stealing the air from your lungs.
“I tucked it deep,” Yeosang said, his gaze finally dropping from your face to the bouquet between your hands. “No one will see it in the photos. He won’t notice. But I thought… if your hands started shaking, if you looked down… you could see it. So you wouldn’t feel so alone up there.”
Your vision blurred instantly. The delicate pink camellia swam in your tears.
You looked up at him.
Yeosang was standing so close, his body radiating a heat that was both comforting and terrifying. The polite, professional mask he had been wearing all the time had completely fractured. He was looking at you with such profound, unguarded agony that it made your ribs ache, a physical manifestation of his own heartbreak.
You wanted to drop the flowers. You wanted to close the two inches of space separating your bodies, fist your hands in his dark apron, and pull him down into a kiss that would erase the last eight years entirely. Your body was screaming for him, violently rejecting the heavy diamond weighing down your left hand.
Yeosang’s eyes flared, he felt it. He felt the shift in the air, the way you leaned into his space, the way your breath hitched when his thumb unconsciously, almost imperceptibly, twitched against your knuckles.
He didn’t pull away. He didn't break eye contact.
His thumb moved again. Not a full stroke. Just a ghost of a touch, a whisper of pressure against the back of your hand, tracing the skin right next to your diamond ring. It was a feather-light brush, barely there, but it was enough. It was an almost-too-brave touch, a subtle claim that bypassed every logical thought in your head.
Your entire body convulsed. The physical contact, so fleeting yet so charged, bypassed your brain entirely, going straight for the part of you that remembered him. It was a memory of being twenty, pressed against him in the rain, his hands holding yours.
“Sangie,” you whimpered, the sound breaking from your lips, completely undone. Your voice was a plea, a question, a desperate confirmation that your body had entirely betrayed your carefully constructed life.
His gaze dropped to your lips, dark and hungry.
The bell above the door chimed loudly.
“Delivery!” a loud voice called out from the entryway.
You both jumped apart as if you had been burned.
The cold air rushed back into the space between you. The spell shattered, leaving behind a sharp, terrifying reality.
“I— I love it,” you stammered blindly, clutching the heavy orchids to your chest, your heart hammering a frantic, sickly rhythm against your ribs. You couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. If you looked at him again, you wouldn’t leave. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
You turned and practically ran for the door, brushing past the delivery driver, pushing out into the spring rain.
You stood on the sidewalk, the rain soaking into your coat, entirely unable to breathe.
You had almost kissed him. You had almost thrown away your entire future.
But as you stood there, trembling on the street corner, the truth settled into your bones like lead. You were going to marry a man who looked right past you, while the man who had memorised your heart was arranging the flowers for your altar.
You were still in love with Kang Yeosang.
The garden outside the venue smelled like fresh-cut wood, cooling glue, and the faint green bite of crushed stems. Rows of white chairs sat perfectly aligned like teeth. The aisle runner was taped down at the corners, edges still curling slightly where the adhesive hadn’t fully set.
You stood at the altar with a stack of vows in your hand that felt like paper and lead at the same time.
You cleared your throat, forcing air into your lungs like you could bully your body into cooperating. “Seonghwa,” you began out loud, and your voice sounded too formal.
The words on the page were beautiful. They were the kind of vows that made people cry and whisper “they’re perfect for each other” into champagne glasses. They were full of stability and gratitude and a lifetime of choosing each other.
But when you tried to push them past your teeth, they caught.
They tasted like nothing.
You tried again, voice quieter, like softness would make it more believable. “Seonghwa… you are my safest place,” you read. Your throat tightened immediately, betrayed by the sentence.
Safest. Like a locked door.
Like a padded room.
Like a life you could survive even if you never truly lived inside it.
You blinked hard. Your eyes stung.
“From the moment you—” you forced out, but the words blurred. The ink on the page seemed to swim, slipping away from you like it didn’t want to be said either. Your hand trembled. You curled your fingers tighter around the paper until the edge crumpled.
A laugh tried to scrape up your throat but it came out as a strangled breath instead. You lowered the vows, pressing them to your stomach as if they could hold you together.
The garden was silent. And in that silence, the hollowness became undeniable. Not a dramatic realisation. Not a thunderclap. Just the slow, sick certainty that you could stand in front of a hundred people tomorrow and say all of this—
—and it would still be a performance.
You stared down the aisle. It was gorgeous already, even half-finished. Greenery draped along the edges. White blooms set in clusters like fallen stars. Someone had laid out the beginning of an arrangement at the front—loose stems, unopened buds, florist tape, a pair of shears resting on a cloth.
You hadn’t looked too closely when you came here.
You hadn’t asked who was doing the last-minute touch-ups.
A sound came from around the corner near the side entrance to the venue—soft, precise. A faint snip. Then the whisper of leaves sliding against one another. Someone exhaled, slow and controlled, as if they were trying not to be noticed.
You froze.
Your pulse kicked.
You moved to the side to see better and your eyes lifted.
Yeosang.
He wasn’t wearing the apron. Just a black shirt, sleeves pushed up, forearms bare, hands marked with faint scratches that looked too new. His hair was a little messy, like he’d been running his fingers through it without realising. He held a handful of greenery in one hand and his shears in the other. He stopped the second he realised you’d finally noticed him.
The empty air between you tightened, electric and fragile.
For a beat, neither of you spoke.
Your throat locked around his name, around every year you’d swallowed.
Yeosang’s gaze flicked to the vows in your hand. Then to your face. To the wet shine in your eyes you couldn’t hide fast enough.
His expression shifted—something tight in his jaw, something wounded and soft beneath it, like he’d been bracing for this kind of moment his whole life and still hadn’t learned how to survive it. “I didn’t mean to—” Yeosang started, voice low, roughened at the edges.
You shook your head too quickly. “Why are you here?”
It wasn’t an accusation. It was panic. It was grief trying to pretend it was anger.
Yeosang glanced down at the greenery like it could answer for him. “The aisle pieces weren’t done,” he said. “There was an issue with one of the foam bases. Wooyoung—” He stopped like saying Wooyoung’s name made him remember the whole ugly chain of protection and hurt. “I came to fix it.”
You stared at him, breathing too shallow. “You weren’t supposed to—”
“I know.” Yeosang’s voice sharpened, but not with cruelty. With restraint. With exhaustion. “I know what I’m ‘supposed’ to do.”
The word hung there, bitter.
Your fingers crushed the paper a little more.
You tried to speak again, but your voice shook. “You… you heard that.”
Yeosang didn’t answer at first. His gaze stayed on your face like it was painful. Like it was impossible not to look.
Then he nodded once. Small. Honest.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I heard.”
Heat rushed up your neck. Shame, humiliation, something rawer. “I was just practicing.”
Yeosang’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite anything. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. You blinked and another tear slipped free, hot and stupid. You swiped at it angrily with the back of your hand, like you could erase the evidence.
Yeosang flinched at the motion, just a little.
Like he wanted to step forward.
Like he forced himself not to.
“You’re not… you’re not ready,” Yeosang said, and his voice wasn’t judgmental. It was wrecked. Like he was naming a bruise.
Your breath caught. “Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you—” Your voice cracked. You lifted the vows slightly, helpless. “Like you can tell.”
Yeosang’s eyes dropped to the paper again. The edge was crumpled where your fingers had been crushing it. The ink was smudged by the sweat of your palm. Then his gaze lifted back to yours, too steady, too gentle.
“You’re crying,” he said simply. “In an empty garden.”
The words hit you right in the chest. Your body betrayed you completely—your chin trembled, your mouth opened, and the first real sob you’d been holding back tried to break loose.
You swallowed it down hard, shaking your head. “It’s just stress,” you lied.
Yeosang stared at you for a long moment. Then he set the greenery down on the nearest chair with hands that were too careful. He kept the shears in his right hand, but his grip loosened entirely, the heavy metal blades pointing toward the floor. It didn’t look like a tool anymore. It looked like he simply didn’t know what else to do with his hands.
He took a step closer.
Then another.
It wasn’t enough to touch you. It was just enough to make the air between you tighten, pulling taut like a wire right before it snaps. The sunlight caught him as he moved—illuminating his dark lashes, the sharp, rigid line of his jaw, and the faint, fresh scratches on his knuckles from working with the thorns. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, looking at you like he hated his own courage.
You couldn’t breathe. Your vows hung limp at your side, the heavy cardstock crumpled where your fingers had crushed it in frustration. You stared at him, entirely helpless, your eyes burning with the kind of tears you hated because they were too honest to hide.
“Say it to me,” Yeosang whispered.
“What?” you rasped, the word tearing out of your dry throat.
Yeosang’s eyes didn’t flinch away this time. They didn’t drop to the floor or seek the safety of the floral arrangements. They stayed locked on you, dark and open in the most terrifying way you had ever seen.
“Your vows,” he said, his voice carrying perfectly in the cavernous room. “Practise them with me.”
A cold wave washed through your chest, freezing the blood in your veins. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice cracked just slightly on the vowel, and in that tiny fracture, you heard the monumental effort it took him to stand in this aisle without falling apart. “No one’s here, Y/N. It’s just… chairs. Flowers.”
He swallowed again, his chest rising with a shaky breath.
Then, softer, like it physically hurt him to offer himself up: “And me.”
Your throat burned with sudden, fierce acidity. “Why would you want that?”
Yeosang’s jaw tightened hard enough that you saw the muscle jump beneath his skin. “Because I heard you choking on them,” he said, his voice dropping low, brutal with honesty. “And I know you’re trying to force something out of your mouth that your body doesn’t believe.”
You flinched as if he had struck you.
Yeosang took another half-step forward—still agonisingly careful.
“Just read them,” he urged quietly. “If they’re true, you’ll be able to say them.”
Your vision blurred entirely, the perfectly aligned rows of chairs melting into a sea of white. “That’s not fair,” you whispered, a tear breaking free and cutting a hot path down your cheek.
Yeosang’s laugh came out dark and hollow, sounding like a bruise being pressed too hard. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “No shit.”
The words hung between you, heavy with the weight of the last eight years, thick with everything else he’d never gotten to say.
Your hands shook violently as you lifted the crumpled paper again.
The empty chairs watched you like ghosts waiting for a confession.
You stared at the first line until the letters stopped swimming in your tears. Then, you forced air into your tight lungs and tried. “Seonghwa,” you began, your voice trembling so badly it echoed off the glass ceiling.
Yeosang didn’t move. He didn’t interrupt. He just watched you, his posture rigid, like a man bracing for an inevitable impact.
You swallowed the lump in your throat. “From the moment I met you…” The words came out, but they felt entirely foreign on your tongue, like you were reading someone else’s script in a language you barely understood. Your voice echoed back at you, flat. Hollow. Unconvincing.
Your breath hitched.
You tried again, pushing harder, desperate to make it sound real. “You are my safest place.”
Your eyes stung instantly with fresh tears. Yeosang’s gaze flicked away for a fraction of a second—almost imperceptible—but you caught it. He looked away like the word safest had cut him, hurting him for reasons you didn’t even deserve to understand.
He turned his head back to you and said, very quietly, “Don’t read it.”
You looked up at him, absolute panic seizing your chest.
“Say what you actually mean.”
Your mouth opened to argue, to defend the vows, but nothing came out. Instead, a ragged sob tore its way up your throat.
“I— I don’t know how.”
Yeosang’s expression softened then, melting into something devastating. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t the bitter anger he had shown in the shop. It was just profound, quiet understanding—an understanding that looked like it had cost him everything he had left.
“Yes, you do,” he whispered softly. “You just don’t want to admit it out loud.”
Your whole body shook. You stared at him through the blur of your tears, and the words came out before you could stop them—ragged, broken, and terrifyingly real.
“I can’t promise him forever,” you choked out, the confession shattering the quiet of the hall. “I can’t— when I say it, it feels like I'm lying.”
Yeosang went very, very still. You watched his face change like a storm passing over a dark lake—shock, sharp pain, and then something dangerously close to relief that made him look sick with himself for feeling it.
Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. You wiped frantically at your face with the back of your hand, smearing tears across your cheek. “I’m trying,” you whispered, pleading with him to understand. “I swear I’m trying, Yeosang. I just— I keep opening my mouth, and it’s like… it won’t come out. Like my body is refusing to do it.”
Yeosang stared at you, his breathing turning shallow and fast.Then he spoke, his voice rough, scraping against his throat, yet almost unbearably gentle. “Okay,” he hesitated. “Then don’t say it to... him.”
Your heart lurched against your ribs. “What?”
Yeosang’s dark eyes held yours, entirely unflinching. “Say it to me,” he repeated. His throat bobbed. “Not because I want you to,” he said, his hands flexing at his sides. “Not because I—” His jaw clenched tight, and he swallowed hard, forcing himself to push through the lie. “Because I want to help you. Because I can take it.”
You shook your head, crying harder at the sheer cruelty of his offer. “No—”
“I’m serious.” His voice cracked again, just once, and the sound made your ribs ache with phantom pain. “If you’re going to practice a lie, don’t practice it on someone who thinks it’s true love. Practice it on someone who already knows exactly what it costs.”
Your knees felt weak.
The entire garden seemed to tilt on its axis.
Your trembling fingers crumpled the heavy cardstock of the vows one last time, and then, slowly, you let your grip loosen. The paper fluttered to the ground between you, landing with a soft, dismissive tap.
You lifted your chin—shaking, sobbing, absolutely furious with yourself for letting it get this far—and you looked straight into Yeosang’s eyes.
He looked back.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t let you look away to hide.
And the second you truly held his gaze, standing there in the ruins of your own wedding rehearsal, something inside you finally, irreversibly snapped into place.
Your voice came out shredded, barely recognisable. “I—” You swallowed, a sob punching its way out of your chest. “I promise to choose you.”
Yeosang didn’t move. But his eyes went glossy immediately, shining like you’d struck him somewhere incredibly soft and vital.
“I promise to— to keep choosing you even when it’s hard,” you choked out, and the words weren’t coming from a script. They were being pulled directly from your bones. “Even when I’m terrified. Even when I want to run away. Even when everyone in the world tells me what I should want instead.”
“I promise to stop looking for you in every other person I meet.”
Yeosang’s breath hitched loudly.
“I promise to remember the boy who used to stay on the phone with me until 2 AM just so I wouldn’t have to listen to the thunderstorms,” you wept, the memories spilling out of you, painting the empty space between you with the ghosts of who you used to be. “The boy who mapped out the stars with me on the hood of his mother’s car. The boy who knew exactly how to make me laugh when I was trying so hard to be perfect.”
Yeosang went entirely still. His eyes widened, shining as the words struck him right in his chest.
“I spent years trying to build a life that felt safe,” you sobbed, taking a tiny, agonising step toward him. “I thought safe meant sturdy. I thought it meant predictability, and a man who never made a mess. But I was wrong.”
You shook your head.
“You are my safe place, Yeosang,” you choked out. “You always were. You’re the one who remembers my favourite flower even when it breaks your own heart to look at them. You’re the one standing here, bleeding yourself dry, just to give me the beautiful things I asked for.”
Yeosang’s jaw trembled violently. A single, heavy tear finally broke free, cutting a hot path down his cheek, betraying the iron will he had held onto for days.
“So I promise to love you,” you cried, the words tearing out of your throat like a desperate, holy confession. “I promise to love you when it’s messy. I promise to love you when it ruins the plan. I promise to love you even when I’m terrified, even when everyone in the world tells me I should want something easier.”
“I promise I won’t leave you behind again,” you whispered, your voice breaking violently. “I promise I’ll stop pretending I can survive this life without you. I love you. I never, ever stopped.”
Yeosang’s face broke.
It didn't happen loudly. It wasn't dramatic. It was just the smallest, most devastating fracture—his dark lashes lowering, his rigid jaw trembling, and a single, heavy tear slipping down his cheek as if his body had finally betrayed his iron will, too.
He whispered your name, the sound caught somewhere between a desperate warning and a holy prayer.
And then—like he simply couldn’t help it anymore, like eight years of restraint had finally, spectacularly lost the fight—Yeosang stepped in.
It was slow. Agonisingly careful.
Like he was asking for permission with every inch he crossed.
His fingers brushed the back of your hand first. A feather-light, electric touch. Then, his hand slid down and closed completely around yours, his grip warm, calloused, and shaking, grounding you instantly. His thumb slid over your knuckles, one soft, reverent stroke—then moved lower, tracking slowly toward your ring finger.
The heavy diamond caught the light between you, flashing brilliantly.
Yeosang’s breath hitched again. His thumb paused right beside the platinum band, hovering just over the metal, not touching it, acting as if the stone itself might burn him to ash.
He swallowed hard.
His voice came out entirely wrecked.
“You don’t get to promise me things,” he whispered, his eyes shining bright with unshed tears, “the day before you marry him.”
And still—despite the ring, despite the venue, despite the reality of tomorrow—he didn’t let go.
His grip tightened around your hand, just enough to say, I’m here. I caught you.
“Say it again,” he breathed, the words sounding like they physically hurt him to ask. Like he needed them to survive the night. “Look at me and say it again.”
You looked straight into his dark, desperate eyes and you meant it so fiercely it felt like it might actually kill you.
“I love you,” you whispered.
Yeosang squeezed your hand, the pressure as gentle and permanent as a vow. And you stood there in the quiet garden, shaking violently, your ring finger throbbing under the weight of a diamond that suddenly felt like a massive, heavy lie you couldn’t bear to wear for another second—
—when the sharp echo of footsteps sounded at the entrance to the venue.
The heavy double doors clicked open.
“Love? Are you still in here?”
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. Your breath hitched violently in your chest. Yeosang’s eyes snapped from the double doors back to your face. He felt the violent flinch of your hand inside his. He saw the sheer, unadulterated terror crash over your features. You were caught. You had just confessed your soul to the florist standing at your wedding altar, and the man who bought the flowers was walking right toward you.
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. You didn’t know what to do. You didn’t know how to detonate your entire life in the next ten seconds.
But Yeosang knew.
He looked at you, his dark eyes softening into something so profoundly selfless and agonising that it stole the rest of your breath.
I’ve got you, that look said. I’ve always got you.
And then, he let you go.
The loss of his warmth was so sudden and absolute that you almost stumbled forward. Yeosang took a massive, deliberate step backward, putting a safe, sterile chasm of space between you.
In the blink of an eye, the man who had just looked at you like you were his entire world vanished. Yeosang turned away, his shoulders pulling back into that rigid, perfectly contained posture. He bent down, scooped up his wire cutters from the chair, and seamlessly grabbed a heavy trailing branch of eucalyptus.
The metal shears snapped with a loud, mechanical clack.
“There you are,” Seonghwa said, stepping out from behind the rows of white satin chairs. He looked immaculate in a dark navy shirt, his hair perfectly swept back. “The planner said you came back in here to practice your...”
Seonghwa’s voice trailed off as he noticed you standing perfectly still in the middle of the aisle.
He walked up, closing the distance, and casually draped his arm around your waist. His hand rested heavily against the curve of your hip—a physical, undeniable claim.
“Are you alright, Y/N?” Seonghwa murmured, his brow furrowing slightly as he looked at your face. “Your eyes are completely red. Have you been crying?”
You couldn’t speak. Your vocal cords felt like they had been severed. You could still feel the phantom pressure of Yeosang’s thumb tracing the skin right next to your diamond ring.
Before you could force a lie out of your mouth, Yeosang answered for you.
“The pollen from the lilies,” Yeosang said smoothly.
You flinched.
Yeosang didn’t turn around. He kept his back to both of you, aggressively wiring the eucalyptus to the copper frame of the archway. His voice was completely flat. Dead. The perfect, polite tone of a hired vendor addressing a wealthy client.
“I had to unpack a fresh crate of stargazers about ten minutes ago,” Yeosang continued, his hands moving with mechanical precision. “The pollen count is exceptionally high right now. It usually causes severe eye irritation and watering if you aren’t used to it. I apologise, Mr. Park. I should have warned her.”
Seonghwa’s expression cleared instantly, shifting from concerned fiancé to understanding.
“Ah, I see,” Seonghwa said easily, pulling you a fraction closer to his side. “No harm done, Yeosang-ssi. I appreciate you working after hours to get the archway perfect for tomorrow.”
“It’s my job,” Yeosang replied.
He snapped the wire cutters again. The sound was deafening.
As he shifted his weight to reach higher on the arch, his heavy work boot slid subtly across the ground. With one smooth, invisible motion, he kicked the crumpled ball of cardstock—your discarded, hollow wedding vows—completely under the nearest chair, hiding the evidence of your breakdown from Seonghwa’s line of sight.
He was protecting you. He was swallowing his own pride, acting like the hired help, and cleaning up your mess so you wouldn’t have to face Seonghwa’s anger before you were ready.
It was the most beautiful, devastating act of love you had ever witnessed. And it made you sick.
“Well, we should get out of here before your allergies get any worse, love,” Seonghwa said, completely oblivious to the massacre that had just occurred in this garden. He looked down at you, his smile perfectly kind. “We have an early morning tomorrow. It’s the big day.”
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice sounding like dry leaves. “The big day.”
Seonghwa gently turned you around, guiding you back up the aisle, away from the altar.
You couldn’t stop yourself, you looked back over your shoulder. Yeosang had finally stopped working. He was standing perfectly still beneath the massive canopy of white flowers he had built for you. He was watching you walk away with another man, his hands gripping the metal shears so tightly his knuckles were bone-white.
He didn’t look angry. He just looked like a man who had survived the blast, only to realise he was going to bleed out in the rubble.
“Have a good evening, Yeosang-ssi,” Seonghwa called out politely over his shoulder.
“Congratulations on your wedding, Mr. Park,” Yeosang’s voice drifted back, echoing like a ghost.
The bridal suite was a suffocating blur of motion, noise, and pastel silk. Someone popped a bottle of champagne, the cork hitting the ceiling with a sharp crack that made you flinch. Laughter bubbled up around you. Three of your bridesmaids were crowded by the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, adjusting their dresses, while the makeup artist hovered over you with a setting spray.
“Close your eyes, sweetie,” the artist cooed, her hands smelling like lavender.
You closed your eyes. The cool mist hit your face, locking your makeup into place. It felt like a final seal.
When you opened your eyes again and looked in the massive gilded mirror, a stranger looked back at you. Your hair was pinned into an immaculate, flawless updo. Your skin glowed. You were wearing heavy, white, designer gown. You looked exactly like the bride Park Seonghwa deserved.
You looked like a ghost.
Your heart was hammering a frantic, sickly rhythm against your ribs. Every time the heavy wooden door to the suite shifted, your breath caught.
You were waiting for him.
You needed Yeosang to walk through that door. After last night, after the way he had stepped back and swallowed his own agony just to shield you from Seonghwa’s presence, you needed to see him. You needed him to look at you in all this white and tell you it was okay. Or, God help you, you needed him to look at you and tell you not to do it.
Knock. Knock.
The sound cut through the chatter of the room.
“Oh, that must be the florist!” your maid of honour gasped, rushing to the door. “Finally! We need the bouquets for the photos!”
Your lungs seized entirely. You stared at the reflection of the door in the mirror, waiting for the blonde hair, the broad shoulders, the dark green apron.
The door swung open.
It wasn’t him.
A kid stood in the hallway. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, wearing a faded denim jacket and a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. He looked entirely out of place in the opulent hotel hallway, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot as he balanced two boxes in his arms.
“Delivery for the bride?” the kid mumbled, looking overwhelmed by the room full of women.
The air rushed out of your lungs in a silent, devastating exhale.
Yeosang didn’t come.
He had packed the van. He had built the altar. But he couldn’t walk into this room and hand you the flowers you were going to hold when you married another man. He couldn’t look at you in the white dress. It was the one boundary his broken heart simply couldn’t cross.
“Bring them in, bring them in!” your maid of honour ushered the boy inside, pointing to the table.
The kid set a massive, temperature-controlled white box down on the glass table. He popped the lid off, and the bridesmaids immediately let out a collective gasp of awe.
“Oh, Y/N,” one of your friends breathed, lifting the main bouquet out of the box. “It’s absolutely breathtaking.”
It was flawless. It was expensive. It was heavy enough to make your wrists ache, and it smelled exactly like the cold, sterile perfection of the life you were about to step into.
You stared at it, feeling entirely numb.
“Wait,” the delivery kid said, digging into the smaller, second box he had tucked under his arm. “The boss said... uh, he said this one has to go directly to you. He was really specific about it.”
The chatter in the room died down. Your maid of honour frowned, lowering the massive bouquet. “A second one? For what, the toss?”
The kid didn’t answer her. He just walked around the table, holding out a much smaller bundle wrapped in simple brown craft paper.
You reached out with trembling hands and pulled the brown paper back.
It wasn’t orchids. It wasn’t lilies.
It was a small, humble cluster of light pink carnations. The petals were soft, with those frayed, crushed-velvet edges Yeosang remembered you loved. They were tucked between fragile, cheap sprigs of baby’s breath. And binding the stems together was a single, plain white ribbon, tied in a slightly messy bow.
The floor dropped out from under you.
You were high school freshman again.
“I love you,” Yeosang said.
“I know,” you whispered, “I’ve been trying not to say it first.”
“What?”
You lifted the bouquet, carnations brushing his chest, and you looked up at him like he was the only person on earth.
“I love you too,” you said.
A violent sob ripped out of your throat.
It was so loud, so guttural and broken, that the delivery kid took a step back in alarm.
“Y/N?!” one of the bridesmaids rushed toward you. “Oh my god, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
You couldn’t answer her. You pulled the small bouquet of carnations tight against your chest, burying your face in the soft pink petals. They smelled like damp earth. They smelled like the truth.
This wasn’t just a memory. It was his final goodbye.
Yeosang was returning your vow from the night before. I love you, this little bouquet said. I love you enough to let you walk away. I love you enough to give you exactly what you asked for, even if it kills me.
“Don’t cry, sweetie, please, your lashes are going to unglue!” the makeup artist shrieked, hovering around you with a tissue. “Look up! Look at the ceiling!”
But you couldn’t look at the ceiling. You looked at yourself in the mirror. You looked at the heavy diamond on your finger, the white dress, and the terrified, weeping girl holding a bodega-style bouquet of carnations against her heart as if it were a life jacket.
You were lying. To Seonghwa, to your family, and to yourself.
And Yeosang was currently somewhere in this city, bleeding out in silence, because he loved you too much to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life.
You lowered the flowers. Your tears were falling freely now.
“Y/N, you’re shaking,” the maid of honour said, her voice dropping into a panicked whisper as she grabbed your arms. “Hey, look at me. It’s just nerves. Everyone gets cold feet, okay? Seonghwa is waiting downstairs. He loves you.”
You looked at her. The absolute, undeniable clarity of the moment hit you with the force of a freight train.
“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice shredded, but steady for the first time in eight years.
She froze. “What?”
“I can’t do this,” you said louder, stepping back, pulling out of her grip. You looked down at the massive, expensive bouquet on the table, and then down at the pink carnations in your hand. “I can’t walk down that aisle. I can’t marry him.”
The room went dead silent. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall, counting down to a wedding that was never going to happen. The heavy silk of the designer gown was laced tight against your ribs, a beautiful, suffocating cage. The massive train pooled around your feet.
“Y/N, you’re not making any sense,” your maid of honour panicked, stepping forward with her hands raised as if to physically hold you in place. “You just have cold feet—”
“No,” you said, your voice entirely steady, cutting through the frantic noise of the bridal suite. “I have been entirely numb for eight years. I am just finally waking up.”
You looked down at the floor. The expensive, crystal-embellished heels strapped to your feet felt like lead weights. You didn’t hesitate. You reached down, your fingers fumbling blindly with the delicate silver clasps, and tore them off.
You kicked the shoes away and they clattered uselessly. The cold marble floor sent a sharp, grounding shock up through your bare soles. You were done playing a part. You were done wearing the costume of a woman who cared more about a pristine aesthetic than the man who held her heart.
“Y/N, what are you doing?!” the makeup artist shrieked as you grabbed the fistfuls of heavy white tulle and hiked the massive skirt up to your knees.
“Tell Seonghwa I am so incredibly sorry,” you said, looking at your maid of honour with pleading, desperate eyes. “Tell him he deserves a woman who looks at him the way I look at Yeosang. Because I can’t be her.”
And then you took of the diamond ring, giving it to one of the bridesmaids and you ran.
You grabbed your purse and didn’t look back. You burst out of the heavy wooden doors of the bridal suite, your bare feet slapping hard against the carpeted hallway.
“Y/N! Wait!”
The voices of your bridesmaids faded behind you as you hit the elevator bank. You slammed your palm against the button, your chest heaving, the small bouquet of pink carnations clutched so tightly to your chest that the delicate stems threatened to snap.
When the doors opened to the lobby, the entire room stopped. Guests in tailored suits and elegant dresses froze, staring in absolute shock as a bride in a breathtaking, custom white gown sprinted through the lobby entirely barefoot. You didn’t care. You didn’t care about the stares, the whispers, or the absolute spectacle you were making.
You hit the heavy revolving doors and spilled out onto the sidewalk.
The rough asphalt bit into your bare feet. You didn’t stop. You ran to the edge of the curb and threw your free hand out at a passing taxi.
The cab screeched to a halt.
The driver’s eyes went wide in the rearview mirror as you threw the back door open and shoved the massive, obnoxious volume of white tulle into the backseat, climbing in after it.
“Where to, miss?” the driver stammered, staring at your tear-streaked, frantic face.
You gasped the address, completely breathless, looking down at the crushed pink petals in your hands. “Please. Drive as fast as you can. Please.”
The city rushed by in a blur of grey and silver. Every red light felt like an eternity. Every stopped car felt like a physical barrier keeping you from breathing. You looked down at your feet—the pristine white hem of the designer gown was already stained grey with street dirt, and there was a small scrape on your ankle.
The cab slammed to a halt at the curb. The street was quiet. The sign in the window of ‘Ethereal Blooms’ was flipped to the dark side. CLOSED.
Panic seized your throat. What if he was at the venue? What if you had broken him so badly that he couldn’t even stand to be in the shop where you had handed him that black card?
You rushed the door and grabbed the heavy brass handle.
You pulled. The door yielded. The cheerful, sharp ding-dong of the brass bell shattered the heavy silence of the street. You stepped inside, the humid air wrapping around you. The shop was empty. The lights were off, save for the single bulb hanging over the stainless steel prep table in the back.
And then, you saw him.
Yeosang was sitting on the floor behind the counter, his back pressed hard against the wooden cabinets. His knees were pulled up, his arms resting on them, his head bowed so low you could only see his messy blonde hair. He was absolutely, entirely still. He looked like a man who had just returned from a funeral.
The soft rustle of your heavy dress dragged through the quiet shop.
Yeosang flinched. He thought the shop was locked. Slowly, as if the physical movement caused him excruciating pain, he lifted his head.
His eyes were completely red, rimmed with dark, bruised exhaustion.
When he saw you standing there, the breath left his lungs in a sharp, audible rush. He stared at you. He stared at the massive, ridiculous white gown taking up all the space in his small, earthy shop.
And then, his dark, devastated eyes dropped to the floor.
He saw your bare feet.
He saw the dirty hem of the dress.
Yeosang scrambled to his feet so fast he knocked a plastic bucket of water over. It crashed to the floor, spilling across the tiles, but neither of you looked at it.
He gripped the edge of the wooden counter, his knuckles stark white, his chest heaving as if he had been the one running. He looked terrified. He looked like his mind couldn’t comprehend the hallucination standing in front of him.
“Y/N,” Yeosang breathed, his voice cracking violently, sounding utterly wrecked. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be… you’re supposed to be walking down the aisle right now.”
You took a step toward the counter. The silk rustled loudly.
“I am,” you sobbed, the tears spilling over your lashes, blurring your vision.
You lifted your hands. Your fingers were trembling violently as you held out the small, bundle of pink carnations, the cheap white ribbon hanging loose from the stems.
“I just had to find the right altar,” you wept.
Yeosang looked from the crushed pink petals up to your face, searching your eyes with a desperate, agonising hope that he was entirely afraid to believe.
“I couldn’t do it,” you choked out, taking another step, bringing you right to the edge of the wooden counter. “I didn't say the vows, Yeosang. I left the ring. I left the bouquet in the box.”
Yeosang’s hands let go of the counter. He was shaking. His entire body was trembling as he stepped around the register, closing the physical distance between you until there was nothing left but the heavy tulle of your dress.
“You ran,” Yeosang whispered, staring down at your bare, dirt-smudged feet. A broken, breathless sound escaped his throat—a laugh that sounded exactly like a sob. “You ran through the city barefoot.”
“I would have run through fire,” you cried, looking up into his dark, beautiful eyes. “I love you. I love you, and I am so entirely sorry it took me eight years to come back and realise that safe isn’t a place. It’s you. It was always you.”
Yeosang didn’t say another word. He didn’t need to.
He reached out, his dirt-stained hands grabbing the pristine white silk of your waist, and hauled you flush against his chest. He didn’t care about the dress. He didn’t care about the mess. He crushed his mouth down onto yours, swallowing the rest of your apologies in a kiss that tasted like salt, tears, and absolute, undeniable salvation.
You dropped the carnations. They tumbled to the floor, landing in the spilled water, perfectly safe.
You threw your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair, kissing him back with all the desperate, starving grief of the last eight years. Yeosang’s arms wrapped around you like a vice, holding you so tightly it knocked the air from your lungs.
He was holding you. He was finally, truly holding you.
You were standing barefoot in a puddle of water, ruining a designer gown against a florist’s dirty apron, and for the first time in your entire life, everything was exactly where it belonged.
The kiss broke, but neither of you pulled away.
You stayed pressed together, your foreheads resting against each other, both of you gasping for air in the quiet, damp sanctuary of the shop. Yeosang’s hands were still locked around your waist, his grip bruising and desperate, as if he was entirely convinced that if he let go for even a fraction of a second, he would wake up from this dream.
“You’re here,” Yeosang whispered into the space between you, his voice thick with tears and sheer, unfiltered disbelief. “You’re actually here.”
“I’m here,” you promised, your hands sliding up from his neck to cradle his face. Your thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, wiping away the tear tracks that had fallen there. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m never leaving you again.”
Yeosang opened his eyes. They were dark, shining, and entirely undone. He pulled back just an inch to look at you. His gaze swept over your beautifully styled hair, the slightly ruined makeup on your cheeks, and the absolute, ridiculous volume of the designer wedding gown taking up half the floor space in his small shop.
Then, he looked down at his own hands. His fingers were stained with chlorophyll and potting soil from working through the night. Where he was holding you, dark handprints were pressed starkly into the immaculate, pearl-white silk of your waistline.
Yeosang flinched. The ghost of his insecurity—the boy who couldn’t afford the imported flowers, the man who had been handed a black card over this very counter—flared up.
“Oh god,” Yeosang breathed, immediately trying to pull his hands back. “Y/N, the dress. I’m ruining it. I’ve got dirt all over—”
“Don't,” you commanded softly, your hands shooting down to catch his wrists before he could drop his arms.
You pulled his dirty hands right back to your waist, pressing them firmly against the expensive silk. You held his gaze, fiercely, undeniably certain.
“Ruin it,” you whispered, a watery smile breaking across your face. “Please. Ruin it, Yeosang. I never want to be perfectly clean without you again.”
Yeosang stared at you, his breath catching in his throat. The last wall guarding his heart completely collapsed. A stunning, devastatingly beautiful smile broke across his face—the first real, genuine smile you had seen from him in eight years. It reached his eyes, bright and blinding, entirely washing away the hollow ghost he had been since you walked into his shop.
He let out a wet, breathless laugh, his hands tightening on your waist, uncaring of the mud or the silk. “You are absolutely insane,” Yeosang murmured, shaking his head in awe.
“I know,” you laughed, a sob catching in your throat as the sheer adrenaline of the run finally began to fade, leaving you trembling.
Yeosang felt the tremor run through your body. His smile softened into something deeply tender and protective. He looked down at the floor, his eyes landing on your bare, freezing feet. The scrape on your ankle was bleeding slightly, and your soles were black from the city asphalt.
“Come here,” Yeosang said quietly, his voice shifting into a steady, grounding warmth.
He carefully disentangled himself from your arms and stepped back. He reached down and gently picked up the crushed bouquet of pink carnations from the puddle on the floor. He didn’t throw them away. He walked over to the stainless steel prep table, picked up a beautiful, expensive crystal vase that was supposed to hold imported lilies, and placed your humble carnations inside it instead.
Then he walked past the counter, guiding you by the hand toward the back corner of the shop, where a worn, dark green velvet armchair sat half-hidden behind a massive Monstera plant.
“Sit,” he instructed gently, pressing on your shoulders until you sank into the soft velvet. The heavy tulle of your skirt spilled out around the chair like a massive white cloud, completely ridiculous in the earthy, rustic space of the flower shop. Yeosang didn’t seem to care. He walked over to a small sink in the corner, grabbed a clean white towel, and ran it under the warm water.
When he came back, he didn’t stand over you.
The man who had been forced to play the polite, invisible vendor dropped directly to his knees on the hard tile floor.
“Yeosang, you don’t have to—” you started, instinctively trying to pull your dirty feet back under the enormous skirt.
“Shh,” Yeosang interrupted softly, his hands catching your ankles. His touch was incredibly gentle. “Let me take care of you.”
You fell silent, the tears welling up in your eyes all over again.
Yeosang knelt before you in his apron, the warm, damp towel in his hands. With excruciating care, he began to wipe the cold city street dirt away from the soles of your feet. He cleaned the small scrape on your ankle with the quiet, reverent devotion of a man handling something infinitely precious.
It was the exact opposite of Seonghwa throwing a black card on a counter to buy a solution. This was Yeosang offering you the only thing he had ever had to give: his time, his hands, and his absolute, unwavering care.
“Seonghwa is going to kill me,” Yeosang murmured into the quiet shop, keeping his eyes on his task, carefully wiping away a smudge of grease from your heel.
You let your head fall back against the velvet chair, staring at the ceiling, feeling lighter than you had in years. “He’s going to have to get in line behind my parents.”
Yeosang let out a low, genuine laugh. The sound sent a warm shiver straight down your spine.
You looked down at him. You looked at his face, the messy blonde hair, and the way he was kneeling in a puddle of water just to make sure you weren’t cold. You thought about the penthouse, the perfectly controlled temperature, and the suffocating, predictable safety of the life you had just outrun.
Yeosang got up and his hands found your waist, hauling you up from the velvet cushions until you were standing flush against his chest.
And his lips pressed into yours.
Yeosang’s mouth was desperate, his lips parted yours, his tongue sweeping in, hot and demanding, swallowing the soft gasp that tore out of your throat.
Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you as tightly as you could. You kissed him back with all the violent, pent-up yearning that had been quietly suffocating you.
“Yeosang,” you whimpered against his mouth, your knees going weak as his hands slid down to grip your hips, holding you steady against him.
“I’ve got you,” Yeosang breathed roughly against your lips. He pressed his forehead against yours, his chest heaving. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”
But the dress was in the way. The heavy material and the ridiculous layers of stiff tulle were a suffocating barrier between you. It belonged to a life you had just killed. It belonged to the man standing alone at an empty altar.
“Take it off,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a terrifying, beautiful certainty. You stepped closer, the tulle crushing between your legs. “Take this dress off me. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want any of it.”
Yeosang’s didn't hesitate. His hands, still stained with the earth from the flowers he had built for your wedding, went straight to the back of the gown. His calloused fingers found the delicate, hidden zipper buried beneath the row of pearl buttons.
He unzipped it. The sound was loud in the quiet shop—a single, smooth rip that tore the cage entirely open.
The heavy bodice immediately loosened, the suffocating pressure falling away from your ribs. You let out a deep, shuddering gasp of real air.
Yeosang’s hands slid over your bare shoulders, pushing the heavy silk straps down your arms. His touch was incredibly reverent, almost trembling, as if he couldn’t believe you were finally real and pliant beneath his hands. The expensive gown slid down your body, the heavy tulle pooling uselessly on the damp tile floor around your bare feet, mixing with the spilled water and the dirt.
You stood before him in nothing but the delicate white lace of your undergarments, entirely stripped of the bride you were supposed to be.
Yeosang looked at you. The absolute, unadulterated worship in his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. He wasn’t looking at a pristine aesthetic. He was looking at the woman he loved, messy, bare, and entirely his.
“You are so beautiful,” Yeosang whispered. He reached out, his warm, rough fingertips tracing the line of your collarbone, sending a violent shiver crashing through your nervous system. “It killed me, Y/N. Every single day, it killed me to look at you and not be able to do this.”
“You don't have to look from a distance anymore,” you breathed, stepping out of the puddle of ruined white silk.
You reached for him this time. Your hands found the hem of his apron, pulling it up and over his head. He helped you, tossing the shirt and the dirty apron blindly over his shoulder. They landed somewhere in the dark shadows of the shop, entirely forgotten.
His chest was bare, warm, and rising rapidly. You pressed your palms flat against his skin, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart beneath your fingertips. It was beating entirely for you.
Outside, the sky broke. A heavy rain began to fall, drumming a soft, rhythmic hum against the large glass windows of the storefront, isolating the two of you entirely from the rest of the world.
Yeosang moved forward, his arms wrapping around your bare waist. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips. You gasped, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin—rain, clean sweat, and the faint, sweet ghost of eucalyptus.
He carried you through the dark, humid shop, past the buckets of hydrangeas and the cooler full of the white roses. He walked through the curtain into the small, private back room of the shop, where a worn, velvet sofa sat under a single, dim lamp.
He laid you down against the dark velvet, following you down immediately, his body pressing a heavy, grounding weight over yours.
When Yeosang kissed you this time, it was a brand-new vow. It was slow, deliberate, and fiercely devoted. His hands mapped the curves of your body, learning the shape of you all over again, his calloused thumbs brushing over your skin with a tenderness that brought fresh, hot tears to your eyes.
Every touch was a confession. Every kiss was an apology for the time you had wasted.
“I love you,” Yeosang murmured against your skin, his lips trailing down your jaw, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive column of your neck. “Only you. Always you.”
You gasped his name, your back arching off the velvet as his hands slid lower, tracing the dip of your waist, leaving a trail of fire everywhere he touched.
You pulled him closer, your nails digging lightly into his shoulders, anchoring him to you. The damp, earthy air of the flower shop wrapped around you both, thick and suffocatingly intimate.
There was no hesitation left. There was no fear of making a mistake. As the rain beat heavily against the roof, drowning out the noise of the city.
His hands were rough from years of working with soil and thorns, but the way they moved over your skin was painfully gentle, as if he were handling the most delicate bloom in his shop. He kissed away the tears that finally slipped free from the corners of your eyes—tears not of grief, but of absolute, overwhelming relief.
“You’re mine,” Yeosang whispered fiercely, his voice a ragged rasp against your collarbone, his breathing just as unsteady as yours. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you choked out, pulling him down, entirely desperate for the heavy, grounding weight of him against you. “I always was.”
The rest of the delicate white lace was discarded into the shadows. In the dim, golden light of the back room, there was nothing left to hide, no more roles to play. There was only the slide of his feverish skin against yours, the desperate tangle of your limbs, and the release of years of starvation.
He didn’t rush. Despite the frantic pounding of his heart against your chest, he loved you with a devastating, breathtaking patience. Every brush of his lips, every agonisingly slow drag of his hands down your thighs, was designed to make you feel exactly how deeply you were worshipped. He moved with a rhythm that matched the rain pounding against the roof, drowning out the world you had left behind.
You were completely consumed by the heat of him, the intoxicating scent of eucalyptus and rain, and the blinding, undeniable certainty that you were finally exactly where you were always meant to be.
The brass bell above the door of ‘Ethereal Blooms’ chimed, a cheerful, bright sound that cut through the warm, humid air of the shop. You didn’t flinch at the sound anymore. You just smiled, reaching up to push a stray lock of hair out of your face with the back of your wrist.
“Have a wonderful afternoon!” you called out over the counter, handing a wrapped bundle of bright yellow sunflowers to a smiling customer. “Make sure to trim the stems at an angle when you put them in water!”
The customer waved, the heavy glass door clicking shut behind them, leaving the shop bathed in the quiet, golden light of late afternoon.
You let out a happy sigh, leaning against the wooden counter. You looked down at your hands. Your fingernails were clipped short, and there was a faint smudge of dark potting soil on your left thumb.
There was no massive, heavy diamond weighing down your ring finger anymore. In its place sat a simple diamond on a thin band of silver. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a status symbol meant to be flashed at dinners. It was just a quiet, permanent promise that Yeosang had slipped onto your finger few months ago, standing right here in the middle of the shop.
You wiped your hands on the front of your dark green canvas apron—your apron—and turned around. The shop looked different than it had a year ago. It was still earthy, still filled with the intoxicating scent of damp soil and crushed eucalyptus, but it was warmer now. The heavy, suffocating shadows that used to cling to the corners were entirely gone.
Footsteps sounded from the back room. Yeosang pushed through the heavy canvas curtain, carrying a fresh galvanised bucket of water. He was wearing his usual faded t-shirt and work boots, his now dark cherry hair pushed back from his forehead.
When he looked up and saw you standing at the register, he stopped.
The profound, heavy exhaustion that had haunted his dark eyes a year ago had completely vanished. He looked healthy. He looked lighter. The sharp, rigid tension that used to lock his jaw had melted away, replaced by a soft, permanent warmth that only ever belonged to you.
He set the heavy bucket down on the floor and walked straight toward you.
Yeosang stepped behind the counter, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. He pulled your back flush against his chest, burying his face in the curve of your neck with a contented, heavy sigh.
“You smell like vanilla and fertiliser,” Yeosang murmured against your skin, his voice a low, vibrating hum that sent a familiar shiver down your spine.
“It’s a new perfume,” you laughed, tilting your head to give him better access. “I’m calling it The Florist’s Fiancée. Very exclusive.”
Yeosang chuckled, a warm, genuine sound that you never, ever got tired of hearing. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the pulse point just beneath your ear.
“Are the stargazers processed?” he asked lazily, his hands resting comfortably over your stomach.
“Yes, boss,” you teased, leaning your weight entirely against him. “Stripped, trimmed, and in the cooler. Though I still think we should have ordered more hydrangeas for the Kim wedding this weekend.”
Yeosang turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. He looked down at you, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with pure affection. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a stray smudge of dirt off your cheekbone.
“You know,” Yeosang said softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Exactly one year ago today, a very beautiful, very terrified woman ran into this shop barefoot and completely ruined my floor with a wet wedding dress.”
You smiled, looping your arms loosely around his neck. “I seem to recall you being the one who threw the dress on the floor, Kang Yeosang-ssi.”
“I had to,” Yeosang whispered, stepping into your space until there was no distance left between you. His hands slid down to rest on your hips. “It was in my way.”
You let out a soft breath as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It wasn’t desperate anymore. It wasn’t fueled by fear or the ticking clock of a wedding you didn’t want. It was just deep, steady, and entirely secure.
It was the kiss of a man who knew he got to wake up next to you tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day for the rest of his life.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs drawing slow, soothing circles on your hips through the canvas apron.
“Any regrets?” Yeosang asked quietly. He didn’t ask it out of insecurity anymore. He asked it because he loved hearing the answer.
You looked around the messy, beautiful shop. You thought of the penthouse you had left behind, the cold marble floors, and the life of perfect, sterile predictability that had almost suffocated you. Then, you looked at the man holding you—the man who knew the exact fraying edges of your heart and loved them anyway.
“Only one,” you whispered, rising up on your toes to press a final, feather-light kiss to his jaw. “I wish I had run to this shop sooner.”
Yeosang smiled, gathering you tighter against his chest as the afternoon rain began to gently tap against the storefront windows.
My submission for Friday the Fuckteenth, an in-server event held by @lapydiaries
Summary: Your wedding night to the mysterious Ice Duke, one of several of dragon descent, proves he is a beast but not in anyway you feared during your march to your sealed fate. In fact, maybe, just maybe, this wasn't a death sentence after all.
Pairing: Dragon-descent Duke Yeosang x bride fem!reader
Genre: smut, monster romance
Au: dragon, historical, fantasy,
Trope: arranged marriage
Rated: 18+, MDNI
Warnings: forced marriage, monster-fucking
Smut warnings: monster-fucking, big dick/monster dick yeosang. fisting (whole hand), egg preg. silver cum, temperature play, multiple orgasms, mating, biting, fisting, super strong Yeosang, cum eating, rough rough sex, unprotected sex, virgin Yeosang
Word Count: 5.1k
Author’s Note: Dividers/banner made by me. enjoy some feral dragon Yeosang wrecking reader like we all want to be wrecked by this man (if u say you don't, you are lying)
Main Masterlist | Part 2
No editing, no beta, so excuse mistakes ^^'
Tears did not suit a bride on her wedding day.
The townswomen had said many times over as they dressed you in fine garments of silk, velvets, and white fur. Embroidered heeled boots designed to keep your feet warm through the snowy trek rather than run. A veil attached to a fur hat as if it would keep out the biting cold.
They trailed behind you in thicker leathers, the stone path up to the castle on the mountain side covered in thick snow as if an obstacle to stop you from this path. The townspeople were an even thicker obstacle to stop you from running.
Despite the tears running down your cheeks, reddening them further, your makeup seemed to stay intact. It was too cold to do more than let the tears fall, even as your chest felt too tight to take in air properly.
The dark stone of the castle stood without a light, without sign of life, but as you approached the giant wrought iron gate, it lifted of its own accord, no guard or servant in sight.
Behind you the townspeople cried in fear. The same fear that had kept you from declining the public announcement of the Duke asking for your hand in marriage by a man in white. The same fear that tore you from your love, watching as he was sent away on some quest. The same fear that had kept you from having a public, traditional wedding, instead having you march up the snowy path to the castle like a virgin off to be sacrificed.
That was what you were. A sacrifice to the enigmatic being that ruled these lands. A duke of dragon descent, feared by his people because of the everlong ice storm that swarmed the mountains above and kept the summers in this region short-lived.
Unlike other regions ruled by descendants of fire dragons, or gold, or earth- where the regions prospered- ruled by the descendents of Ice dragon’s, was the opposite. People believed they were as heartless as they were cold, thus the castle was left empty as no townspeople wanted to serve such a “cold beast”.
And yet they would send you off to marry one.
They did not follow you past the gate, instead crowding around from wall to stone wall, watching with tears in their eyes and fear on their face, huddled together as if this was your funeral.
You paused at the bottom of the stone stairs to look back at them, to search the familiar faces you had grown up with, hoping one may speak up for you and how wrong this. Offer you an out.
None stepped forward.
Gathering what courage you had, your grip on the rolled marriage scroll in your hand tightened further, shoulders squared as you turned to the large metal doors that opened with a blast of snow escaping. It whooshed over your head with a fury towards the gates, the screams of the townsfolk drowned out as the gate came crashing down.
Essentially trapped, you accepted your fate and stepped forward, up the stairs and into the dark castle, a Dragon’s Bride.
~~~
The castle itself was barren, dust in the corners and the windows covered. The only light were small blue lanterns that hung from the ceiling, giving the whole castle an eerie icy blue tint. Despite that, it was not as cold as it was outside, lacking the chill that had blown out the doors that now were shut.
It was eerily quiet as you walked through the halls, searching for your new husband. Your heels clicked on the stone between the carpet, the white furs on your shoulders pulled closer in an effort to stay warm. You walked for some time, calling out every so often but receiving no answer.
“Duke Kang? I am your wife, please show yourself!”
Walking the entirety of the first floor, you found yourself back in the main hall, staring up at the curved steps on either side to the landing in the middle that separated into two wings. While deciding which way to go, large double doors under the stairs opened up to a small hall, a bright blue flame visible further in.
Hesitantly you stepped through, eyes latching onto a figure on the other side of the blue flames in the center of what appeared to be a great hall. Despite the odd color, the room felt warm, enough that your furs felt almost unnecessary as the doors shut behind you.
“I apologize for the delay.” A deep voice reverberated off the walls, sending a shiver down your spine when you noticed a slight lisp to the tone. “The room wasn’t ready just yet…”
Slowly you moved to the right of the long blazing fire pit, eyes fixating on the figure standing at the end. A puffed white tunic under a black leather vest with sleek pants on a human body. Right, he was human shaped, the women had you believing he appeared to be a beast-
His face suggested he was an angel if anything. Beautiful features as if hand picked by the God’s themselves. Delicate and small yet sharp enough that the tilt of his chin up felt lethal. Silver eyes met your gaze under soft blonde curls, softer lips turning up in a nervous smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, I am Yeosang.”
Like the warmth seeping into your bones, your fears and apprehension melted away. Meekly you introduced yourself, his smile turned knowing and eyes darting to the scroll in your hands.
You held it out to him. “The Mayor has a copy as well, this is yours.” Along with the marriage agreement was a contract the duke- Yeosang- and signed in accordance with the village Mayor. You hadn’t bothered to learn what was in the contract, just knowing that anything the man before you promised the village was in exchange for your hand no doubt. Though you knew the village would have given you up for nothing just to appease the beast so to speak.
And yet you could not find him to be a beast the more you looked at him. Could not find an inkling in his behavior or appearance that spoke of some beast the village was afraid of. Yes, his eyes were an unnatural silver, there was a sheen to parts of his skin that looked almost like silver scales beneath the surface, but from his voice to how he carried himself and seemed comfortable in the clothes, he seemed as every bit of human as you. Even a perfect gentleman.
So you let your guard down, relaxing further, your smile becoming brighter, more open, as he took the scroll from you.
Looking back, that was the moment you fooled yourself.
Yeosang was nice enough to show you around, though you both only stayed in the hall. While you thought it was odd, it also made sense to have everything in one room, the one that could be kept warm from the ongoing cold outside.
The raised dias was made into a makeshift bedroom, with several mattresses on the floor covered in piles of blankets and pillows no doubt from the rooms in the castle. A wardrobe and curtain off to the side for changing. With the large fire pit in the center burning the bright blue flames that lit up all but the darkest corners of the hall, there seemed to even be a bathing center, doors to a kitchen, a sitting area, and a place to sit and eat, and a desk covered in papers next to a shelf filled with haphazardly stacked books.
So the tour was him mostly pointing to each area and assuring you that all you needed was in the warmth of the hall.
Perhaps you should have realized sooner that meant you would be in his sight at all times. Instead it did not hit you until you were standing before the steaming bath- in which he had started for you while you had slipped out of your bridal gown behind the curtains into a robe- and he was just across the hall, standing at his desk as he shuffled papers around.
He looked up, locked eyes with yours, and you swore he blinked sideways, different than before, but it could be a trick of the light and the distance between. “Is it too hot for you?” He asked, oblivious to your own dilemma.
Or he was well aware and was not providing you with the comforting words you wanted to hear. That you would have privacy. Some semblance of space.
How foolish of you to think so. He was now your husband and there was still one task left of you to complete that.
Still you kept your back towards him while you sat in the wooden tub filled with steaming water, quiet as you used the soaps provided. It was impossible to ignore him however, as you swore you could feel his eyes on you the whole time.
Risking a glance, you did find silver eyes trained on you, burning blue from the fire and lighting your own nerves up. “Um… Yeosang?”
His cheeks were tinted blue as he abruptly ripped his gaze away. “My apologies but… I was told you were not a virgin, correct?”
Why that was the question that fell from his lips was beyond you, a wave of anger coursing through your blood at it regardless. “No. I had a lover before. Is that a problem?”
With narrowed eyes you watched him fiddle with the buttons on his leather vest, swallowing hard enough you could see the bob of his adam’s apple from here. “Yes and no. I am glad to know your first time will not be… as painful.”
“But?” You turned back to face the stone wall, rinsing the last of the soap from your hair now that it was no longer stiff from the pins and veil.
At first you did not think he was going to continue, the temptation to look back and encourage him to do so was high. You were glad you didn’t when his voice sounded much closer, seeing his shadow on the wall meaning he was on this side of the large fire pit now. “But… I can not help the ire knowing another has had you before me. Even if it is not my place to have a say of your life before this. You are my wife, yes, but not my property.”
You were almost touched by that sentiment considering how most nobles viewed their spouses. It had been a concern of your parents that the Duke would not want you after learning that you had laid with your lover before, which was not uncommon for commoners, but a necessity for nobility. You were glad he was informed of it, but partly upset it wasn’t reason enough for him to back out of this marriage you did not want.
If not for the fact it took you from your love.
With your duty hanging above your head, you stopped yourself from going down the route of thinking of the life stolen from you, instead focusing on your new husband and what he said. “You said it will not be as painful… have you had a lover before, Yeosang? Do you know how it feels?”
The rustling of clothes alarmed you but you kept your tone as even as you could, back to him, eyes forward and sitting still. The air felt different, much more charged, warning you of something. Of what you had no idea.
“I have never laid with someone, no. I am only aware of what I might do to you and I cannot imagine it will be enjoyable for you.” He said, voice deep enough you felt it in the pit of your stomach. “So I apologize, my sweet wife, and I ask you not to struggle too much for your own safety.”
You did not like how that sounded at all, alarm bells blaring in your head as you stood up in the tub and turned to him quickly, breath caught in your lungs at the sight of him.
He had stripped, beautiful flawless skin, a body sculpted by the Gods as well, almost like he was a living statue. A statue with molten silver in patches on his skin and a burning blue light resonating in his chest that made him seem as if he glowed from within. His eyes had slitted pupils, the smallest puff of smoke leaving his lips as he was panting just from the sight of you.
What ripped the breath from your throat was the knowledge he was completely naked and at his center stood his cock, proud and near monstrous. Now you understood why he believed he was going to hurt you, because how could such a thing fit? It didn’t even look human. Pointed tip that was more a grey than flushed pink like you were familiar with, ridges down the curved underside that would be a delicious drag against your inner walls if the girth of him seemed almost too wide for one hand. Both would be needed if you ever attempted to hold it. And the length? Goodness-
A sound between a growl and a whine left his chest, sounding more beastly than human. “Please don’t stare, it is hard enough to contain myself.” Even his words had a rumble to them that was more primal than anything.
“I cannot fit that in me, Yeosang.” You protested, eyes darting to meet his in a silent plea.
He breathed in, slow and deep, a shudder running through every muscle of his so harshly you could see the flex. “Unfortunately, you are going to have to.”
That was all you had before you were pulled from the water, too hot lips crashing onto yours as if attempting to devour you. Your hands flew to grab his broad shoulders, torn between pulling away and giving in. The decision was made for you when his hot tongue pushed in, clashing with yours. There was something about it, about the way he was holding you up against his body and his tongue battling yours not for dominance, but as if he needed it and would die without it.
A primal need that, once recognized, had your stomach doing flips.
He was not at all gentle as you were pushed against the nearest stone pillar, gasping from the force jolting up your spine which he swallowed. He was not gentle as he pushed you further up, pressing his massive cock between your legs and rolling his hips resulting in the ribbed parts to rub against your folds roughly. His grip was not gentle on your thighs as he pushed your legs wider, rolling his hips again in response to the moan that tumbled from your lips from the first motion.
He was not gentle and while it should have terrified you for what it would mean for your body, you were loving it. Granted you would be lucky not to have broken bones in the morning but in the moment, your stomach was filled with burning coals of desire and you were starting to leak all over him as he pushed his cock up again, catching your clit and earning a cry that had you finally pulling your lips away.
Immediately he glanced down between you, rolling his hips back and then jutting them forward to watch how he rubbed against you, wetting his length. “Oh Gods I-” He groaned, thrusting up faster and pulling another broken sound of pleasure from you.
“L-like that, keep doing that, please.” Somehow you were going to take his cock and the best way to do that without ripping you in half was to loosen you up as much as possible. Just from this alone with the stimulation on your bundle of nerves you knew he could have you soaking them both with a climax soon enough.
Silvery-blue eyes met yours with a wavering question, finding the answer in your own before he nodded and continued with his ministrations but harder and faster. His grip on your thighs kept you from jolting up the pillar with each thrust and away from him.
It all changed as he pressed his lips together and blew out a deep breath, ice particles floating in the air and cooling your too hot-and still wet- body and his cock. He breathed in and did so again, goosebumps appearing over your torso and cooling your slick enough the cold was a near painful sensation. Right, ice dragon, even if his body felt hot and his tongue had been like liquid fire.
The cold had your nerves on edge in a different way, mingling with the sensation of his cock still rubbing against your folds with much more desperation now. He was mumbling under his breath, words you didn’t understand since your own sounds of pleasure seemed to drown them out.
Between another cold blown air from his lips and a harsh thrust you finally understood what he was saying. No, he was chanting to himself like a mantra. “D-don’t enter, don't enter.”
He was using his breath to keep himself in control enough not to just slam you down on his cock. The realization was the final tipping point to the boiling in your stomach, head rolling back against the stone as a silent cry had you gasping, body jolting as you came all over his cock, now faltering in its movements. His eyes went wide at the sight, hips writhing in his hold as the cold and the pressure dragged out your high and assaulted your sensitive nub.
You were still trembling when you were suddenly pushed up further on the pillar, your cunt now level with his mouth that descended in a quick flurry. He set your legs on his shoulders, one hand pressing against your stomach and holding you flat against the pillar as his other disappeared. You assumed it went to his cock, but thought nothing of it as the heat of his breath and tongue on your soaked folds had you squirming from overstimulation.
His tongue dove in again and again, groaning and growling as he lapped at your taste like he couldn’t get enough.
It was almost too much, your hands flying to his blonde locks and tugging, struggling in his hold as the pleasure mixed with pain and tears filled your lashline. But he didn’t stop, if anything the vibrations of his moans from your tugs made it worse.
It felt different, the build up in your lower stomach that quickly twisted more and more, burning hot. When it exploded, you felt it all over, soaking his mouth with such a force his tongue was pushed out of you.
The sound he made in reaction was the single most desperate and feral sound you thought a man could make, his breath hot on your body as it melted into a snarl.
Yanked away from the pillar you were carried away, your fuddled mind catching a glimpse of an almost silvery substance coating the pillar you had just been pressed against, swallowing hard when you realized what it was.
Despite the fact he had cum, he didn’t seem to be stopping anytime soon, dropping you onto the nearby settee, and flipping you over onto your stomach. Glancing over your shoulder, whatever you would’ve said didn’t even process in your head at the sight of him. Eyes were more blue now, lips pulled back in a snarl that showed fangs, ice forming in the air with each breath he huffed out as his hands spread your cheeks and stared at your bottom with such a heated, crazed look, that thinking was suddenly impossible.
His nails dug into the flesh of your ass, drawing blood from how tight his grip was, the cold from the darkening tips seeping into your muscles, shivers wrecking your spine.
Nothing was said. There were no words to express the tension palpitating in the air, the nearby fire cold as snow compared to the heat in your core, only being cooled by his fingers and the cold breath he blew on you. The limbo you found yourself in a tightly wound thread ready to snap.
When it did, it was with an ice cold finger running over your swollen lips before pushing in. His expression twisted to one of fascination and awe as your cunt sucked him in, clamping down on the intrusion. He sucked in a breath, this one heated by the looks of the black smoke, and briefly you were fascinated that he could breath both ice and fire. Heat and cold.
He could also use it on your body and drive your senses crazy. The sudden coldness inside your tight heat was a reminder of that, making you whine at the sensation.
With childlike wonder her pushed the finger deep, then out, then back in. Slow at first, getting used to the sensation of your walls while he had you squirming and gripping the one arm of the settee, head resting on your forearms and focusing on controlling your breath.
You don’t know how long you both were like that, his finger working into you, squirming around and mesmerizing every inch of your inner walls that he could reach. You could tell he was taking notice of what had your breath hitching or sounding whiney. Eventually he had even leaned over to start kissing everywhere he could on your body, from cold kisses to too hot, taking notice of that as he slipped in a second, this time both fingers felt hot.
It pushed your mind into a space you weren’t entirely familiar with. Your muscles felt like gelatin, and your mind was full of clouds that made it hard to think but floaty. He gave you just enough pleasure to keep you there, wanting more, and leaving you relaxed and pliant.
Trembling beneath him, it could almost be romantic if you didn’t notice he seemed to suddenly have four fingers inside you, pumping and rubbing against the sweet spot he found. Suddenly it was too much, your body squirming and trying to pull away. You had forgotten how feral he clearly seemed, now given a reminder.
His free hand pushed down between your shoulder blades with a force that had you gasping into the cushions below. His fingers moved frantically, spreading you wider somehow. Unbearably full and stretched you didn’t think it was possible to be more so. He proved you wrong.
How five fingers- no, his entire hand - fit inside your weeping and swollen cunt felt like defying nature. But you felt it. Every knuckle dragging at your entrance. Every tip deep deep in you, cold as ice and twisting to touch every bit of your inner walls, had you crying out and begging and unable to breath.
“Too much too much! Ye- please- hah c-can’t take it!”
Yet he pushed in more with a snarl, and you felt your entrance wrap around his wrist. He curled his hand, began to rub against your sweet spot, and still held in place you were cumming just as hard as he had managed with his mouth.
Clenching down on his cold limb, your mind flashed white hot, gasping and drooling as you reached behind you and tried to grab on to him. To pull him off, the pleasure was so intense it was too much.
His hand on your back grabbed your wrists and pressed them in the center of your back, holding them tightly as his other hand ravaged your insides, stretching your inner muscles so much you could feel your stomach bulging out.
Tears streaming down your face at how much it was, pain mixing with pleasure as you convulsed beneath him, at his mercy and he was not stopping any time soon. And yet when he pulled his hand out abruptly you cried out from the loss, suddenly feeling so empty, tears were forming for another reason than too much.
“No! I need it! Empty. Too empty. Yeosang- husband. Please, please more. No empty. No no no empty.” You babbled as you pushed your ass back toward him, unable to discern where the sudden desperation came from when you knew your body was beyond spent and with no break in sight. Logically you needed water, time to rest, before taking more.
And yet every second you were empty felt like a crime. Wrong. You mewled and cried and squirmed as best you could with your limited range
“Gods I knew you were the one.” You heard but didn’t process, getting what you wanted the next second.
Despite having his whole hand inside, the stretch of his pointed cockhead still felt like more. Your whole body stiffened, not out of wariness but to marvel at the sensations coursing through you as each rib on his cock pushed in. Your heartbeat sounded so loud in your ears, drool running down your cheek, sight blurry and not just from the tears.
Nothing else existed but him and how he was filling you up.
Halfway in, you still hadn’t taken a breath, despite every nerve ending burning up from the heat of his cock. You could feel his cold breath on your back, knowing he was trying to control himself and while half of you was grateful for that- the other half wanted to whine. Wanted to feel all he was going to give you.
That half got exactly that in the next second, gasping for breath as his full length was pushed into you, starting a brutal pace that was more painful than pleasurable. And for whatever reason you couldn’t find a complaint with that. Instead, the sounds coming out of you was completely gibberish that sounded like you were begging for it.
He wasn’t composed either, snarls and growls and sounds that hit as deep as his cock did, pressing your stomach into the cushions beneath you despite your ass being raised. No human should be able to take such a pounding inside, and yet your mind was swimming with pleasure once the pain faded.
It felt so right you couldn’t question it if you wanted to.
No amount of tears and drool pooling beneath your cheek could amount to the wetness leaking from your cunt, coating his dick, and soaking both your thighs. Every time you caught your breath he fucked it right out of you.
Brutal and feral. Every bit of the beast you were warned he was.
You loved it.
The fact he was panting out “sorry” every other second like he truly couldn’t stop himself from abusing your cunt- your body- like this was the cherry on top.
Time lost all meaning. Your name alluded you. You couldn’t tell if your body was shaking on it’s own or from his thrusts. You couldn’t tell when you hit another climax or it never stopped. You barely registered when the legs of the settee gave up and it broke, falling to the ground and scraping against the stone with each thrust.
You knew nothing but the beast fucking you within an inch of your life as if you were a breeding tool for him to use as he pleased.
As if to take it further, he leaned forward, the angle just as brutal, but now his breath was hotter on the back of your neck, drool dripping down to sting on your flesh and burn just enough to make your head spin even more. The way he clamped down with sharp teeth was both expected and not, blacking your vision out and perhaps blacking your consciousness out in the process. If only for a few seconds as you came to him crying out your name against the bleeding bite.
When he came, you could manage some broken noise of happiness to be filled up. The hot seed was nothing compared to the cold lump that pushed your walls to new lengths and then settled in your womb like a heavy weight. If you could touch your stomach, you could probably feel it all. The lump, his cum, his cock, all inside you and leaking out.
Moments passed, your mind somewhere else while your body regained awareness of itself. Of how stretched out you were. How wet and hot and cold you were. The blood on the back of your neck, the bite throbbing with something more than pain.
Then every inch of you that toughed him. Wanting to press back and be one with him. To feel the heavy breaths he took as if they were your own. To feel the heat in his chest inside your own. You felt plenty of heat where you were connected however, and as your body realized the extreme strenuous activity was over and you were thoroughly bred, exhaustion hit your muscles with a force.
You woke up perhaps hours later, or maybe moments, but you weren’t where you had been. He was no longer inside you but you could still feel a lump there, no longer as cold as before. Neither did you feel sticky or sweaty, but clean and cozy in a pile of blankets.
“Don’t get up.” A rough voice said to your right when you started to shift to do just that. “I don’t have any remedies to help with the soreness. I am sorry.”
Turning you spotted your new husband, bathed in dim blue light that made the silver patches glow. His eyes were back to silver, no more slitted pupils, and blinking normally. “I’m sorry-”
“Stop apologizing.” You grumbled, throat scratchy from over doing it. “I’ll be fine. But… what is inside me?” You had an inkling but…
“An egg. I mated you properly. But it will be awhile before it can safely come out. Only when it has absorbed enough.”
Flushing at his explanation and his own blushing cheeks, you looked away. “We just got married…”
“I know. I;m so-” He cleared his throat and then sat up, staring down at you with an expression that showed how serious this was for him. “I can pull it out but- please do not get aroused right now your body can’t handle another round.”
Frowning, you realized your body had a reaction to the idea of his hand inside you. It was more confusing that he could smell that or tell somehow.
“Huh. I guess you are a beast like they said…” Your tone was contemplative, not judging, but you could tell it saddened him to hear it. “I don’t mind. Just… something to get used to. My new normal. Right husband?”
He stared at you for a moment, looking for some sign that you were lying. Finding none, he smiled, a much sweeter one than before which had your heart palpitating. “Yes, my wife.”
