Synopsis: An omega pregnant and alone after being kicked out by their alpha stumbles upon a pack willing to take them in and care for both the omega and their pup as if they were their own, because now they are.
Genre: strangers to lovers, angsty but lots of fluff to even it out.
Warnings: vomit scene, a/b/o, past abuse physical and verbal, past sexual abuse(mentions of past non-con), mentions of past violence, trauma, self esteem issues, pregnancy, aftermath of abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, pack dynamics, angst but it will be okay, polyamory
A/N: thank you for all the love on the first chapter, my heart is full!! a few people asked me about a tag list and i’m still not sure if i’d like to do one, but if i do you i will let you know!! please enjoy this chapter and my ask box is open if you have questions about this world or just wanna chat!!
The light coming through the window causes you to stir, a groan leaves your lips before your body freezes at the feeling of soft arms wrapped around your body. Cautiously you let your eyes open only to be met with a chest, it’s Felix’s chest. Fear jolts through your body, Will Felix be mad that you touched him? Will his alphas be mad? You need to fix this and before you can decide how to do that, your body chooses flight, causing you to jump out of the bed and take a few steps back until your back hits a wall. Felix sits up in the bed, his anxious scent melts with your own before he has a chance to see where you went, and his scent calms back to the sweet lemon tart smell you remember from last night.
“Hey, hey it’s okay baby! What happened sweetheart? Come back to bed, yeah?” Felix pulled up the covers and patted the bed so you could join him again. You obey, not lying down but sitting a respectful distance from Felix not wanting to cause any more issues for him.
“I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me. I don't know what happened while I was asleep; I haven’t cuddled with anyone since I was a child. If Chan gets mad at you because of this you can tell him it was me. I don't want you to get in trouble because I’m a hormonal idiot.” You rapid-fire words at Felix, not making much sense to the omega but he makes out the bits and pieces.
“Why would Chan get mad at me? If anything he’ll be jealous I got to cuddle you first!” Felix laughed gently, moving himself to sit up and closer to you taking one of your hands in his own, subconsciously trying to get you used to skinship.
“I’m not a pack mate, we shouldn’t be cuddling, my scent, it shouldn’t be on you.”
“Oh please, you’ll be a pack mate soon if I have anything to say about it, that is if you want to, we won’t force you to join us but I want you to know I do want you here. Your scent is delicious.” He gives you a gentle smile causing the tips of your ears to redden, he can’t say things like that to you, no matter how nice it feels, it isn’t right.
“And what’s this about hormones? Did cuddling make you feel better? We can do it more often if it helps ease your discomfort.” There’s a curious tilt to his head, and he genuinely wants to learn how to help you.
“Oh! Well, pregnancy makes you crave alpha scent, the alpha who helped conceive the pup’s scent is best but any alpha’s scent can work, and in a pinch, any proper scenting can help ease things even a little bit. It’s probably why I haven’t had to throw up yet, your scent calmed my sickness.” Felix’s eyes widen at your confession, Oh he had so much to learn, and he’s determined to learn it all.
“That’s not a problem at all, we can get you set up with some nesting materials from the pack to help you before you feel comfortable enough to get scented by the others okay?” Felix’s words cause your head to snap up into a confused tilt, looking at him like he had two heads. You hadn’t nested in so long, and you hadn’t properly nested ever. You were allowed to nest at night when you were a teenager living with your parents, freshly presented, still a little bit of hope left in your eyes. But the nest always had to be cleaned up in the morning, they didn’t want you living in filth as they put it, and once you got sent to live with your alpha he didn’t like the nest, saying it was always too hot for all that shit, and good omegas don’t need a nest, all they need is their alpha.
“A nest? I can’t do that.” Now it’s Felix’s turn to be confused, somehow his eyes widened more thinking this can’t possibly mean what he thinks it means.
“You can’t? You don’t know how? You aren’t allowed? Because I can assure you that you are absolutely allowed to nest sweetie, omegas need to nest, this is at the core of our biology.”
“I’ve made nests before, but I never kept them intact for long. Since getting pregnant I’ve had stronger cravings to nest but I haven’t nested in many years, I wouldn’t be very good at it.” Before you can place your head down in embarrassment again Felix lifts your head so you two can make eye contact, placing a gentle hand to your face to move a stray hair behind your ear.
“You don’t have to worry about a thing here okay? We will take care of you, you will have the most beautiful nest and everything will be okay. Now if it’s okay would you like to go downstairs and eat breakfast? Minho hyung makes the most delicious food you’re gonna love it! I’m sure the rest of the pack will be down there eating, I don’t want to overwhelm you. I can bring the food up here too, just say the word.” You take a moment to sit with your thoughts, you remember how Chan said everyone would welcome you but what if it’s just a trick? What if nobody wants you here? What if they hate your smell? Felix sensing your unease cuts off your rapid thoughts.
“How about this, we go down to eat, and while we eat the pack will introduce themselves so you aren’t the main focus? You can even sit by the door so if it becomes too much we can leave. You say the word and we can come back up here!” Subconsciously Felix releases a calming scent that helps you agree to his offer.
Felix leads you downstairs, your hands intertwined keeping you at ease, but god you are still so on edge. The way silence fell upon the dining room once you entered didn’t help at all, it’s as if the world stopped, and it’s all because of you. A whine settles in your throat causing Felix to squeeze your hand to ground you before he leads you to the seat closest to the door. The silence is so loud. The first person to move is an alpha, he stands to make you and Felix plates of food causing you to look around confused why Felix or the other omega wasn’t making the plates.
“Is there anything here you don’t eat? Anything you want extra of? Do you want something different? I can make something different.” The alpha speaks to you causing you to flinch, he reeks of nervousness but you can’t stop yourself from thinking it’s just a facade.
“Minho hyung, maybe introduce yourself first!” Felix nudges the alpha’s side with an awkward laugh.
“Oh! Hello, I’m Minho. I made the food. So what did you want to eat?” For a moment you make eye contact with Minho and you immediately break it and look down at your lap.
“I will eat whatever you give me” You keep your head down trying to make yourself as small as possible before a plate gets placed in front of you. You dig in immediately partially out of hunger and partially to not upset anyone.
As you eat one by one the pack members introduce themselves, just like Felix promised. They don’t push you further and you appreciate that. The pack talks while you make your way through the plate, the rice is devoured, the veggies are all gone, and all that remains is the healthy scoop of steamed egg. You knew you fucked up, you had always hated egg, and now the pregnancy has exasperated that hatred. A voice in your head berates you, this pack took you in, this alpha graciously made you food when you don’t even deserve the time of day, you have to eat the eggs. So you take a bite praying to the moon goddess herself that just this once the baby would let you stomach these eggs, but the moon goddess isn’t always forgiving. As soon as the eggs hit the back of your throat you gag, causing the room to fall silent, This causes you to panic, the panic causing more gagging, oh god. In a fight with your gag reflex you are determined to win you finally swallow the egg, this was your worst mistake. Immediately your mouth welcomes the familiar watering feeling that comes before a vomit session, fuck. As if Felix can sense the undigested food rising in your throat he grabs your hand, still somehow doing it in the most gentle way possible, leading you to a bathroom where you fall to your knees and let go of everything left in your stomach into the toilet.
You’re dry heaving when you’re finally able to take in your surroundings, Felix is on the floor rubbing your back, releasing his sweet scent into the air, which almost covers the smell of your vomit.
It won’t stop, there’s nothing left in your stomach and you can’t stop gagging over the toilet as if magically new food to throw up would appear.
“I’m- ugh sorry.” You speak between gags and Felix gives you an apologetic look.
“It’s okay, just focus on trying to stop gagging okay? Look I know it’s not ideal but do you want me to get an alpha to scent you? You said it helps with morning sickness. Maybe it can help here, I just don't think my scent is helping much, sadly.” You can’t bother an alpha like that, especially one you don’t know, especially one that has already done too much for you. Your thoughts are interrupted by Felix getting up to leave, you panic thinking maybe he’s sick of dealing with you already but before you can even finish that thought he’s back, with a hoodie. He places the hoodie close to your nose and immediately the retching stops, your mind fuzzes and all you can think about is the ocean scent invading your nostrils.
“This is Chan hyung’s! It seems it helped, yeah?” Felix smiles and you can't help but smile back grateful for his help.
“What made you vomit like that?” You grimace at the thought of having to admit your fault.
“I can’t stand eggs, but I didn’t want to offend anyone.” You frown thoroughly embarrassed by your actions and this whole situation in general.
“Sweetie, sweetie no. You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to. Nobody will be mad at you if you don’t like something, Minho hyung has made whole separate meals for each of us before, it happens. Nobody goes hungry here, and nobody eats anything they don’t like. See now your stomach is empty and we can’t have that, can we? No, good thing Minho hyung is making you a soup right now so you don’t upset your stomach further by trying to eat all that food again.” Felix gently holds your face in his hands rubbing a thumb over your cheeks and you burst into tears, stupid hormones.
“Oh no! Did I say something wrong? Do you not like soup? We can find something else.” Felix’s scent sours with panic making you scrunch your nose at the smell.
“No, I’m just so frustrated with myself, I’m being such a burden to you guys. Minho shouldn’t have to make me soup, he’s not even my alpha.” You speak between sobs and Felix gives you a pout before helping you off the bathroom floor.
“Minho hyung is doing it because he wants to, he wants to take care of you and the pup, we all do, I promise.”
Your sobs turn to sniffles while Felix leads you to the kitchen island and helps you into one of the chairs. Across from you Minho turns around and places a bowl in front of you, As you go to eat you realize you’re still holding Chan’s hoodie. In haste, you try and hand it off to Felix but he rejects it.
“Hold it while you eat, just in case the soups set you off again.” He gives you a big smile encouraging you to eat the soup, so of course you do.
“I don’t know what you eat so I stuck to a broth with the vegetables from breakfast in it, I promise you I can make better soup than that, and I will make it for you one day, promise.” Minho gives you a look you can’t quite read, It’s soft, his scent has softened as well, his cinnamon scent dulling out and sweetening up, leaving the scent of something akin to a spice cake.
“It tastes delicious, thank you Alpha.” You bow your head and speak with a respectful tone, it's second nature to you. Though your normal causes the alpha’s scent to spike uncontrollably, you don’t complain, you’d never admit it but the scent eases your entire body. You finish up your soup with ease and you’re about to get up and wash the bowl but Minho grabs it from your hand before you can fully get off the chair. You assume the worst, What did you do wrong? A whine settles in your chest and you look down, awaiting a punishment that doesn’t come.
“No. I’m not mad at you, I should be the one to wash your bowl, I don’t want you to do anything unnecessary! You’re already carrying a pup, that's enough work.” The alpha speaks sweetly, you’re still not used to that and you don’t feel like you ever will be.
Felix gets your attention again, gently taking your hand in his, he does that a lot it seems.
“Chan mentioned that he’d like to talk to you at some point today, we just want to get a feel on how you’re feeling, what you’d like to do going forward, all that good stuff. Would you like to do that now? We can go to your room?” Your room. Those words sound foreign. You’d be leaving soon, no? A pit settles in your chest, waiting for the ball to drop. Any second now this would all collapse like all good things in your life do.
“Yeah, that’s fine.” For now, all you can do is nod and stay in line.
♡ 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 ℑ ♡
♡ 𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: Luxurious Husbands MATZ x sugar baby reader
♡ 𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You never thought that Seonghwa and Hongjoong would take you seriously when you said you wanted to spice up your sex life. And you certainly couldn't imagine that they would arrange a surprise date and, on top of that, ask you to come to them completely naked, covered only by Seonghwa's fabulously expensive, almost royal fur coat. Or, Hwa and Joong show you what sexual diversity looks like in their minds.
♡ 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 / 𝔄𝔲 / 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢: Smut, Luxurious! AU, Sugar Daddyl!AU, Established Relationship, Million Dollar Man!AU
♡ ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: 18+ / 21+ / MDNI
♡ 𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 5.2k
♡ 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Older Hongjoong (38)/ Older Seonghwa (38) x younger reader (22) unprotected sex, threesome, double pussy penetration, degrading, pet names, size kink, dirty talk, spit kink, wealth kink, nipple licking/sucking, sir/daddy kink, sex toys, humiliation, oral fixation, cock worship, penetration in both holes, pussy worship, nipple play, deepthroating, objectification, power play, voyeurism, choking, crying, control orgasm, orgasm delay/denial, exhibitionism, impact play, oral, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, сreampie, rough sex, rough oral, power play, anal play, praise kink, squirt, wet and dirty, face fucking, explicit sexual content, explicit language, and more.
♡ net: @cultofdionysusnet @k-vanity
♡ 𝔄|𝔑: So, here it is, the first part of one of the most luxurious and incredible stories I've ever written. If you want to taste diamonds on your tongue and fuck in fabulously expensive furs, you've come to the right place. We're taking luxury porn to a whole new level, bunnies.
Before reading, I advise you to read the first story of the universe Million Dollar Man When it comes to MATZ, it's always all or nothing for me, so if you want to experience the real heat, I guarantee you will.
♡ ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 at the end of the post.
♡ ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔶 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 - check for more
♡ 𝔖𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔥𝔴𝔞 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ♡ - Seonghwa's personal temple
𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖗𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖉 - Your love makes all this possible
‘Miss, we're here.’
You flinch a little in surprise when the dry and unpleasantly monotonous voice of the taxi driver suddenly breaks through the dense cloud of cosy, dusky silence that has built up in the cabin of the car.
These seemingly ordinary words mercilessly invade your consciousness, like a flock of ravenous birds, rudely plucking you out of the gentle stream of your thoughts and bringing you back from the heavens to the earth, back to the cold, frosty reality.
It causes a slight shadow of displeasure to slip across the delicate, exquisite features of your beautiful face, making you look more like a charming, resentful child than the femme fatale that you so desperately want to appear to be. With a heavy sigh, you raise your large, thickly lined eyes, which are framed by a row of long, doll-like eyelashes, and meet the weary gaze of the driver in the small rear-view mirror.
You don't say anything, just nod your head absentmindedly in response, letting him know that you heard him, but still the man coughs awkwardly into his fist, clears his throat and repeats the words again, this time a little louder to make sure that you heard him precisely.
"We're already here, Miss. Hotel 'Four Seasons', as you requested."
'Mmm, okay. Thank you.' There's a hint of understanding in your voice as you reply to him, but you're in no hurry to leave the relatively comfortable space of your taxi. You nervously bite down on the plushy softness of your plump lower lip, feeling the rich cherry wine flavour of your glossy vinyl lipstick on your tongue, and shift your gaze to the window, covered in a thin layer of sparkling frost, to catch a glimpse of the final destination of your impromptu journey.
The Grand Hotel ‘Four Seasons’ was nothing less than the embodiment of extravagant luxury and ostentatious wealth. It was expensive in every way – from the mirrored facades, polished to perfection, lit on all sides by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of lanterns that cast a soft, diffused glow over the entire room, making it seem as if the entire building was made of real gold. ending with huge beds of lush, snow-white and pink hydrangeas with velvety splashes of vintage tea roses planted chaotically in between, in front of the grand entrance. Literally every detail was a scream of 'for a select few only'.
Now, looking at all this splendour, all the confidence you had before seems much more shaky and lost than before. And for the second time that night, you think about giving up on this whole crazy idea and asking the driver to take you back to the comfort and safety of Seonghwa and Hongjoong's stunning mansion, but as soon as the thought crosses your mind, it's gone, because you know that neither Hwa nor Joong would appreciate it, especially since you were the one who initiated the whole thing.
When you first brought up this topic, you could never have imagined that Hwa and Joong would take your words about the lack of spontaneity and risk in your relationship too seriously and that you wanted to spice up your everyday sex life with something edgy and kinky. Not that such a thing was something that you really needed, since your hot, incredibly sexy men were all that you needed and more.
They were both attractive, experienced and dominant men, utterly devoid of modesty and shame, possessing that dark, almost animalistic kind of sexuality that no pretty boy of your age could possess, who still continued asking you out again and again even though they knew that you already belonged to someone else. They crowd around you like stupid, drooling puppies with tiny, twitching dicks, in the hope that their annoying persistence and a few dirty compliments will make you spread your legs for them as if by magic.
But you were more annoyed and angry than pleased, because none of these princes Charming could compare to Seonghwa and Hongjoong. And maybe it would be easier to say that it was all about the incredible wealth and power they both had, but that would be a lie, because besides this, they fucked like animals and were not just good at it but fucking incredible.
The sex with Seonghwa and Hongjoong was always long and tedious, unbelievably wet and dirty, almost to the point where it became pornographically disgusting, and each time they left you wanting more and more.
And after two years of your relationship, you can't imagine anyone else beside yourself but these two luxurious men.
Back to the present moment, you were beginning to regret your proposal because you had no idea that they would arrange a surprise meeting for you in one of Seoul's most luxurious and glamorous hotels and ask you to come to them completely naked, covered only by Seonghwa's fabulously expensive, almost royal fur coat and wearing long strings of pearls that Hongjoong had given you in one of his sweet, sentimental moments. And maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if they had at least let you wear a thong or a silicone cunt pad so that you could at least make yourself more or less decent, but no, that's exactly how they wanted to see you – completely naked and wrapped in the most splendid furs.
"Excuse me, Miss, but are you going out? I have other clients too, you know." The driver's scratchy, sandpaper voice cuts into your hearing again, sending a slight shiver of disgust down your spine, but you give him a thin, apologetic smile anyway, nodding your head to heighten the effect of your words.
"Yes, yes, of course, please forgive me; I was a little bit lost in thought." Your hand reaches for your phone to confirm your train on the app and to pay the taxi driver. When everything is done, you apologise again and check one last time that the rich, dense, chocolate fur of your extravagant coat is snug around your naked body, covering all your princess parts, before you finally get out of the car.
As soon as you're on the dank street, a scalding gust of icy wind instantly swoops down on you, which insolently crawls under the heavy hem of your fur coat and greedily licks your skin with its frosty tongue. You shudder, wrapping yourself more tightly in your furs and wrinkling your nose as the penetrating cold sticks to the soft, sensitive flesh on the inner side of your thighs and tickles the smoothness of your labia. The frost continues to flirt with you mercilessly, flicking its tongue over your nipples, making them almost painfully hard and tingling. You let out a low hiss of irritation and brush the dishevelled strands of your long, silky hair away from your face as the thought of getting back in your taxi and getting out of here crosses your mind again. But as soon as you start to think about it in earnest, the car behind you speeds away with a loud noise, leaving you standing in the middle of the street all by yourself.
The distance from the car park to the fashionable glass doors of the hotel wasn't too far, and under other circumstances you would have made it in no time at all, even in the impossibly high and uncomfortable stilettos you were wearing at the moment. If it weren't for one little thing. Namely, a small, expensive vibrator with a remote control and an overly flashy name. The smooth silicone toy sat perfectly in your pretty, warm pussy as if it were its rightful place, pressing tightly against your soft, quivering walls, pleasurably stimulating and torturing you at the same time.
Now the exquisite device was absolutely still, but given the provocative nature of the situation, your completely naked body and the hundreds of people crowding around you, the sensation of the vibrator inside you was palpable, so much so that even the slightest movement made you flinch slightly. You had to be very careful, or the vibrator just might slip out of your cunt.
But either way, there was no turning back, so you let out a heavy sigh and started to make your way slowly towards the front entrance of the hotel.
You take your time, trying to look as natural as possible and not attract unwanted attention from passers-by, but this task seems almost impossible. Your perfectly groomed eyebrows frown slightly as you continue, moving slowly and carefully, making sure to keep your pussy as tight as possible, holding the silicone toy firmly between your warm, silky walls, but considering how wet and slippery they were now, that was easier said than done. It didn't help that with every step you took, the soft, silky lining of the fur coat slid teasingly across your bare skin, and this light but cheeky caress made your walls clench periodically – threatening to push the toy out of you.
It feels like an eternity before you finally reach the gilded glass doors. But before you can step inside the lavish gold-marble lobby, another gust of bone-chilling wind blows in, enveloping your entire body in a frosty cloud. Despite your luxurious fur armour, the cold air somehow manages to penetrate its protection, only to lick greedily at your heated, damp centre.
As soon as the prickling cold touches your sticky, petal-like folds, a low, pitiful moan escapes your parted lips. The contrast in temperature causes the walls of your cunt to contract reflexively, clinging greedily to the soft silicone of the toy and intensifying the sensation of the vibrator inside you. You can literally feel every smooth curve of the silicone and its embossed-in-places texture.
You shudder as a new, even more thick and sticky portion of your slime pours out of you – clear, viscous liquid streams from your tiny hole and flows down the inner side of your thighs.
Immediately, a rich strawberry blush of pure humiliation spreads across your rounded cheeks, a feeling of shame mixed with a hint of shameful excitement foams your blood and spreads all over your body, and you stare dumbly at the floor, awkwardly pushing open the glass door to get inside as quickly as possible – the sooner you can get to your room, the better.
The lobby of the hotel greets you with a thick, inviting warmth and the rich scent of vanilla, with a light touch of white flowers and flecks of amber. The interior is a perfect match for the luxury of the exterior, with an abundance of gold and crystal to support the unified line of the design idea, but before you can fully enjoy the refined splendour of this place, the vibrator inside you suddenly comes to life.
The device hums furiously, sending intense vibrations along the sensitive walls of your cunt, stimulating you in the most delightful way, and if the situation were different, you would welcome the feeling, but right now you want to squeal in frustration and stomp your feet like a little child.
Your pussy pulses hotly, rhythmically clenching around the little fancy toy, sending a new flow of sweet excitement pouring out of you, dripping heavily from the edges of your hole and staining your thighs. The petal-like folds of your cunt are covered in a thick, shiny layer of glaze that makes the lining of your fur coat stick unpleasantly between your legs at times, but it doesn't stop you from squeezing your juicy, plush thighs harder in a futile attempt to relieve the tension.
However, this only increases the toy's pressure on your sensitive walls, and unable to cope, a shrill squeal escapes from your throat, causing the doorman next to you to cast a silent, judgemental glance at you, and your cheeks immediately flush with an embarrassed blush.
Even though it's late in the evening, the lobby is full of people – lonely, wealthy ladies in fancy designer outfits who have come here for one purpose only – to lure into their beds doll-cute younger boys who wouldn't mind fucking someone for a dollar cheque with lots of zeros. Wealthy businessmen holding under their arms miniature, vulgar-looking girls who look like pedigree toy dogs. Young and foolish couples in love, who had clearly gone out of their way to celebrate their first anniversary.
But in the midst of all this, there were those who literally exuded true luxury and natural expensiveness, so intense that you could almost taste it. It brought back memories of Hongjoong and your unforgettable first meeting, and as if you'd come to your senses, you started looking around, hoping to see your gorgeous, incredibly attractive men among all these people.
But all of this hasn't brought you any results - no matter how many times you've looked through the spacious, glistening with lavishness and opulence foyer, you haven't seen none of your men. Your gaze stops at the reception desk, hoping that it will give you some clue about where you need to go and what to do next, and it seems to work because almost immediately your phone rings shrilly, alerting you about a new message, which you rush to check.
Shine Star Daddy:"Be a good girl and go directly to the reception, my Starlight."
As if to emphasise the significance of this message, the vibration of the toy increases dramatically causing a low, half-suffocated moan to escape from your plump, doll-like lips. For a moment you completely freeze like a deer caught in the headlights, too frightened to do anything, and at the same time too horny to stay impassive under the onslaught of continuous erotic stimulation.
Your bizarre behaviour is starting to attract unwanted attention from the hotel staff, and so, you have no choice but to take a deep breath, gather your strength, and start walking towards the reception desk. As soon as you take the first step, the vibrations begin to slow down, getting fainter and fainter with each passing second, until they subside at all, just as you find yourself standing in front of the reception desk made of Calacatta white marble and lavishly gilded with gold.
"Welcome to the 'Four Seasons', Miss. What can I do for you?" The template welcomes you by a sympathetic, petite girl who looks barely older than you. Her dark, chocolaty hair is gathered into an elegant, sleek bun, the classic navy blue uniform, perfectly ironed and tailored to the point of perfection, complimenting her figure, which not only showed her attitude to her work, but also gave away her perfectionist nature. All this contrived perfection disgusted you, but who were you to judge her when you were the one who was standing, almost totally naked in the luxurious foyer of one of the most expensive and high-end hotels in Asia with a vibrator in your pussy.
And that's something that you shouldn't forget for a second, because as soon as you open your pretty mouth to respond to her, the smooth silicone toy comes into motion again, this time sending powerful, intermittent vibrations along the delicate, sensitive walls of your vagina.
Immediately, your whole body involuntarily tenses, and you gasp as the aggressive, jerky pulsations of the toy make your pussy clench and ooze warm, luscious desire even more abundantly. Hell, you should have known that Seonghwa would choose something as extravagant as he is for you, not being able to settle on something simple and classic, and instead, give you something with a hell of a wide variety of different modes.
The sudden change in your behaviour causes the administrator to look at you with a full of bewildered gaze, and you send her a faint shadow of a forced smile.
"Sorry, I'm a bit tired, it's been quite a long and exhausting day. The reservation for Kim Hongjoong, please." There's a hint of a subtle tremor in your voice, which to your dismay doesn't go unnoticed, and you get another weird look from girl, but still, she doesn't say anything, deliberately choosing to ignore your odd behaviour, instead silently nodding back at you and focusing all her attention on the large computer monitor.
"Oh, it's all right, miss. Please give me a few minutes."
"Mmm, sure..." You try to act as nonchalantly as possible, desperately trying to ignore the way the insistent vibrations of the exquisite sex toy, mercilessly continue to torture the soft, sensitive walls of your very royal cunt.
However, that's easier said than done.
With each passing moment, you feel the scalding mixture of lust and arousal inside you tighten more and more firmly into a taut knot at the bottom of your belly, giving you a hint of an approaching orgasm, and from it, your skin begins to tingle faintly. The sharp, rhythmic vibrations of the toy seemed to reach such deep erogenous zones that you didn't even realise existed, giving you almost ecstatic pleasure and at the same time turning pleasure into a kind of sophisticated, exquisite torture.
‘Here you are, Miss.’ The administrator politely hands you a golden keycard, seemingly smiling even more dazzlingly. ‘ Reservation in the name of Kim Hongjoong, "Presidential Suite". Your room is on the fifty-fifth floor. Please use elevator number eight for VIPs, which will take you directly up there. Thank you for choosing “Four Seasons” — we hope you will have an unforgettable time here.
‘I'm sure it will be.’ As soon as you have the keycard in your hands, the toy quietens down, and you let out a faint sigh of relief. Then, turning on your heels, you quickly head for the lift you need.
Fortunately, as soon as you reach the mirrored, gilded doors of the lift, they immediately swing open, as if they were just waiting for you to come. Not wanting to waste another minute, you quickly slip into the comfortable, luxurious privacy of the lift cabin and, with a petty aggression, punch the little gleaming button for your floor with your perfectly manicured finger.
When the lift door closes with a slight ringing sound, you finally breathe a sigh of relief, allowing yourself to relax. You give yourself a mental pat on the back, praising yourself for a job well done, because in some way known only to God, you managed to do it — walk all the way from the entrance to the reception almost completely naked, except for the massive, lavish Seonghwa's fur coat that envelops you like incredibly expensive and ritzy armour, get the keycard that you needed, and even have a polite chat with the administrator, and all this with a mercilessly pulsating vibrator in your cunt.
You feel yourself like a fucking heroine.
The ride doesn't take too long, and soon you hear a soft chime in the air, letting you know you've arrived. The heavy elevator doors slide silently apart to allow you to exit the cramped velvet space into a short, brightly lit hallway. At the end of the hallway are large double doors made of solid black oak, one of which bears an elegant gold plaque reading 'Presidential Suite'. When you swipe your keycard through the electronic lock, it clicks as expected, allowing you to enter, which you do without further delay. You should be used to such luxurious places by now. After all, Hongjoong and Seonghwa's mansion was the epitome of wealth and extravagance, and your daddies have taken you on business trips more than once or twice, during which you have stayed in the world's most luxurious hotels. Yet you cannot help but admire the splendid designer interior of the suite.
The place was, to put it mildly, absolutely decadent. Nearly all the walls in the main hall were made of expensive cream marble flecked with thin veins of pure gold that sensually shimmered in the tantalising semi-darkness. Heavy satin curtains were fully open, revealing a breathtaking panoramic view of Seoul at night.Large mirrors in enormous gold frames were hung on the walls, reflecting the opulent interior from different angles and visually enlarging the already spacious room. The light falling on the mirrors was scattered, making it seem as if the air in the suite contained sparkling particles. And that's not to mention the other undoubtedly fabulously expensive interior items that filled the entire room.
Looking at all this, you couldn't help but wonder how much all this pleasure might have been paid for, although, given Hongjoong's passionate fondness for excessive and sometimes completely unreasonable wastefulness, you weren't surprised that something like this had been chosen for your date by him.
After exploring the main area of the suite, you slowly make your way to the master bedroom. As soon as you enter the room, you are immediately greeted by the sight of a huge king-size bed decorated with dozens of plush pillows and covered with magnificent cream-coloured sheets made of natural Egyptian silk.
However, despite all this luxury, the most important things were missing: Seonghwa and Hongjoong.
You went through hell to get here, and for what? To be greeted by an empty — albeit incredibly opulent — room. You can't hold back your annoyance, exhaling heavily and rolling your eyes as you grab your mobile to call one of your sugar daddies when suddenly, a black velvet envelope lying on one of the plump, cream-coloured cushions catches your attention.
As you approach the bed, you pick up the envelope and turn it over in your hands several times, examining it closely, before running your fingertip over the delicate calligraphy, which you recognise as Seonghwa's elegant handwriting.
The envelope is much thicker than you initially thought, and when you squeeze it, you feel something soft and smooth inside. Your curiosity gets the better of you, and, with almost childlike impatience, you roughly open it, tearing the thick, expensive paper in the process. When the envelope is finally open, you take out a long silk ribbon and a small piece of paper.
"Wear me, Alice," the note says. It almost makes you laugh because who else but Hwa could reference your favourite fairy tale while you wait for him and Joong in a hotel room for the dirtiest, most perverted, disgustingly wet and furious sex?
Nevertheless, you cannot help but feel disappointed that you will have to wait a little longer for your gorgeous man to join you for fun. At least you hope that what they have planned for you will be worth all the wait. With a quiet sigh, you place the envelope on the nearby bedside table and sit down on the bed. The soft, cool silk ribbon feels pleasant under your fingers as you tie it around your head to restrict your vision. Once you are sure that the ribbon is securely fastened, you fold your hands in your lap and wait for further instructions.
In this position, you can finally feel how much moisture has collected between your legs. The amount of fluid that flows from your vagina becomes almost uncomfortable, and you shift slightly in your spot, causing the smooth, silky lining of the fur coat to shift beneath you, sliding between your voluptuous, plush thighs and sticking to your plump, slightly open labia, barely touching the delicate folds and tickling your swollen with excitement clit.
Even something as insignificant as this causes a wave of heat to spread through your body, and you unconsciously squeeze your thighs together, either in an attempt to lessen your arousal or, on the contrary, to get more of this sweet caress. With each passing minute, your need for touch becomes more and more palpable, so much so that by this point it becomes almost physically irritating for you, especially considering the amount of stimulation you have already received.
You move your hips hesitantly, testing the waters to see how much you can get out of it. The smooth movement causes the small silicone vibrator inside you to slide deeper into your pussy, causing a loud, drawn-out moan full of lustful desire to escape from your pretty, doll-like mouth. You repeat the movement again, this time more strongly and aggressively, eagerly rubbing your slippery, needy cunt against the smooth, silky lining of the fur coat.
Usually, you always need permission from Hwa or Hongjoong to touch yourself, let alone orgasm, but since neither of your daddies are around to stop you, you decide to seize the moment. You become bold, spreading your legs wide; you cause the heavy folds of the extravagant fur coat to open, exposing your naked body and sliding one of your hands between your soft, plush thighs to touch your pretty pussy, dripping with sweet juices. You lightly run your fingertips along your slit, feeling the warm, sticky moisture of your arousal cling to the delicate pads of your fingers and stretch out in long strands as you caress yourself.
The wet, squelching sound of your pretty pussy oozing with excitement, mixed with your soft, prolonged moans, fills the entire space of the extravagant bedroom as you keep playing with yourself.
With each passing minute, your touches become bolder, the tips of your delicate fingers brushing against your swollen, sensitive clit, several times persistently circling it, sending sparks of pleasure throughout your body.
Your fingers, gaining momentum with a bit more roughness, slide over your sticky, warm cunt, seeking as much stimulation as possible. You aggressively rub your little, reddened bud in narrow circles, in pursuit of pleasure, trying to match the rhythm of your fingers to the chaotic movement of your hips.
You are so wet; the sticky, transparent mucus is flowing copiously down the warm, trembling walls of your vagina and freely flowing from your tiny, delicate hole. It pleasantly moistened your folds, covering your soft, peachy labia with a sticky glaze and making your pussy smooth and so enjoyably slippery to the touch. But at the same time, it is making a real mess all around. The insides of your thighs, the silk lining of Seonghwa's expensive fur coat and even the sheets beneath you are all slippery and damp from your arousal.
If this continues, you can be sure that soon you will be sitting in a pool of your own slime.
Even the tiniest motion of your lusty hips causes the petite silicone plaything to move gradually within your body, gliding up and down between the smooth, snug walls of your warm, silky vaginal canal. It doesn't let you relax, not for a moment, keeping your body taut like a string while the devilish toy continuously and unrelentingly stimulates you in the most pleasant and at the same time the most frustrating way possible.
Your desperation is becoming increasingly apparent, to the extent that it is almost physically distressing. You feel compelled to weep at the fact that no matter how hard you try, all your efforts are completely meaningless and only serve to exacerbate your anguish and arousal. You teeter on the brink, tantalisingly close to the precipice of mind-blowing ecstasy, yet unable to fully surrender to the euphoric sensation of a long-awaited, sensual orgasm.
No longer able to resist, you collapse wearily onto the vast, royally opulent bed, emitting an audible, disgruntled moan. Weariness closes your eyes beneath the dense black satin of the refined blindfold, which remains firmly affixed upon your head, and you permit yourself a brief moment to regain your breath and unwind.
Unconsciously, you begin to fidget in your spot, trying to burrow as deep as possible into the sumptuous cloud of expensive, weighty furs, which were completely saturated with the rich, intense aroma of bittersweet saffron, spicy pink pepper, and refined cashmere wood, which was the perfect personification of Seonghwa himself.
Filthy. Vulgar. And fuckingly beautiful, almost to the point where you wanted to punch him in the face to wipe that majestic, bitchily smug expression off him, which seemed to always enhance these divinely seductive, devilishly beautiful features of his appearance, regardless of the context.
If you were asked to describe this scent, you might say it evokes animal instincts, like fierce, unbridled sex bottled up in an exquisite, crystal vessel.
That was Seonghwa in all his glory—feverishly hot one moment, scaldingly frosty the next.
Your moment of calm won't last long, especially when the pit of your stomach tightens in a painful, delicious, painfully sweet spasm, reminding you once again of your unquenchable arousal. Your delicate hand slips back into the moist warmth between your soft, curvy thighs to tease your swollen pussy that flows with the sticky, honeyed nectar of your lust.
The delicate tips of your fingers slowly slide along your slit, smearing the thick, warm moisture of your arousal over the soft, petal-like folds of your pretty cunt, occasionally deliberately scratching your sensitive labia with your long, sharp nails, sending a slight shiver through your body and giving you goosebumps.
You do it again and again, each time plunging your fingers deeper between the plump, peachy halves of your cunt, caressing your folds and sometimes patting your clit and pressing the soft pads of your fingers against the delicate, thin edges of your little hole that stretches so beautifully around the smooth silicone loop that connects to the vibrator inside you and lets you manoeuvre the toy.
But you still don't think that's enough. Overcome with frustration, you press your fingers forcefully against your swollen, craving clit, circling it a few times and generously soaping it with your viscous, sticky juices until the reddened bud becomes slippery and smooth under your touch, before you squeeze it between your thumb and forefinger and pinch it.
The hot sensation of pleasure sweeps through you like a tsunami, almost unbearable, causing your eyes to roll back and your toes to curl.
It feels damn good—so fucking good, in fact—but it's nothing compared to Seonghwa's long, skilled tongue or Hongjoong's thick cock.
Your whole body wriggles and shakes with pleasure as you pinch your plump, sensitive clit a couple more times, and this brings you closer and closer to the edge. Your wet, needy vagina is being rhythmically spasmed around the soft smoothness of the silicone toy, which is relentlessly stimulating you from within. This causes more and more slime to spill out of you, dripping between your plump buttocks and moistening your tight arsehole. It pools beneath you, soaking the expensive, lush furs of Seonghwa's massive royal fur coat.
“Oh, God…” You let out a loud sob that breaks off halfway, turning into a long, ragged moan full of desire and need. Your thighs visibly tremble as you mindlessly sway them in an attempt to keep up with your pleasure, but it's beyond your control.
Your perky, juicy tits sway lustfully in time with your movements, and the delicate walls of your vagina squeeze around the toy, licking the silicone and intensifying the stimulation as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through your body.
You're so close to cum, so damn close that you can practically feel your orgasm on the tip of your tongue, and at that very moment, a low, velvety hum cuts through the stuffy, thick air of the bedroom, instantly pulling you out of the haze of pleasure and bringing you back from heaven to earth.
‘Look what we have here. Enjoying yourself, kitten?”
Pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader x kim mingyu
Summary: Being Seungcheol and Mingyu’s girlfriend comes with many perks, one of them including access to their recording studio and hearing their future hits before anyone else. It also means they have very inappropriate ideas they will certainly bring to life with you.
Word count: 7.8k
Genres/warnings: smut, polyamory, idol!seungcheol x non-idol!reader x idol!mingyu, established relationship, reader has fomo, description of feeling abandoned due to tight schedule, kinda separation anxiety, inaccurate representation of working in the studio and how all the equipment operates because author is fairly clueless and wrote on guesses of observing idol vlogs and minimal research.
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, sooo… sound play??? (if it’s a thing), a lot of touch, v fingering, light breast and nipple play, hickeys, making out, two big dicks (yes), oral sex (m receiving), deepthroating, cum eating, gagging, slight breath play, cock slapping/rubbing, trying to fit them both, size and strength kink, manhandling, multiple orgasms, praise, degradation, dirty talk, piv sex (unprotected, let’s pretend to judge them) and vag double penetration, creampie, dumbification, brief subspace, overstimulation, gentle aftercare, our boys are actually careful and attentive, use of vaaaarious pet names from cute to filthy; as always probably forgetting smth, let me know if you find anything.
A/N: it’s finally out!!! after me postponing this for almost a month now. but these two have been assaulting everyone lately and i just couldn’t bear it any longer. so here it is. the first work in the small series of this particular throuple. since i have received multiple anon requests for yacht and gym scenes there will be more of them and i made sure to set it up in this story. so, dear anon(s) (please identify yourself with an emoji next time so i know if you’re the same person or not) who requested gym and yacht threesomes, i will deliver don’t worry ;) i might combine it all in one big fic but i haven’t decided yet as even this piece of text was difficult to write with having to track three bodies and their states and poses. anyways, as always i wish you a pleasant read, your feedback is always welcome in all forms you’re comfortable with (comments, tags, anon), requests are open ᙏ̤̫
A/N2: I have edited this text but I’m worried that there are still things i failed to notice because I was editing it at 3 AM caffeinated but tired. If you notice some logical mismatches please let me know, I will fix
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist. | part 2 | part 3 [coming soon]
The bright red digital numbers above the elevator doors flicker to a halt, signalling your arrival. A soft, almost imperceptible ping echoes in the sterile silence of the corridor, a sound you’ve become closely familiar with over the past few years. It’s a little past 4 PM, and the company building hums with late afternoon lethargy, most of the day’s frantic energy already spent. Your own errands are finished, leaving you with restless energy that could only be quelled by one thing: surprising your boyfriends.
Lately, you’ve been seeing each other a lot less than usual. Or rather, you have been seeing them less. The two of them, working in tandem on their unit album, are practically symbiotic, existing in the same creative bubble every day. And if you were brutally honest with yourself, the shift in routine affected you. A lot. Despite your repeated assurances to both Seungcheol and Mingyu that you were totally fine, that you understood the demanding, all-consuming nature of their schedule—and you truly did—it did little to soothe the quiet, petty ache in your heart that sometimes left you feeling… abandoned. A nascent fear of missing out was taking root, its vines curling around your ribs with a suffocating squeeze.
It was that very feeling that propelled you here today. You’d gone so far as to casually check in with their manager, confirming that their afternoon was slated for studio time—perfect for a drop-in. You love seeing Cheol and Gyu in their element, a sight both awe-inspiring and insanely attractive. There’s specific magic in the way Seungcheol’s brow furrows in concentration as he dissects a beat, his fingers moving over the mixing board with the confidence of someone who’s been doing it for years. It’s in the way Mingyu closes his eyes, fully immersing himself in the booth, his voice cutting through the melody with sharp verses that are nothing short of captivating, especially when you think that he wrote them all himself. Witnessing the meticulous curation of their creative child, seeing two handsome men be absolute experts at what they do while radiating passion—there’s nothing sexier.
Yet, the shadow of their impending departure looms large. The list is endless: finalising the choreography, the gruelling music video shoot, the content filming, the Going Seventeen episodes they still have to squeeze in. You actively stop yourself from mentally cataloguing it all, because each item is a stepping stone that leads them away from you. They will leave, and you’ll have no chance of seeing your men for even longer stretches. And when they return, jet-lagged and exhausted, they will be just as busy, already preparing for the next thing. And then the world tour will start, and they will leave again.
How absolutely awful, unfair, and utterly demoralising.
Your melancholic train of thought is finally broken as you stand before the familiar studio door. You try the handle out of habit, finding it locked, though the distinct, muffled thump of a bassline bleeds through the studio’s soundproofing. Sighing, you land a few sharp, deliberate knocks against the heavy wood, ensuring your arrival is noticed over the music.
The sounds behind the door quiet down abruptly. Not even a minute later, you hear the definitive click of the lock, and the door swings open just a crack. Mingyu’s head peeks out, his handsome features initially set in a questioning, slightly distracted frown that instantly melts away the second he registers it’s you.
Your face breaks into a warm smile, but before you can even offer a greeting, his eyes grow comically wide with surprise. “Hyung!” he shouts, his voice booming with joy that’s surely audible across the entire floor. “Our baby is here!”
He doesn’t just open the door; he swings it wide open, a grand, sweeping gesture. He steps aside just enough to allow Seungcheol, who’s swivelled around in his chair by the control panel, a clear glance of you standing in the doorway. And then, several things happen in a delightful, chaotic simultaneity: the door is opened even wider, you are swept clean off your feet, and dragged inside the ambiently lit studio. The world tilts, and suddenly you are crushed against the solid, unyielding wall of muscle that is Mingyu’s entire body. He smells of pomegranate cologne and warm skin.
He kicks the door shut with his foot, the lock engaging again with a quiet thunk, all while holding you aloft with an effortless strength that never fails to make your head spin. He then proceeds to squeeze you in his arms, a full-body hug so tight it forces a tiny, breathless squeak from your lips. The sound is what triggers him to finally loosen his grip, his large hands shifting to cradle you instead, afraid his enthusiasm might have actually hurt you.
Meanwhile, Seungcheol watches the entire spectacle unfold from his chair, a fond, adoring smile playing on his lips, making his dimples show and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He looks tired, you note, but the sight of you seems to have washed some of the fatigue away.
“Okay, okay, you big bear,” you laugh, patting Mingyu’s broad shoulder as he finally, reluctantly, sets you down on your feet. He immediately swoops in to peck your lips, a quick, firm kiss that tastes of iced americano, and your insides flutter with affection in response. The cage of his arms loosens, and you finally have a chance to cross the short distance to the room’s centrepiece—the mixing console—and greet your other boyfriend.
“Hey, baby,” Seungcheol murmurs, his voice a low, warm rumble that vibrates right through you. You stop between his parted thighs as he swivels the chair fully towards you. His hands come up, snaking around your thighs to pull you closer as you lean down to press your lips to his. His kiss is slower, more deliberate than Mingyu’s, a silent ‘I missed you’ spoken against your mouth. His arms slide up to your hips, giving a couple of soft, possessive pats on your butt before resting there comfortably.
“What are you doing here, princess? Not that I’m complaining,” Seungcheol asks, his thumbs drawing absent-minded circles on your hips. His gaze is soft, taking in every detail of your face.
“Just missed you,” you murmur, the simplicity of the statement holding the weight of all the unsaid loneliness of the past week. “Finished my stuff early. Thought I’d ambush my favourite producers.”
Mingyu comes up behind you, his chin hooking over your shoulder, enveloping you in a sandwich of their combined warmth. “Best ambush ever,” he declares, nuzzling into your neck. “We’ve been stuck on this one adlib for an hour. You’re a welcome distraction.”
But that was a couple of hours ago. The initial euphoria of your surprise visit gradually settled into the comfortable, familiar rhythm of their work. Soon after the greetings, they returned to the track, the professional focus snapping back into place with an almost audible intensity. Seungcheol was back at the panel, headphones on, listening to a take with a critical ear, while Mingyu was back in the vocal booth, fine-tuning a single line over and over.
And you, after the excitement wore off, were back to watching them from the plush couch in the corner. You took a few candid photos, a short video of Mingyu making a silly face through the glass between takes, a shot of Seungcheol’s profile illuminated by the cool blue light of the screens. But there are only so many moments you can capture before you start to feel like a spectator again—an observer in their world, not a participant. The old, petty feeling of being left out begins to creep back in, coiling in your stomach.
So, at some point, you begin to sigh—loudly, dramatically—shuffling and tossing yourself around the couch cushions in a deliberate, albeit playful, attempt to gather at least some crumbs of their attention. While Cheol is focused on the panel and Gyu is in the booth, recording a particularly tricky run, the elder still catches your restlessness. He begins throwing you more and more frequent looks over his shoulder, his eyes a mix of amusement and gentle admonishment, silently willing you to behave. To every such look, you respond with an increasingly devilish, challenging smile, pushing your luck just to see how far you can go.
You leave the couch and take another chair by his side, drawing your knees up, letting your foot swing idly in the direction of his chair, your socked toe accidentally-on-purpose lightly kicking his seat. He catches your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, and gives you The Look—the one that says ‘I see you, and you’re being a menace, and we will address this later.’ It only makes your smile widen.
It’s Mingyu’s voice, slightly tinny through the booth speakers, that finally breaks the silent standoff. “Hyung, my throat is starting to feel a little raw. Can we take five? I need water.”
Seungcheol doesn’t take his eyes off you, a slow smile finally gracing his features as he releases your ankle. He presses the intercom button. “Yeah. Break time. I think our audience is getting restless.” He winks at you, and your heart does a little happy flip.
Mingyu emerges from the booth, stretching his arms high above his head with a groan. “I’m starving. Did we even eat lunch?” He collapses onto the couch and you quickly return to sit next to him. Mingyu is immediately slumping against your side, his head heavy on your shoulder.
“You had a protein bar at 2 PM,” Seungcheol deadpans, finally taking off his headphones and running a hand through his hair. He looks at the two of you curled up on the couch, and his expression softens immeasurably. “Takeout?” he suggests, already pulling out his phone. “My treat. For our very distracting, but very welcome surprise visitor.”
The collective decision is unanimous, and for a beautiful, fleeting moment, surrounded by the low hum of expensive equipment and the warmth of your two boyfriends, the world outside this studio, with all its deadlines and distances, ceases to exist.
The wait for the food settles into a comfortable, tangled silence. Seungcheol has you sideways in his lap, his arms locked securely around your middle like a living seatbelt, his chin resting on your shoulder. Your legs are a dead weight across Mingyu’s thighs, and he absentmindedly runs his large, warm hand up and down your shin, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of your sweats. They talk over your head, their voices a low, familiar rumble that vibrates through you. The conversation meanders from the minutiae of their day—a frustrating software glitch, a particularly good iced coffee—to the looming, exciting chaos of their upcoming weeks.
“The flight to LA is what, eleven hours?” Mingyu muses, his thumb pressing a soothing circle into your calf muscle. “I’m gonna pack my neck pillow. The one you got me, baby. The really ugly comfortable one.”
“It’s not ugly,” you mumble into Seungcheol’s neck, but your heart isn’t in the defences. Your mind is already on the eleven-hour flight, the ocean they’ll cross without you.
Seungcheol’s chest expands with a deep breath beneath your cheek. “Yeah, eleven. We land, probably hit the ground running. Scouting locations the next day, I think. The schedule our manager sent is… intense.”
“It’s going to be worth it,” Mingyu says, and the excitement in his voice is genuine, infectious, and it makes you feel all the more petty for the sulk you’re nursing. “The treatments for the music video, the concepts… hyung, it’s going to be so cool.”
They talk about rented house that is more like a set, about the boat for golden hour and night shoot, about surfing and playing pool not for fun, but for teaser content. From their talk you pick up that the whole concept is about two young (and attractive) guys living their life leisurely, enjoying it to the fullest. Each word is another brick in the wall separating their world from yours. You listen, silent, tracing the seam of Seungcheol’s t-shirt with a fingertip, the sulk solidifying into a hard, quiet knot in your chest.
Sure enough, Cheol notices. He always does; his attunement to your moods is a sixth sense. They both possess it. Communicating your feelings has never been particularly complicated with them, their empathy a constant, safe harbour in your relationship. This time, however, you find the words stuck in your throat. You don’t want to be the party pooper, the rain on their dazzling parade. This unit debut is a monumental thing, a dream they’ve meticulously built. You know the history, the slight pivot from Mingyu’s initial desire for a solo debut to this powerful collaboration—a testament to their bond and shared ambition. Your own feelings of lack feel insignificant in comparison.
And so, naturally, what’s noticed by one is immediately telegraphed to the other. A glance passes between them over your head, a silent conversation held in raised eyebrows and slight nods. Suddenly, the comfortable tangle of limbs shifts. You’re being gently manhandled, pulled upright until you’re sitting properly in Seungcheol’s lap, facing them both. They crowd in against the couch, two muscular, concerned bookends, their focus entirely on you.
“Hey,” Mingyu says softly, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, forcing your downcast eyes to meet his. “What’s going on in that pretty head? You’ve gone all quiet.”
“It’s nothing,” you try to deflect, offering a weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just listening. It all sounds amazing.”
Seungcheol’s arms tighten around you. “Your voice says ‘amazing,’ but your whole body is saying something else, princess. Talk to us.” His tone is gentle but insistent, brooking no argument. They are set on coaxing your truth out into the open, refusing to let you bottle it up.
Before you can formulate a proper response, a sharp buzz from Seungcheol’s phone on the coffee table fractures the moment. The takeout has arrived. Seungcheol lets out a soft sigh of frustration, his forehead resting against your temple for a brief second. “Don’t think this conversation is over,” he murmurs, his voice a warm promise against your skin before he carefully extricates himself from the couch and heads out to retrieve your food.
The moment the door clicks shut, Mingyu shifts closer, his body a solid, comforting line of heat beside you. “He’s right, you know,” he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “We can tell something’s up.” He doesn’t push further, instead choosing to redirect the conversation back to LA, but this time, he paints a different picture. “You know, they rented this huge house in Malibu. For the shoot, but it has, like, six bedrooms. And we’re supposed to be there for a week. There’s a boat, sure, for the MV, but maybe we could sneak out for a sunset cruise just for us… if we had company.”
He talks about driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, not for a photoshoot, but for the view. About playing pool at one of the bars they will scout, after the crew has left for the day. He carefully, deliberately, weaves you into the narrative of their work trip. “I’m the unit leader, you know,” he adds, a hint of playful boastfulness in his tone that makes you smile despite yourself. “I have… some sway. If a certain someone wanted to come along, and if that certain someone could maybe take some time off work… I’m just saying, it’s a possibility.”
By the time Seungcheol returns, arms laden with bags of food that fill the room with the savoury scent of garlic and spices, he’s met with two identical sets of pleading, hopeful puppy eyes. He stops in his tracks just inside the door, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he glances between your suddenly bright expression and Mingyu’s Cheshire cat grin.
“What?” he asks, setting the bags down cautiously. “What did I miss? Why are you both looking at me like I’m the last packet of kimchi?”
“Mingyu says I might be able to go to LA with you,” you burst out, unable to contain the hopeful tremor in your voice.
Seungcheol’s suspicious gaze shifts to Mingyu, who just shrugs, still smiling. “I said it’s a possibility. If she can get the time off. And if her incredibly generous and handsome boyfriends pull some strings.”
The conversation continues as you unpack the containers of tteokbokki, fried chicken, and sides. Seungcheol, being the pragmatic general leader he is, confirms the logistical truth while sitting cross-legged on the floor, handing you a pair of chopsticks across the table. “It’s possible, baby. The company’s renting the place, there’s space. But you have to understand,” he says, his expression softening as he sees your excitement. “I can’t promise we’ll have much free time. It’s not a vacation for us. It’s work. You might be alone in that big house a lot.”
You lean forward, cutting him off before he can dissuade you. “I don’t care. I just want to be there. I want to be included. Even if I’m just reading by the pool while you’re on set. It’s better than being here, missing you.” The honesty spills out, raw and simple.
The look they exchange is filled with such fond adoration it makes your chest ache. They find it endlessly endearing, this dichotomy of yours: how you always act so tough and self-sufficient, playing the role of the understanding, independent girlfriend, only for them to inevitably discover that all you’ve ever truly wanted is to simply tag along, to be near them, to have their attention.
When the food is gone and the containers are stacked neatly back into the bags, a contented lethargy settles over the three of you. You splay out on the couch like a languid cat, your head in Mingyu’s lap and your feet tossed over Seungcheol’s thighs. You are warm, full, and happy, the earlier melancholy soothed by the promise of inclusion. You are so content, in fact, that you completely miss the significant, unspoken glance that passes between your two boyfriends. You miss the subtle shift in the atmosphere, the charged quiet that descends after Seungcheol clears his throat and stands up.
“Alright, back to work. My turn to lay down some verses,” he announces, stretching his arms above his head with a short groan. His eyes meet Mingyu’s for a fraction of a second too long.
You suspect nothing as they return to their stations. Mingyu gently pats his thighs. “Come here, supervisor. Best seat in the house.” It’s a common occurrence; the two of them are endlessly touchy-feely with you, and touch is your shared, primary love language. So you go, settling comfortably into his lap, his arms coming around your middle to cage you in gently as he focuses on the control panel.
He gives Cheol directions through the microphone, his voice professional and clear. “Try it with a little more rasp on the second line, hyung. Yeah, like that. Really lean into the consonant.” You resign yourself to observing, content once again to just witness their creative process, to feel included in this small way.
It’s not until fifteen minutes in, lulled by the low thrum of the instrumental and the rich sound of Seungcheol’s voice pouring through the monitors, that you finally register the change. Mingyu’s hands, which had been resting innocently on your stomach, have crept under the fabric of your tank top. His palms are warm and slightly rough against your skin, brushing slow, deliberate circles into your ribs. His touch is idle, almost absent-minded, as if he’s not entirely aware he’s doing it. But then his fingers inch higher, skating along the sensitive skin just beneath the curve of your breasts, and a full-body shiver wracks your frame.
In the booth, Seungcheol’s eyes, previously closed in concentration, snap open as if he feels the shift on the spiritual level. He’s watching you through the glass, his verse trailing off. He doesn’t look annoyed. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face as he sees your breath hitch, your head loll back against Mingyu’s shoulder. Mingyu’s lips find the shell of your ear.
“You’re being so good, just sitting here,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that has nothing to do with the recording. “So pretty for us.” His thumbs sweep higher, finally brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you gasp softly.
Seungcheol’s voice comes through the speakers, deep and laced with dark amusement that goes straight to your core. “Getting a little distracted, Mr.Producer?” he purrs into the microphone. “I can’t focus with this kind of view.”
What unfolds after is categorically, gloriously unfair. But as Mingyu’s hands slide up to cup you fully and Seungcheol’s heated gaze pins you through the glass, any thought of complaint evaporates.
Who are you to complain?
The world tilts on its axis, or perhaps it’s just you being manoeuvred with a dizzying, practised efficiency. Somehow, in a tangle of eager limbs and soft, hungry laughter, the three of you end up crammed inside the vocal booth. The space, designed for one, maybe two people, becomes an intimate, pressurized capsule with the three of you inside. You are sandwiched between your beefy boyfriends, their larger frames caging you in, their body heat a palpable, intoxicating force. They are delighted, their eyes dark with shared intent that feels both thrilling and overwhelming, a full scale assault on all your senses that you welcome with a racing heart.
It starts, deceptively, with a return to normalcy. They shift from the heated moment at the console back to their professional personas, and for a fleeting second, you think that was it—a brief, spicy interlude now concluded. They begin anew, their voices taking on a didactic tone as they explain the process to you.
“Okay, baby, listen up,” Mingyu says, his voice a low murmur near your ear as he adjusts a large set of studio headphones over your head, the cushioned ear cups sealing out the room's ambient noise. “We’re gonna show you how the magic really happens. Something you’ve been missing out on all those other times you just lazed on the couch.” He boops you on the nose when you roll your eyes at his teasing comment.
Seungcheol, on your other side, leans over to the small control panel inside the booth, flicking a switch. “We’re routing the booth mic to your headphones. Live monitoring. You’ll hear everything exactly as we do when we record. Every breath, every little sound.”
His voice comes through the headphones crystal clear, an intimate whisper directly inside your skull, simultaneously layered over the real-life sound of him speaking right next to you. It’s a disorienting, incredibly cool effect.
“Whoa,” you breathe out, and the word echoes in your own ears, amplified and immediate.
“See?” Mingyu grins, his voice also doubling in your headset. “Fun, right? Now, say something else.”
“Hello?” you whisper like they do in those ASMR videos, giggling at the weird sensation of hearing your own voice with such pristine clarity.
“So pretty,” Seungcheol’s voice purrs in the headphones, and you can’t tell if he said it out loud as a passing compliment or with intention.
It’s fun. A unique, behind-the-scenes glimpse into their world. Until it’s decidedly not just fun anymore. They start slow, so insidiously gradual you fail to register the exact moment their instructive crowding transforms into something else entirely. The technical explanations fade, replaced by a different kind of tutorial.
You get pressed back into the solid wall of Mingyu’s chest, his hands settling on your hips, not to move you, but to hold you in place. Seungcheol, facing you, continues his ‘demonstration’, his hands slipping under the hem of your tank top. His palms are warm and slightly rough against the soft skin of your stomach, splaying out possessively.
“You have to be really relaxed in here,” Seungcheol murmurs, and the mic picks up every low vibration of his words, piping them straight into your head. His hands slide higher, caressing your ribs, rubbing soothing circles that feel anything but soothing. “Tension comes through on the recording. Right, Gyu?”
“Mmm, absolutely,” Mingyu’s voice agrees in your ear, his lips brushing against your hair, a dual sensation that makes you shiver. His hands on your hips tighten just a fraction. “You have to let go. Let us take care of everything.”
They start with a litany of compliments and praise, their words weaving through the live feed in your headphones, layering over the physical sensation of their lips on your shoulders, the nape of your neck, the sensitive skin of your throat.
“So good for us, princess,” Seungcheol whispers, his breath hot against your collarbone, the mic catching the wet sound of his kiss.
“Our perfect girl,” Mingyu adds, his voice a low rumble against your back. “Just melting for us. Listen to how pretty your breathing is.”
And you are melting. Your head falls back against Mingyu’s shoulder, your breathing hitching, becoming heavier, and the headphones amplify every shaky inhale and soft, shuddering exhale, feeding it back to you, pulling you deeper into the sensory spiral.
Then Mingyu’s fingers slip past the loose waistband of your sweatpants, finding the dampening fabric of your panties beneath. He doesn’t push them aside, not yet, just rubs slow, firm circles over the centre of you through the cotton, the pressure building with a maddening patience.
“She’s already so wet, hyung,” Mingyu reports, his voice thick with awe and desire, and the fact that he’s saying it both, for you to hear through the mic and for Seungcheol to know, sends a fresh wave of heat through you.
While his fingers work you through your panties, Seungcheol’s hands are busy above. He palms your breasts through your tank top, his thumbs finding your nipples and brushing over them until they pebble into hard, aching points against the fabric.
“And so responsive,” Seungcheol answers, his voice dark with pleasure. He hikes the tank top up, and the cool air of the booth hits your heated skin, followed immediately by the warm wetness of his mouth. He lavishes attention on one breast, sucking deeply, his tongue flicking over the peak before he grazes it with his teeth, making you cry out. The sound is loud and sharp in your own ears.
They are sickeningly sweet throughout it all, their whispered encouragements a stark contrast to the claiming roughness of their hands and mouths.
“Our pretty little cockslut,” Seungcheol murmurs against your breast, the degradation disguised as the highest form of praise, and you whimper, the crude word sparking through you.
“That’s it, baby. Just take it. You’re doing so well,” Mingyu encourages, his fingers finally slipping beneath the barrier of your panties to find you slick and throbbing.
You can feel the hard ridge of Mingyu’s erection pressing insistently into the small of your back through the rough denim of his jeans. In front of you, Seungcheol is squishing you against him, his own hips beginning a slow, subtle grind against your hip as he continues his worship of your breasts, your neck, your stomach—touching, licking, sucking dark bruises onto your skin that you know will linger for days.
Meanwhile, Mingyu is slowly, expertly fingering you, curling his fingers inside you to find that spot that makes your knees buckle. He brings you to your first climax with relentless, gentle pressure, his other arm banded across your stomach to hold you upright as you shudder against him, a broken, gasping moan echoing deafeningly in the headphones.
After that, the atmosphere shifts, shedding the last vestiges of playfulness. It turns wilder, more desperate. They help you onto your knees on the padded floor of the booth, the world narrowing to the two magnificent men standing over you. With cooperation that speaks of years of familiarity with one another, they unbuckle their jeans and free themselves.
They are both big, a fact you are never not acutely aware of, but the differences are stark and thrilling. Mingyu is long and straight, a perfect, hammering length. Seungcheol is impossibly thick, a heavy weight in his hand, with an upward curve that you know hits all the right places. You’re left panting, crawling closer on your knees, your mind hazy with lust, utterly unable to choose who to serve first. It’s pathetic, and a tiny, sane part of your brain cringes at your eagerness, but if having two insanely hot, devoted boyfriends did anything to you, it was this—unleashing a suppressed, ravenous cockslut that existed solely for their pleasure and your own.
They take turns at first. While one fucks your face with slow, controlled thrusts, the other is fisting himself and watching you work your mouth, their groans and whispered filth a symphony in your headphones.
“Look at her, hyung. Takes it so good,” Mingyu grunts, his hands gently cradling your head as Seungcheol watches, his own hand stroking his length.
“Wider, baby. Let me see,” Seungcheol commands, and you obey, opening your jaw until it aches, the echo of obscenely wet sounds intensifies in your ears.
Then Mingyu gets an idea, his eyes lighting up with mischievous heat. “Hyung, come here.” He shifts, standing face-to-face with Seungcheol, their bodies framing your vision. At first, they just rub their shafts together against your cheeks, smearing precum on your skin, a lewd display that has you whining with need.
“Open up, princess,” Seungcheol orders, his voice rough. “Let us in.”
They guide themselves forward, and the broad heads of their cocks press against your lips simultaneously. You open as wide as you can, and they push in. The stretch is immediate and obscene. You have a small mouth, and the invasion of two such girthy cocks is overwhelming, stretching your lips to a painful thinness, poking the insides of your cheeks out. You gag instinctively, even though they aren’t aiming for your throat, tears springing to your eyes.
“Fuck, that’s... tight,” Mingyu grits out, his head falling back.
“Feel that, Gyu? Fuck, she’s trying to suck us both,” Seungcheol moans, his hips giving an aborted thrust.
And you are. You try to swirl your tongue around them both and wrap your strained lips around them tighter, moving your head a fraction of an inch to slurp them deeper. But the practicality of the fantasy soon wins out. As much as they clearly enjoy the sensation of being pressed together in the hot, wet confines of your mouth, they can see the strain on your face.
“Shit, baby, okay, too much,” Seungcheol is the first to pull back, his thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
“Feeling us throb against each other, though... fuck,” Mingyu adds, pulling out as well, his breathing ragged. “That was so hot. You’re so good for trying, baby. So perfect.” This is the thing about your men—they will experiment and if it fails they will never make you feel bad for it.
They go back to taking turns, and the relief of focusing on one at a time makes you redouble your efforts. First, it’s Mingyu. He holds your head in place, his touch gentle but his thrusts becoming wilder, abandoning control. He fucks your mouth with a desperate rhythm that makes you gag and sputter, your throat working around him
“Gonna cum, baby. Right there. Take it, take it all,” he chants, and his release hits the back of your throat, bitter and warm. He holds himself deep, his thighs trembling. “Swallow, pretty girl. Can’t make a mess in the studio.” You obey, working your throat until you’ve swallowed every last drop. He pulls out, panting, and strokes your hair. “Good girl. Didn’t spill a drop. Hyung, your turn. She’s all yours.”
Seungcheol doesn’t waste a second. He fists his hand in your hair, pulling it back away from your face so he can watch. He goes slower but pushes deeper, his incredible girth stretching your lips wide, the curved head nudging right against your throat, making it bulge visibly with each thrust.
“Look at that,” he rasps, his eyes glued to where he disappears into your mouth. “Taking me so deep. My perfect little throat slut.” He loves a hint of breathplay, and he holds himself deep, suffocating you gently on his thickness, holding you there until your jaw locks and your eyes water. Then he starts to move again, a torturous rhythm of deep, shallow thrusts. The wet, gurgling, squelching sounds are grotesquely loud in the studio headphones, a filthy soundtrack to the act. He holds back his release, drawing it out, watching you fall apart beneath him.
“Cumming, baby. Right down your pretty little throat. Don’t you dare waste it,” he grunts, and his release floods your esophagus, just as bitter as Mingyu’s. You squeeze your eyes shut and will your stomach not to rebel, swallowing convulsively around him. Spit and cum bubble around the base of his shaft as he stills, pulsing, before finally pulling out with a soft, satisfied sigh.
After that, the three of you collapse into a heap on the floor of the booth, a tangled, sweating, spent mess. The headphones are askew but still somehow on, now transmitting the ragged symphony of your combined panting. Your boyfriends are immediately all over you, their hands gentle and concerned, checking you over.
“You okay, baby? We didn’t go too far?” Mingyu asks, wiping a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“Your jaw okay? Your throat?” Seungcheol queries, his voice soft now, all the earlier roughness gone, replaced by pure, unwavering care.
To their delight, you are miles away, floating deep in your subspace. You can’t form coherent thoughts, let alone words. Your world has narrowed to the taste of them on your tongue, the ache in your jaw, the throbbing, empty ache between your legs that has been cruelly ignored while you were busy giving them brain. You’re pulsing with need, so turned on from servicing them that your own pleasure is a screaming, desperate thing.
In response to their questions you just whine, nuzzling into Seungcheol’s neck before turning your head to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to Mingyu’s bicep. Your hips give an involuntary, tiny roll against nothing, seeking friction.
They both feel it, see it. A shared, predatory grin passes between them over your head.
“Oh, I see, princess,” Seungcheol chuckles, a dark, promising sound. “Don’t you worry.”
“Did we neglect our precious little baby?” Mingyu coos, his hand sliding down your stomach, his fingers tracing the waistband of your not-yet-discarded sweats. “Left you all throbbing and untouched after you were so good for us?”
“That won’t do,” Seungcheol concludes, his voice firm. “We can’t have our good girl feeling dissatisfied. That definitely calls for compensation.”
The world dissolves into a symphony of sensation and sound, a dizzying vortex where the only anchors are the two solid, powerful bodies that bracket you. Held aloft in a modified full nelson, your sweats and underwear long since discarded to some forgotten corner of the booth, you are the blissful, helpless centre of their universe. Two sets of strong arms are locked beneath your thighs and around your body, suspending you in the air, your weight nothing against their combined strength. And between your bodies, the devastating, core-deep connection: two thick, hard cocks driving into your slick, obscenely stretched pussy in a relentless, alternating rhythm.
The stretch is immense, overwhelming, a delicious burn that borders on pain before tipping over into pure, mind-numbing pleasure. Every thrust from Seungcheol, impossibly thick and curved, is followed by Mingyu’s longer, smoother stroke from behind, spearing you on a continuous, rolling wave of sensation that leaves you mewling and whimpering. And every pathetic, wanton sound you make is captured, amplified, and fired directly back into your skull through the studio headphones, a filthy, private soundtrack that drives you pathetically insane.
Their grunts, the wet, rhythmic squelch of their relentless pace, their whispered filth—it’s all right there in your head, a cacophony of debauchery.
“Look at her take it, Gyu,” Seungcheol grunts, his voice a rough, breathless rasp in your ears. His hips snap forward, burying himself to the hilt and making you choke on a gasp. “Fuck, so tight, even after all these years of us stretching her pretty little cunt around both of us. You feel that?”
“God, yes, I feel you,” Mingyu moans from behind you, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. His thrusts are deeper, slower, but no less powerful. “You’re rubbing right against me inside her. Hot little sheath made just for us.” His hands, secured under your thighs, find purchase on your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh there. “Our personal fucktoy. Isn’t that right, baby? Just a warm, wet hole for us to use.”
Their words, so crude and degrading, are delivered with a tone of absolute reverence, and the dichotomy makes you clench around them both, drawing twin groans from your boyfriends.
“Fuck, she liked that,” Seungcheol laughs, a dark, thrilled sound. He leans in, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot on your face. “You like being our little fucktoy, princess? Our dumb, drooling cocksleeve?”
You try to form a word, a plea, anything, but all that escapes is a broken, guttural moan as Mingyu shifts his angle, hitting a spot so deep it makes stars burst behind your eyelids. The tip of his cock is kissing your cervix, you’re certain. Your jaw goes slack, saliva gathering at the corners of your mouth, your tongue lolling out slightly. You are a mess, utterly fucked dumb, and they are revelling in it.
Seungcheol shuts you up with a searing, open-mouthed kiss. His tongue licks into your mouth, smooth and warm, claiming you with possessiveness that has you seeing white. It’s deep and wet and filthy, and you’re sure you cum a little just from the taste of him, the sheer dominance of the act. Your body convulses around them, a weak, tremulous orgasm that has them both cursing, their thrusts stuttering.
“Jesus, just from a kiss?” Mingyu pants, his voice full of awed wonder. “You’re so fucking easy for us. So perfect.”
You’re delirious, lost completely in the press of their bodies, the smell of their sweat and sex, the overwhelming feeling of being so small and utterly manhandled by them. They are stretching you out so deliciously, filling you beyond what any normal person would think possible, and the tears that have been welling in your eyes finally spill over, tracing hot paths down your temples and into your hairline as you break the kiss and your head rests against Mingyu’s shoulder just for a moment. You can only keen and groan, the sounds jerky and short, punctuated by their powerful, driving thrusts.
“Look at her cry,” Seungcheol murmurs, pulling back from the kiss to watch your face, his own expression a mask of rapt fascination. “So pretty. Crying because she’s so full of us. Because it feels too good to handle. Poor baby.” He uses his grip on you to adjust your angle slightly, and the new depth he achieves has you sobbing.
Then Mingyu, who’s fucking into you with deep, measured strokes from behind, reaches one large hand around your hip. His fingers find your oversensitive, throbbing clit, already swollen and aching from the relentless friction of Seungcheol’s thick cock ramming into your spongy softness. His touch is expert, circling the bundle of nerves with a firm, precise pressure that is sheer torture.
“There we go, baby,” Mingyu coos in your ear, his voice a low, intimate rumble. “Let’s get you there again. Cum for us. Squeeze our cocks while you do it. Milk us dry, you perfect little slut.”
The dual stimulation is too much. It’s an avalanche of sensation, a direct, white-hot line to your overloaded nervous system. Your brain fizzes into static, a complete and total mush. You know your body sags, going completely boneless in their hold because you feel their arms strain with the renewed effort of keeping you suspended, their biceps flexing powerfully against your skin.
“Fuck, she’s gonna cum,” Seungcheol grits out, his rhythm faltering as he feels the first violent clench around his length.
“That’s it, baby, let go,” Mingyu encourages, his fingers working faster, his own thrusts becoming shallower, focused on grinding against that spot inside you.
Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, silent for a second before a ragged, shattered scream is torn from your throat, echoing deafeningly in your own ears. Your vision tunnels, your entire body seizing up, convulsing around the two cocks buried deep within you. The pulsating, milking contractions are intense, drawing ragged groans from both men.
It’s a race between them then, to finish while you’re still riding your high, your spasming muscles pulling their releases from them.
Mingyu finishes first. With a guttural, broken cry of your name, he slams into you one final time, his body going rigid against your back. You feel the hot, sudden spurts of his cum painting your inner walls, the sensation so intimate it wrings a breathy, oversensitive moan from you. The feel of his release, the way his hips jerk against you, is the final push for Seungcheol.
“Fuck! Gyu—!” is all Seungcheol can manage before he’s following right over the edge, his own orgasm triggered by the feel of Mingyu pulsing inside you alongside him, and another powerful, involuntary squeeze of your abused pussy around his girth. He buries himself as deep as he can, his thrusts turning into shallow, frantic jerks as he empties himself into you, his release mixing with Mingyu’s, filling you to overflowing.
The intimate rubbing and pulsing of them against each other inside you, the feeling of being so utterly claimed and filled, prolongs their releases, drawing them out into shuddering, breathless moments. They stay like that, locked together inside you, holding you aloft as they ride out the last waves of their pleasure, their heavy pants and your own weak, hitched breaths the only sounds in the booth, amplified grotesquely in your headphones.
The sound of it all—the wetness, the ragged breathing, their low groans—is making you dizzy, a pleasant sickness rising in your stomach from the sensory overload. You float in a hazy, post-coital limbo until Mingyu, with a tenderness that contrasts violently with the preceding frenzy, gently tugs the headphones from your head.
The sudden silence is jarring, a vacuum of sound. You breathe out a long, shuddering sigh of relief, as if you’ve been held underwater for an eternity and have finally broken the surface.
“Whoa,” you slur, your tongue feeling thick and clumsy in your mouth. “It’s... quiet. Nice.”
The guys laugh quietly above you, the sound warm and real, not a distorted feed in your ears. Seungcheol presses a kiss to your sweaty temple. “Yeah? Too much for our baby?”
“S’nice to hear you... for real,” you mumble, nuzzling into his neck, still feeling properly, thoroughly fucked out.
Then comes the aftercare, a practised, gentle ritual. They don’t just drop you. They carefully, slowly, lower your boneless body until your feet touch the padded floor, but your legs immediately betray you, buckling like jelly. Mingyu is there in an instant, his arms coming around you to hold you upright, taking your full weight against his chest. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
Seungcheol carefully pulls out, a soft hiss escaping his lips at the sensation. He tucks himself back into his jeans before turning his full attention to you. “Okay, sweetheart? Just breathe.” He runs a hand over your hair, your back, checking you over with a clinical tenderness.
Then it’s Mingyu’s turn. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before gently passing your wobbling form into Seungcheol’s waiting arms. He quickly cleans himself with a wet wipe—of course they have a whole stash conveniently in the studio—and pulls his pants back up. Seungcheol, meanwhile, lifts you as if you weigh nothing, carrying you out of the humid, sex-scented booth and into the cooler air of the control room, laying you down gently on the large, comfortable couch.
Mingyu trails behind, gathering your discarded underwear and sweatpants. He gently tugs your tank top, which had been rucked up under your armpits all this time, back into place, his touch achingly soft. They move around you in a silent, efficient dance, a well-rehearsed routine of care that they performed many times before. They tenderly clean the sticky mess between your legs with cool, soothing wipes, patting you dry before carefully pulling your underwear back on and your soft sweatpants back up your legs. Mingyu retrieves a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, unscrewing the cap and holding it to your lips.
“Small sips, pretty girl,” he murmurs, supporting your head as you drink. The water is cool and blissful on your parched throat.
Every action is interspersed with kisses—to your forehead, your cheeks, your knuckles—and a constant stream of soft, reassuring praise.
“You did so well, baby.”
“So good for us, our perfect girl.”
“Just rest now, we’ve got you.”
“So beautiful like this, all ours.”
Their words and touches are a lifeline, slowly pulling you back from the depths of your fucked out subspace, anchoring you back to reality, back to them.
Later, when coherence has returned and you can form full sentences again, sitting curled between them on the couch with Mingyu’s jacket thrown over your shoulders, Seungcheol stands up and walks over to the control panel with a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Wanna hear something, baby?” he asks, his voice light.
Before you can answer, he hits a button. The studio speakers crackle to life. And your own voice, breathy and desperate, fills the room.
“Please... oh god, please...”
You freeze, your entire body lighting up with a fierce, all-consuming blush. Your eyes go wide with horror as the recording plays—the wet, obscene sounds of their thrusts, your choked sobs, Mingyu’s growled “Cum for us, you perfect little slut,” Seungcheol’s dark purr of “Take it all, our dumb, drooling cocksleeve.”
“Oh my god, turn it off!” you squeak, burying your burning face in your hands. “That’s so embarrassing! Delete it! Delete it right now!”
But your two boyfriends are beaming, beyond proud. Mingyu wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side while Seungcheol grins, utterly unrepentant.
“Delete it? Not a chance,” Seungcheol says, a wide, boyish smile on his face. “This is going straight to our private clouds. This is our new comfort recording for the upcoming tour.”
Mingyu nods enthusiastically, nuzzling into your hair. “Yeah. For when we’re in different time zones and missing you so much it hurts. Now we can just put this on and it’ll be like we’re right here with you. Or... you’re right here with us.”
The horror slowly begins to melt away, replaced by a warm, fluttering ache in your chest. The embarrassment is still there, a hot prickle on your skin, but it’s overshadowed by the overwhelming love you feel for these two ridiculous, wonderful, insatiable men.
“You’re both insane,” you murmur, but you’re smiling now, unable to help it.
"Insane for you," Seungcheol corrects softly with a meaningful wiggle of his eyebrows after finally putting the audio on pause. He returns to the couch and leans in to kiss you, his lips soft and sweet now against yours.
Something tells you, as you look at their proud, loving faces, that this recording will not provide comfort. It will only serve to starve all of you, to ache for each other with a fierce, desperate longing that will make every second of their tour feel like an eternity. It will be a beautiful, exquisite torture, a constant reminder of the devastating intimacy waiting for them at home. And by the time they’re back, you will all be ravenous.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!
Tagging those who expressed interest in the comment section of the original post. Thank you everyone and I hope you liked it: @jaja-salute @aikikim @jupittergirl @xchelseaaaa @assoulacaratassil
Summary: For years, you and your best friend Seungcheol have had a simple, no-strings arrangement. It's easy, comfortable, and safely platonic outside the bedroom. But when a careless comment threatens your dynamic, you're forced to confront the inconvenient truth: lines have been blurred, jealousy is real, and the heart wants what it wants, even if it risks the most important relationship you've ever had.
Word count: 16.4k
Genres/warnings: angst (slightest), romance, smut, non-idol!au, fem!oc, fwb, f2l, miscommunication (my fav), they are both overthinking idiots and i love them, cheol is a dream man as always, mutual pining i guess? mentions of reader being in her cynicism phase, their friends know before they do (and are betting)
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, slight nipple/breast play, piv sex (unprotected, don’t do it kids), big dick!cheol (default, i think we can stop mentioning it), clit stim, worshipping, teasing, praise, use of various pet names, cheol is impatient in this one; frankly not the dirtiest thing i’ve written but it would’ve become 20k words if i added detailed smut scenes; as always, i think i’m forgetting smth
A/N: everyone please go thank anon for this request, I had a field day with this idea, the plot came pretty easily to me, was a joy to work on. I took this as an opportunity to experiment with how I write here. Hope it’s just as enjoyable as what I’ve produced before. Probably my favourite piece of work I’ve written so far. Initially I thought about Moth To A Flame by TheWeeknd as inspiration for this fic. But then I was listening to my Cheol playlist and It Was Always You by Maroon 5 played (hence the title) and it all clicked. Really proud with how it turned out to be. Hope everyone enjoys, your feedback is always welcome in all forms you’re comfortable with (comments, tags, anon), requests are open ᙏ̤̫
A/N2: it’s so fucking late where i am, i spent two days trying to edit it and i give up. If there are any mistakes I will edit them later, i felt too impatient to deliver this requested monstrosity hehe
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist.
You and Seungcheol have been friends for a long time. So much so neither of you remember the day or even how you befriended each other, the memory has long since blurred into the comfortable, worn-in fabric of your shared history. You only know that it started somewhere back in the first year of college, a time of hazy lecture halls and bad instant coffee, and it stubbornly refused to end. Now the two of you are in your early thirties, living your adult responsible lives, with careers that demand too much and social calendars that are a minefield of weddings and baby showers, yet this one constant remains. He is your person, in the most foundational, unshakeable way. Even if you’re not going to confess it out loud or even in your mind to yourself.
What you do remember quite vividly, with a clarity that feels almost embarrassing, is the day your friendship took a turn and became something a little bit more complicated than it probably should’ve become. And the fact that you were the initiator? Wild shit. You genuinely don’t know the person you were back in your college days. That version of you was slightly unhinged like that, operating on a potent cocktail of academic frustration and dating fatigue. But can you really blame yourself when you had a friend like Seungcheol at your disposal? No, you don’t think you can. Self-preservation and logic had simply taken a backseat to a much more primal, curious part of your brain.
Let's be objective: Seungcheol is hot, he’s been hot from the first day you met him (even if you can’t recall the specific moment). It’s a simple, universally acknowledged fact, like the sky being blue or coffee being a necessary fuel for human survival in the twenty first century. It’s in the broad line of his shoulders, the way his laughter seems to start deep in his chest before it ever reaches his lips, the surprising gentleness in his eyes that contrasts so starkly with his sometimes intimidating presence.
And this is what you can’t fathom to this day—how the hell did you manage to spend so much time around him without immediately getting a crush? Were you blind? Probably. You’d built a fortress of platonic comfort so high you couldn’t see the very attractive landscape you were living in. But then, around the third year, multiple unfortunate dating experiences later, you were so thoroughly tired of figuring out the mass male stupidity and so profoundly bored that your mind couldn’t help but wander. And wander it did. Somewhere so deep and dark, the next thing you knew—you were texting Seungcheol an entire elaborate, business-like proposal to become friends with benefits. You’d even bullet-pointed the potential benefits and boundaries, for Christ’s sake.
You weren’t even drunk when you wrote it; that suggestion was calculated and very thought through, a desperate bid for physical intimacy without the accompanying emotional labour of dating apps and disappointing first dates. You sent that message before you could doubt your own sanity, your thumb hitting the send button with decisiveness that made your stomach swoop. And to your mild surprise, he agreed. Not immediately. There was a long, agonising ten minutes of those three dreaded dots appearing and disappearing on your screen before his response came through: a simple, devastatingly straightforward ‘Okay. But we talk about this in person first.’
No, you were not surprised by the fact that a guy wouldn’t mind casually hooking up with his female friend; life had taught you by that time that men are like that, that they would use the opportunity, that many of them if not all, are just waiting for a chance. This was the cynical narrative that had pushed you to test it out in the first place. You were at that specific point in your life where you didn’t mind, in fact you tried to see it like guys did—you had a hot friend that you knew for a fact (from other girls who could or would not keep their mouths shut after every party) was a good fuck, so why not use the opportunity? Your surprise was solely because it was him and he was agreeing to you. Not that you had—nor have—low self-esteem, it’s just that knowing Seungcheol as a close friend for quite some time at that point, you thought you knew his type. And it simply wasn’t you. Not with the way you bickered and nagged at each other like an old married couple, not with your stubborn opinions and your inability to be coy.
But somehow, against all odds, it worked out. The conversation was awkward, filled with more nervous laughter than either of you would ever admit to, but it was honest. And now, years later, the arrangement is still intact, a secret thread woven into the larger tapestry of your friendship. The only rule, established that night over cheap beer and a profound sense of surrealism, was that your hookups happen only when you both are single. Neither of you fancied infidelity, after all. It was a clean, simple rule for a messy, complicated thing.
This rule, however, has created its own unique rhythm to your lives. Your respective relationships become intervals, pauses in whatever this is between you. And Seungcheol… Seungcheol has become an unexpected gatekeeper of your love life, though you’d never phrase it to him like that. He’s always there, in the background, a constant presence. He meets the men you date, and you meet the women he sees. You’re friends, first and foremost, so it’s only natural. But you’ve started to notice things.
You notice the way his smile becomes a little too fixed, a little too tight around the edges, when you introduce him to a new guy. You notice how his questions, always framed as friendly concern, become subtly pointed, digging for flaws with the precision of a surgeon. “He seems nice. A bit quiet for you, though, don’t you think? You need someone who can keep up.” Or, “He’s fun. Just… make sure he knows what he wants, yeah? You don’t have time for games.” He says it all like a caring older brother, his arm slung casually over your shoulders, but the grip is just a fraction too possessive to be purely platonic.
You’ve started to notice, too, how your own dating life has become a revolving door of mildly disappointing men. There’s the photographer who was more in love with his own lens than with you, the graphic designer who thought ‘communication’ was sending you a meme at 3AM, the accountant who was so painfully dull you found yourself mentally composing your grocery list while he talked about tax brackets. And after each failed attempt, after each breakup that leaves you more exasperated than heartbroken, there is Seungcheol.
He’s there with a bottle of beer and a patient ear, listening to you rant about the latest specimen of male inadequacy you’ve somehow managed to fish out of the abundant sea. He never says ‘I told you so.’ He doesn’t have to. His silent, solid presence is its own testament. He’ll let you vent, let you declare your newfound celibacy, and then, when the timing is right—when you’re both single, when the air between you is charged with a shared understanding and the faint, familiar buzz of attraction—the unspoken offer hangs between you. It’s in the way his gaze drops to your lips for a beat too long, in the way his hand lingers on the small of your back when he passes you a drink. It’s an offer of a different kind of comfort, one that requires no words at all.
And you always, always say yes. Because it’s easy. Because it’s Seungcheol. Because you know exactly what you’re getting, and it’s infinitely better than the disappointing unknown. He’s your reset button, your safe harbour in the frustrating sea of modern dating. You just haven’t realised yet that he’s not just waiting in the harbour; he’s the one quietly sabotaging every other ship trying to dock, ensuring you have nowhere else to go but back to him.
It is one of these mornings, the one after a long night that you spend together. The one that you will never confess to love but still do—Sundays after hanging out with your group of friends on Saturdays. It’s a ritual as familiar and comforting as the worn-out pages of a favourite book. You always leave together when your arrangement is in force, a well-rehearsed play where you both know your lines by heart. Exhilaration is what you feel every time Seungcheol takes the lead, his hand finding the small of your back as he announces to the room that he’s tired and heading out. You play your part perfectly, joining him, feigning a yawn and complaining about exhaustion after a long week of work, when underneath your skin your blood is buzzing with the silent, electric thrill of getting alone and getting busy with him. The knowing glances from your friends, the ones who have seen this dance for years, slide right off you; you’re too focused on the heat of his palm through your shirt, on the promise of what comes next.
You love Sunday mornings. It’s a secret you keep even from yourself most days, but in the quiet solitude of his bedroom, with the world outside still hushed and slow, you allow the truth of it to settle in your bones. It means waking up with his arms wrapped around you tightly, a living, breathing cage of muscle and warmth that you have no desire to escape. It means feeling the heat of his skin against your own, a seamless fusion where you end and he begins, warming each other up under the heavy duvet. It means you get to feel him snore softly, his face tucked into the crook of your neck and shoulder, his warm puffs of air feathering against your skin in a rhythm that’s more soothing than any lullaby. It means you can watch his peaceful face and his gloriously tousled hair and pretend, for just a minute or two—because he always, always wakes up almost right after you, as if tethered to your consciousness—that this intricate, complicated thing between you is more real, more permanent, than you’ve ever dared to set it up to be.
And it makes your heart squeeze painfully, a sweet, aching pressure behind your ribs. You lean away just enough to watch his features in the soft, greyish light filtering through the blinds. The slightly parted plump lips that he certainly needs to moisturise more, the ridiculously long, dark lashes fanning over the tops of his cheeks, the thick, expressive eyebrows now relaxed in slumber. He’s beautiful, in a raw, unpolished way that you want to think is meant only for you in these stolen moments. You don’t hold yourself back when you get the urge to trace the lines of his face with the tips of your fingers, a feather-light touch over the strong slope of his nose, the curve of his jaw. People would argue with you if you told them that Seungcheol’s features are soft, but they are. There isn’t a single truly sharp line in his face, only a compelling blend of inherent strength and profound softness. They just don’t get to see him like this, peaceful and completely unguarded, not when he’s usually armed with his slight resting bitch face that isn’t exactly grim but is far from the open, sunny warmth he reserves for his closest people.
And yes, he can be sunny and warm in his conscious state despite what people who barely know him might think. He can. And you find that conscious, directed warmth a ton more devastating, because you’re never quite sure what it means when it’s directed at you. Or, rather, you’re just too scared to examine it to understand.
He stirs under your feathery touch, a low, rumbling sound vibrating from his chest into yours. He grumbles something indecipherable, a sleep-thickened murmur that probably translates to ‘five more minutes’, before his instinctual grip on you tightens possessively. In one smooth, half-asleep motion, he rolls, his weight settling over you, crushing you gently into the soft mattress. You let out a quiet oomph, the air leaving your lungs in a soft rush before a chuckle escapes you. He’s a ridiculously large, warm cuddle bug in the mornings, all clingy limbs and sleepy incoherence.
“You’re going to crush me, Cheol,” you whisper to him, your voice husky with sleep. You try to push lightly on his shoulder, a token effort to have him release some of his weight, only to be rewarded by his arms wrapping even tighter around you, locking you in place.
A low, smug chuckle rumbles against your chest. “Didn’t hear you complaining last night when I fucked you into the mattress in a mating press,” he mumbles, the words slurred but the intention crystal clear, his lips moving against the sensitive skin of your neck.
In just a second of time a memory flashes in front of your eyes: Seungcheol locking you in what you can describe only as a bear hug, pressing you into the bed while his hips are pistoning in and out of your pussy, your arms and legs wrapped tightly around his body, cunt clenching tightly around his girth, friction so delicious it makes you cry and drool. In short—he fucked you stupid last night. As he always does.
You gasp, a jolt of pure shock and arousal shooting straight down your spine. The sheer audacity of his blunt, sleepy smugness makes the tips of your ears burn hot. You land a sharp, playful slap on his shoulder. “Hey! So crude first thing in the morning,” you scold, but there’s no real heat in it, your protest dying in your throat as he shifts his hips, a deliberate, grinding motion that makes you acutely aware of his morning wood pressing insistently against your thigh.
He finally lifts his head, blinking slowly as he adjusts to the dim light. His hair is a magnificent disaster, sticking up in every possible direction, and his eyes are still heavy-lidded with sleep, but a familiar, dark heat is already beginning to smoulder in their depths. A lazy, predatory grin spreads across his face as he takes in your flushed cheeks and the way your breath has hitched. “It’s the truth,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that does things to your insides. He dips his head, nuzzling the spot just below your ear that he knows makes you shiver. “And if I remember correctly, you were begging for it. Couldn’t get enough.”
His words are a deliberate provocation, a way to re-establish the dynamic you both understand—the physical, the primal, the uncomplicated. It’s easier than addressing the quiet intimacy of waking up tangled together. You play along, because it’s the script you wrote together all these years ago. “Maybe I was just being polite,” you retort, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck, your traitorous body already arching slightly into his.
He laughs again, a soft, warm sound against your skin. “You? Polite? Since when?” He nips at your earlobe, a gentle punishment, before soothing the spot with his tongue. His hands, which had been wrapped around you, begin to move. One slides down the curve of your waist, over your hip, his fingers splaying possessively across the bare skin there. The other comes up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone with tenderness that belies his crude words. This juxtaposition is his specialty, has always been—the vulgar, confident lover who can switch in a heartbeat to something unbearably gentle.
“Since now,” you breathe out, but the effect is ruined by the way your eyes flutter closed as his thumb brushes your lower lip.
“What a blatant liar,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.
His kiss is not a gentle, good morning type. It’s deep and claiming from the first second, a reclamation of territory. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like the few hours of sleep were an unbearable separation. You melt into it instantly, your hands coming up to thread through his messy hair, pulling him closer. The taste of sleep is on his tongue, warm and familiar, and it’s more intoxicating than any fine wine. He groans into your mouth, the sound full of want, and grinds his hips down against yours again, the friction sparking a sharp, delicious ache between your legs.
The duvet is a tangled heap around your waists, the morning air cool on your heated skin. He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your jaw, your neck, his teeth scraping lightly over your collarbone. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a raw rasp. “Waking up next to you like this... it’s a special kind of torture.”
Your mind, fogged with desire, tries to parse his words. Is he referring to physical frustration, or something else? You don’t get a chance to ask. His mouth finds your breast, his tongue laving over a pebbled peak before drawing it into the warm, wet heat of his mouth, meanwhile his hand presses into the softness of the underside and begins kneading gently. A broken cry escapes you, your back arching off the mattress, pressing yourself more firmly into his mouth. His other hand, the one on your hip, slides further down, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thigh before hiking your leg up over his hip, opening you up to him completely.
“Cheol,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Please.”
“Please what, baby?” he asks, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, and his lips are slick and swollen from kissing you. He is a vision of debauched beauty, and he’s all yours, at least for this moment. “Tell me what you want. I need to hear you say it so I know what to give you, pretty.”
He loves this. He loves making you verbalise your need, loves to hear the desire in your voice, to know that you’re as far gone as he is. It strips away the last pretences of your friendship and leaves nothing but raw, honest want.
“I want you,” you whimper, beyond pride, grinding your hips against his in a desperate search for friction. “Please, I need you inside me. Now.”
A groan tears from his throat, a sound of pure victory. “Fuck, yes.” He shifts above you, supporting his weight on one arm while the other hand guides himself to your entrance. He pauses for a second, just the head of his cock pressing against your slick heat, his eyes locked on yours. In that suspended moment, it feels like more than just sex. It feels like a connection that goes bone deep, a silent communication that speaks volumes neither of you are brave enough to voice aloud.
Then he pushes into you, slow and inexorable, filling you up in one long, perfect stroke. A simultaneous moan is ripped from both of you, a shared sound of relief and intense pleasure. He stills, buried to the hilt, forehead dropping to rest against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants. “God, you feel... you always feel so fucking perfect,” he grunts, the words strained. “Like you were made for me.”
The statement hangs in the air, loaded and dangerous. You squeeze your eyes shut, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him even deeper, if that’s possible, using the sensation to drown out the dangerous flutter in your heart. “Move, Cheol,” you beg, “Please, just move.”
He obeys, setting a deep, rolling rhythm that has you seeing stars. This is what Sunday mornings are for. This slow, thorough fucking, a world away from the frantic, sometimes rushed couplings of a Saturday night. There’s no audience here, no friends in the next room, just the two of you in a sun-dappled room, with all the time in the world. Each thrust is measured, languid, designed to drag every possible ounce of pleasure from both of you. His eyes never leave your face, watching every flicker of emotion, every gasp, every silent plea.
His hand slips between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, applying just the right amount of pressure in lazy, rubbing motions that match the pace of his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, building a coil of tension deep in your belly, tightening with every movement. It leaves you gasping and panting, and the world around you spins so much you would’ve fallen if you were standing.
“That’s it, baby,” he encourages, his voice rough with exertion and desire. “Cum for me. Let me feel you.”
You’re helpless to resist him. Your orgasm crashes over you suddenly, a wave of overwhelming ecstasy that makes you whimper out his name, your body convulsing around his, milking him desperately. The intensity of it whites out your vision, and you cling to him as if he’s the only solid thing in a spinning world.
Feeling you clench around him is his undoing. With a guttural groan that is pure need, he drives into you one last, final time, his own release shuddering through him to paint your insides white. He collapses on top of you, his full weight a welcome burden, his face buried in your neck as he rides out the aftershocks, hips giving a few more jerks, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
For long minutes, there is only the sound of your combined, laboured breathing and the distant hum of the city waking up outside. The scent of sex and sleep and his unique, musky cologne fills the air. His arms are locked around you, holding you so tightly it’s almost difficult to breathe, but you wouldn’t ask him to move for anything.
Eventually, he pulls out of you and shifts, rolling onto his side but taking you with him, keeping you tucked firmly against his chest, your back to his front. He nuzzles the back of your head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss into your hair. Neither of you speaks. The unspoken rules hover between you—this is the part where you don’t analyse, you don’t question, you just exist in the aftermath.
But as you lie there, wrapped in his warmth, his even breaths slowly calming against your back, the familiar ache returns to your chest. This thing between you is a beautiful, perfect lie you tell yourselves every Saturday night. But these Sunday mornings... they feel dangerously, heartbreakingly real.
The two weeks that comprise the project deadline at work leave you feeling hollowed out, a vessel emptied of all creative and social energy. It’s a familiar post-partum depression that comes with finishing a major task, a crash after the adrenaline high, and you really should be used to it by now—but you aren’t. Each time, the emptiness feels uniquely profound, as if your very personality has been leached away, leaving behind only the bare, functional necessities required to breathe and blink.
This time, it’s particularly bad. The mere thought of putting on pants, makeup, of making polite conversation, of mustering a smile that doesn’t look like a grimace and make everyone worried for your wellbeing, sends a wave of genuine exhaustion through you. So, you do the only thing that feels manageable: you cancel. You skip the bi-weekly hangout session with your friends, a sacred tradition that usually acts as a balm for your soul. You send the message into the group chat, a pathetic little paragraph peppered with apologetic emojis, and you brace for the inevitable backlash.
Your phone lights up almost instantly, a chorus of concerned and cajoling notifications. Soonyoung sends a series of increasingly dramatic GIFs expressing heartbreak. Jihoon texts a simple, ‘You good?’ which, from him, is the equivalent of a five-page concerned letter. Alice tries to softly guilt-trip you into joining them or else she will die before her wedding with Jeonghan can even take place. Some just wish you a nice rest. But it’s Seungcheol who calls.
You let it go to voicemail, curling tighter into your blanket burrito on the couch. He tries again. And then a third time. On the fourth ring, you sigh, defeated, and answer.
“What?” you mumble, your voice scratchy from disuse.
“Get up,” his voice is warm and firm through the speaker, devoid of any judgment. “I’m downstairs. I’ll buy you that overpriced coffee you like with the extra shot of vanilla. We can go together. You don’t even have to talk. Just sit there and look pretty and let the noise wash over you. It’ll be good for you.”
The offer is incredibly tempting. He knows exactly what to propose, how to make it sound manageable. But even that feels like too much effort today. The idea of being perceived, even by your closest friends, is utterly draining.
“Cheol, I can’t,” you whine, and it’s the most energy you’ve expended all Saturday. “My social battery isn’t just drained; it’s negative. It’s in the red, and the bank is charging me overdraft fees. I’m staying in.”
He’s silent for a moment, and you can practically hear him thinking, assessing the genuine level of your misery. Seungcheol knows the difference between you being lazily antisocial and you genuinely hitting a wall. He recognizes this as the latter.
“Alright,” he concedes, his tone softening. “But you’re not off the hook. I’m checking in later. Eat something that isn’t cereal, yeah?”
You promise you will, a hollow vow, and hang up. The apartment settles back into silence that is both comforting and, now, a little lonely. You spend the evening in a state of suspended animation, watching TV without really seeing it, reading the same paragraph of a novel over and over, and scrolling mindlessly through social media.
A few hours later, your phone buzzes with a flurry of stories from the club. You click through them with a faint, detached smile. There’s Mingyu attempting a complicated dance move and failing spectacularly, Seokmin leading what looks like a conga line through the crowd, Jeonghan smiling serenely into the camera while chaos erupts behind him. You giggle, typing out a few laughing comments, feeling a faint, vicarious buzz from their joy.
And then Seungcheol’s account comes around.
It’s a photo, seemingly taken by Mingyu based on the angle. It’s a little blurry, saturated with the neon glow of club lights. Seungcheol is on the dance floor, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, an easy, relaxed smile on his face—the one he gets when he’s just tipsy enough to be thoroughly enjoying himself. And he’s pressed against some chick.
The woman is beautiful, there’s no denying it. She has long, dark hair and is laughing, her head tilted back, her body angled towards his. His hand isn’t on her waist, not exactly, but it’s resting on the small of her back, a gesture of casual familiarity that feels like a punch to your gut. You don’t notice how your expression drops in a second, the faint smile wiped clean off your face. But you do catch your thumb hovering over the screen, and you physically stop yourself from zooming in to scrutinise every pixel, every minuscule detail of the damned photo.
*What are you doing? a voice, cold and rational, chides in your head. You have no claim. This is the arrangement. This is what you both agreed to.
If Seungcheol were to see you right now, you’re sure there would be a legendary bickering battle happening. He’d take one look at your pinched expression and that infuriating, knowing smirk would spread across his face. ‘What’s with the sour face, princess? You look like you sucked on a lemon.’ And you’d snap back, defensive and bristling, and the whole thing would devolve into a familiar, comforting argument that would somehow diffuse the weird, tight feeling in your chest.
But he’s not here. You’re alone in your silent apartment, and you’re left to just sit with it. To consciously suppress the ugly, monstrous head of that particular feeling—a feeling that has no name, no right to exist—as it tries to rear up in your chest. It’s a hot, green, coiling thing. Jealousy is too strong of a word. Possessiveness is too entitled. It’s just… a profound sense of wrongness. A dissonance.
Annoyed at yourself, you throw your phone onto the cushion beside you as if it’s guilty of making you feel shitty. Mood thoroughly spoilt, you set on rewatching season one of The Vampire Diaries for the nth time in your life, turning the volume up to drown out your own thoughts. You’re halfway through the third episode, lulled into a false sense of security by Stefan Salvatore’s brooding, when your intercom buzzes, sharp and startling in the quiet.
You frown, pausing the show. You aren’t expecting anyone. You pad over to the speaker. “Hello?”
“Delivery for apartment 504!”
Food? You didn’t order anything. “There must be a mistake,” you say, your voice still hesitant.
“Name on the order is—,” the disembodied voice insists it’s yours.
Bewildered, you buzz him in. You’re just about to open your door to tell the delivery man that there’s definitely been a mix-up when your phone rings, Seungcheol’s name flashing on the screen. The timing is too perfect.
You answer, bringing the phone to your ear. Immediately, you’re hit with a wall of sound—the deep, thumping bass of club music, the indistinct roar of a crowd, laughter. It’s so loud you have to hold the phone slightly away from your ear.
“Hey!” Seungcheol’s voice is a shout, trying to hear himself over the din. “He’s there, right? The delivery guy?”
“Yeah, he’s just outside,” you say, your confusion mounting. “Seungcheol, what is this?”
“It’s my treat! Since you decided to be a sad little hermit crab tonight,” he shouts, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “You said you’d eat something, and I know you’ve probably just had a bag of chips for dinner. So now you have to!”
The gesture is so characteristically him—overbearing, thoughtful, annoyingly perceptive—that it instantly softens your edges. The tight coil of wrongness in your chest loosens its grip just a fraction. He’s out there, surrounded by music and beautiful people, and he’s thinking about whether you’ve eaten. You take the paper bag from the delivery man with a quiet thank you and bring it inside, the phone cradled between your shoulder and your ear.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, but the protest is weak. You’re already unpacking the container, the smell making your stomach growl in anticipation.
“I know,” he says, and the music seems to fade slightly, as if he’s moving to a quieter corner. “But I wanted to. Are you still watching your angsty vampire show?”
You let out a small laugh. “Maybe.”
There’s a brief pause, filled with the distant echo of the club. You can picture him leaning against a wall, one hand pressed to his free ear to block out the noise. When he speaks again, his voice is still loud but has lost some of its party-energy edge, becoming a little more serious.
“Hey, so… um…” he starts, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I saw you saw my story.”
Your hand stills, a potato pancake halfway to your mouth. Your heart gives a single, hard stutter against your ribs. Oh.
“Yeah, looked like you were having fun,” you say, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere near mildly interested. You stuff the pancake in your mouth so you have an excuse not to say more.
“It’s not—that photo,” he says, and he’s practically shouting again, whether from the music or from emphasis, you can’t tell. “It’s just a moment caught out of context, you know? Mingyu was being an idiot with the camera. She was a friend of a friend of someone, I don’t even know. There was not even a word of flirting, I swear. It was just… dancing.”
The explanation is so sudden, so utterly unprompted and unnecessary, that it steals the air from your lungs. He felt the need to call, from a club, to shout this clarification over the phone. To you. The feeling you were suppressing earlier surges back, but it’s different now—it’s mixed with a confusing rush of warmth and a defensive panic of a person strikingly afraid of change.
You swallow your food, your mind racing. You have to play this cool. You cannot let him know that you even noticed enough for him to feel an explanation was warranted. That would be admitting to something you have no right to feel.
You force a light, airy tone, one you hope conveys utter indifference. “Seungcheol, what are you talking about? You don’t owe me explanations. I frankly don’t care who you dance with.” The lie tastes like something rotten on your tongue. You push on, layering on a performance of breezy nonchalance. “In fact, maybe you actually *should* flirt. Might do you some good. You might finally find yourself a nice girlfriend and stop bothering me.”
The line goes quiet for a beat, the only sound is the muffled boom of the music. You’ve gone too far. It was the wrong thing to say. You can feel it. The words hang in the digital space between you, cheap and cruel. You squeeze your eyes shut and silently curse yourself over and over again. So stupid.
“Right,” he says finally. His voice has changed. The warmth is gone, replaced by a flat, neutral tone you can’t decipher. The shout is gone; he’s speaking more quietly now, and it’s somehow worse. “Yeah. You’re right. My bad.”
“Cheol, I didn’t mean—” you start, but it’s too late.
“Nah, it’s cool. Enjoy your food. I’ll… see you later.”
And before you can say another word, before you can untangle the messy knot of emotions you’ve just created, the line goes dead.
You stand there in the middle of your quiet living room, the phone still pressed to your ear, listening to the dial tone. The warmth from the food container seeps into your hands. You look down at the potato pancakes with mushrooms and a side of Greek yoghurt. Your favourite. He remembered your favourite, from that one tiny café you’d mentioned weeks ago. He’d navigated an app, input your address, and chosen your exact order while surrounded by noise and people and a beautiful woman.
And you’d thrown his careful, clumsy explanation right back in his face with a dismissiveness you didn’t even truly feel.
The hollow feeling from your deadline crash returns, but it’s different now. It’s not empty. It’s filled with a heavy, sinking regret. You’ve successfully pushed him away, reinforced the very boundaries you yourself established, and the victory feels bitterly cold. You sink back onto the couch, the delicious food suddenly seeming utterly unappetizing. The vampires on screen continue their dramas, but you’re no longer watching. You’re just sitting in the silence, alone with the consequences of your own meticulously maintained walls.
In the days that come after the disastrous, self-sabotaging phone call, you find yourself trapped in a state of constant, low-grade agony. It’s a persistent, humming anxiety that lives in the base of your skull and the hollow of your stomach, making it impossible to focus or find any peace. It’s to the point where your performance at work noticeably suffers; you miss obvious errors in reports, you zone out during meetings, and your usually sharp contributions are replaced with vacant, half-formed murmurs. Your manager pulls you aside, her brow furrowed with concern that feels both patronizing and entirely deserved.
“Is everything alright? You’ve seemed… distracted this week.”
You offer a thin, brittle smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just a lot on my mind. End-of-project fatigue. I’ll be more focused, I promise.”
She accepts the lie with a nod, but the scolding, however gentle, rolls off you. You can’t care less. In the grand, dramatic theatre of your own mind, your life is falling apart. You know you’re catastrophizing, you know you’re spiraling over a man who, by the very rules you set, shouldn’t inspire this kind of turmoil. But the knowledge does nothing to stop the freefall. A cruel, logical little voice in your head whispers on a loop, This is what you wanted. You re-established the boundary. You got exactly what you asked for. The victory feels like chewing on sand and trying to swallow the lump.
The other, less logical part of you is locked in a perpetual state of paranoid vigilance. Your phone becomes a weapon of self-torture. You find yourself scrolling through your friends’ social media accounts with a forensic intensity that shames you, your thumb aching from the constant refresh. You’re not looking for updates on their lives; you’re looking for him. A stray tag in the background of a photo, a familiar pair of broad shoulders just out of focus, a comment from his account on someone else’s post—any hint, no matter how minuscule, that Seungcheol might be seeing someone else.
It’s a futile exercise, and you know it. You know better than anyone how fiercely private he is about his personal life. He’d never post a coy Instagram story hinting at a new romance. That’s your department. You’re always too quick to share, to let the world in on a happiness that feels too fragile to be kept secret, a habit that has backfired spectacularly every time, leaving you to later archive and delete any trace of your exes from your digital history. The contrast between his quiet discretion and your messy, public heart is just another stark reminder of why this… thing between you was always destined to be a complicated secret.
But this is a digression. A useless attempt to rationalize the irrational panic coursing through you.
The true source of your agony is the silence. The stark, deafening void where Seungcheol usually is. He doesn’t call for his usual midday check-in. There are no stupid memes sent at two in the afternoon with a caption that just says ‘you’. No texts asking what you’re doing for dinner or complaining about his workload. The digital space he occupied in your daily life has gone dark, and the absence is a physical weight on your chest.
The only time you see his name pop up on your phone screen is in the group chat, a space that feels suddenly too exposed and impersonal. Your dear friend Alice, now Jeonghan’s fiancée, is finalizing the guest list for their wedding in two weeks.
Alice: Okay, final headcount for the caterer! Please confirm if you’re definitely coming so I can stop stressing ❤️
The responses flood in quickly—a chorus of ‘YES’ and heart emojis. You type out your own confirmation, your thumb hovering over the send button as you watch the screen, waiting. His name appears.
Seungcheol: I’ll be there.
Formal. Simple. Devoid of his usual exuberant punctuation or silly GIFs. It’s a statement of fact, nothing more. It’s the most you’ve heard from him in days, and it feels like a stone dropping into your gut. You quickly send your own confirmation and click your phone off, unable to look at his name on the screen because it leaves you feeling helpless.
You have absolutely no idea how to fix this mess. The architecture of your entire relationship was built on the premise of not having to fix things like this. It was designed to be simple, uncomplicated. You’re the one who insisted on the rules, and now you’re terrified you’ve followed them straight off a cliff. Every potential text you draft sounds either too desperate or too flippant. Every excuse to call him feels transparent and pathetic. So you do nothing. You just exist in the agony, a prisoner of your own making, watching the silence stretch out between you and wondering if it’s already too late to bridge the gap.
Seungcheol is miserable. This much is painfully, abundantly clear to Mingyu, who has been "privileged"—though he’d vehemently argue the term is synonymous with "torture"—to witness his friend spiral in and out of his own mind for the better part of the week. Mingyu’s presence in Seungcheol’s immaculately clean apartment has become a near-daily fixture, a significant uptick from the past nine months or so. That period of relative peace had conveniently coincided with your breakup with your last boyfriend and the subsequent, unspoken renewal of your… arrangement with Seungcheol. Yes, Mingyu knows. Like a select few others in your shared friend circle—the ones who’ve been around since the first year of college and bore first-hand witness to the gradual, complicated evolution of your friendship—he is acutely aware of the delicate, unspoken rules that govern your dynamic.
Now, he is watching Seungcheol pace the length of his living room for the fifteenth time in ten minutes, a human embodiment of a caged animal. The rhythmic thud of his footsteps on the polished floorboards is starting to wear on Mingyu’s last nerve. He really, truly wants to get up and smack his friend hard on the head, if only to jolt him out of this self-imposed loop of agony. He’s starting to feel physically dizzy from the constant back-and-forth motion.
Seungcheol, bless his turmoil-riddled heart, remains entirely oblivious to the profoundly displeased expression on Mingyu’s face. He’s too busy mentally replaying every second of that phone call, dissecting your tone, your words, the exact moment the conversation curdled into something sharp and final. He’d tried to probe discreetly, of course. He’d casually asked Soonyoung and Jihoon (unfortunately not Alice who’s currently too busy with the upcoming wedding), the mutual friends he knows you’re closest to, if you’d perhaps slipped a word or two about being upset. ‘Is she okay? She seemed off the other night.’ But the reports came back identical: you had retracted from everyone altogether, a turtle deep into its shell. The only digital proof of your existence in the group chat was your stark confirmation for Jeonghan’s wedding. It’s this radio silence, this complete and utter withdrawal, that is driving him absolutely insane. The not-knowing is a special kind of hell.
Mingyu lets out a long, suffering groan from the depths of the leather couch. “Hyung,” he begins, his voice a mix of pleading and utter exhaustion. “Can you, please, for the love of god, stop fucking pacing? I’m getting motion sickness. I’m going to throw up all over your very expensive, very tasteful rug.”
The complaint finally pierces through Seungcheol’s obsessive fog. He stops mid-stride, blinking as if seeing Mingyu for the first time, and has the decency to look sheepish, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Sorry,” he mumbles, the word thick with frustration that isn’t directed at Mingyu. He finally collapses into an armchair, his body sagging with a weariness that speaks of sleepless nights. The reprieve lasts for all of sixty seconds before the nervous energy, with no outlet in pacing, finds a new vessel: his leg begins to jerk up and down in a frantic, ceaseless rhythm.
And then, as if a dam has broken, his thoughts begin to spill out in a torrent of devastated theories and frantic what-ifs.
“It’s just—what did I even do wrong?” he bursts out, his hands gesturing wildly. “I sent her food because I knew she wasn’t eating! I called to make sure she got it! And then I just… I just told her the truth about that stupid picture because I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, because I know how she overthinks everything, and I—I thought she’d…” He trails off, shaking his head. “She said she didn’t care. She told me to go find a girlfriend, Mingyu. Like it was nothing. Like what we—like the past few years—mean nothing. What if I’ve completely misread everything? What if she’s been looking for a way out of this… thing… and I just gave her the perfect excuse?”
He continues like this, weaving a tapestry of worst-case scenarios with the skill of a master tragedian, each theory more elaborate and self-flagellating than the last. Mingyu listens, his head propped up on his hand, until he can physically take no more. He sits up straight, putting his foot down—both literally and metaphorically.
“Okay. Stop. Hyung, just stop,” he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You are a smart man. How is the solution to this not glaringly obvious to you? You need to talk to her.”
Seungcheol looks at him as if he’s just suggested they both go wrestle a bear—terrified and absolutely not willing to entertain the idea. “I can’t just—what would I even say? ‘Hey, sorry I called you from a club, but why did you get mad at me for explaining myself?’ It’ll just make it worse. She’ll think I’m clingy. Or crazy. Or both.”
“And the alternative is better?” Mingyu retorts, his patience wearing thin. He leans forward, his expression turning deadly serious. “You sit here, in your perfectly sterile apartment, driving yourself—and me—crazy. You don’t talk to her. The silence stretches. You both go to Jeonghan’s wedding and it’s awkward, and you’re miserable. And then what? You know her pattern. How long do you think it will be before she’s trying to fill this weird silence with someone else? How long before she’s dating someone new again?”
He lets the question hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. “So, I’ll ask you, how does that make you feel? Watching her show up with some new guy none of us know? Watching her laugh at his jokes? Because that’s the path you’re on right now, hyung. That’s the alternative to swallowing your pride and having one uncomfortable conversation.”
Seungcheol doesn’t need to respond. He doesn’t need to utter a single word. The effect of Mingyu’s blunt prognosis is instantaneous and devastating. All the frantic energy drains from his body, leaving him pale and still in the armchair. The stormy, frustrated expression collapses into one of raw, unvarnished dread. His eyes, wide and suddenly lost, flicker away from Mingyu’s gaze. The silent, terrified acknowledgment on his face says it all, in excruciating, perfect detail. The mere prospect is a kind of hell far worse than the agony of the unknown.
Jeonghan and Alice’s wedding is not just a celebration; it is an event, a meticulously crafted piece of magic that feels both grand and intimately personal. They had flown their closest family and friends to France, renting an entire, petite hotel nestled in the rolling hills of the rural countryside. The setting is nothing short of whimsical, the ancient stone walls and lush, manicured gardens making the scene look less like a modern party and more like a page torn from a storybook, steeped in a sense of old-money elegance and timeless romance. Fairy lights are strung through the ancient trees, casting a soft, golden glow as the sun begins to dip below the horizon, and the air is thick with the sweet scent of blooming roses and the distant, earthy aroma of vineyards.
Alice looks like an ethereal vision in her gown, a figure of pure grace and joy. Jeonghan, by contrast, is a beautifully contained nervous wreck throughout the final preparations, the prelude, and the ceremony itself. To the casual observer, he is the picture of calm, his signature serene smile firmly in place. But those who know him well—you, Seungcheol, the rest of your tightly-knit group—see the subtle tells: the way his thumb rhythmically strokes his index finger, the almost imperceptible tightness around his eyes, the slight, deliberate pace of his breathing. However, even his formidable composure shatters during the vows. When Alice reads hers, her voice steady and full of a love so profound it seems to quiet the entire world, Jeonghan’s carefully constructed facade crumbles. A single tear tracks its way down his cheek, then another, and he makes no move to wipe them away. Alice, proving yet again to be his perfect match, gently teases him for it within her own vows, a moment of levity that makes everyone laugh through their own tears.
Seungcheol, standing tall among the groomsmen on Jeonghan’s side, feels his own throat constrict with emotion. But his gaze isn’t fixed on the happy couple for long. It finds you, standing among the bridesmaids across the aisle. He watches as you lift a hand to discreetly brush away silent tears, your expression one of raw, unfiltered joy and sentimentality. The sight sends a familiar, painful ache through his chest. The two of you haven’t spoken a single word since arriving, orbiting each other in a tense, silent dance. His one, small relief in this agonizing standoff is the confirmation that you haven’t brought a surprise plus one. Of course, he rationalizes, you probably couldn’t have squeezed in such a last minute decision even if you wanted to. But the petty, possessive part of his heart clings to the victory nonetheless.
The vows are exchanged, the final blessing is given, and the officiant announces those magic words. As Jeonghan cups Alice’s face and kisses her with a tenderness that feels too intimate to witness, a stark, acute realization flashes in Seungcheol’s mind, sharp and undeniable: his best friend is marrying yours. The two most constant people in his life, outside of you, are binding their lives together. And the wish that follows is so powerful it steals his breath: he wishes, with a fervor that borders on prayer, that one day it will be you and him in that same position. If. The word echoes hollowly in his mind. If he can manage to untangle the magnificent mess he’s made of everything.
The reception is a blur of laughter, clinking glasses, and exquisite food that Seungcheol barely tastes. A few hours later, he finds himself anchored to the bar, a half-finished glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers. He’s spent the entire day watching you, a silent sentinel of his own misery, every nerve ending screaming at him to just go over there and pull you aside. Yet, his feet remain rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the fear of making everything irrevocably worse.
And now, his worst impulse is confirmed. He’s watching you chat with some man he’s never seen before—some distant cousin of Jeonghan’s, he overheard someone say. The sight makes his blood simmer, a hot, ugly jealousy coiling in his gut. He feels at war with himself for what feels like the hundredth time in the past two weeks, the rational part of his brain trying and failing to shout over the primal roar. You have no right, it insists. She reminded you of your place. She told you to find a girlfriend. You are just her friend. On the other hand, the ugly, green-eyed beast rears its head and snarls, its rotten teeth sinking deep every time you smile sweetly at the other man. An adequate, reasonable part of Seungcheol is sure you’re just being friendly and polite, the perfect wedding guest. But it’s not the part that’s been at the steering wheel of him lately.
He’s so intensely set on you, his glare so focused, that he doesn’t notice the groom himself appearing by his side, looking immaculate and immensely amused by the drama unfolding at his own wedding. Jeonghan, like Mingyu, is one of the very few who witnessed the very beginning of your arrangement with Seungcheol; he’s always seen the writing on the wall.
“Gonna burn a hole in her dress if you keep staring at her like that,” Jeonghan muses, his voice a light, teasing melody that startles Seungcheol out of his trance.
Seungcheol grunts, not taking his eyes off you. “Who is he?”
“My cousin, Minjae. Be nice. Don’t kill him,” Jeonghan chuckles, following Seungcheol’s gaze as you and the man continue your conversation. “He’s nice. A dentist. Very stable. Probably looking for a wife.” He delivers the last line with deliberate, mischievous provocation. “You’ve been a dark, brooding storm cloud by this bar for the past forty minutes, you know. You’re scaring off our aunts and uncles. They’re afraid to come get a drink.”
Seungcheol finally tears his eyes away to roll them at his friend, but he straightens his posture, attempting to look less like he’s about to commit a murder. The task is a Herculean effort when all he wants is to march over and loom behind you like a vengeful spirit until the dentist cousin gets the message and flees. The urge is entirely caveman-ish, but he finds he doesn’t really care.
“Take her to the dance floor when the music starts,” Jeonghan advises, his tone shifting from teasing to something more genuine. “You two have to talk it out. You’re spoiling my and Alice’s mood with all this unresolved sexual tension. It’s polluting the champagne.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or better yet, take her to your room. I had them put a bottle of the good stuff in there.”
The innuendo is unmistakable. Seungcheol arches an incredulous brow, a retort—something along the lines of ‘fuck off’—on his lips, but the mischievous bastard is already gliding away, a smirk on his face, to rejoin his new wife. And to top it all off, as if he’d orchestrated it himself, which is most likely the case, the band chooses that exact moment to strike up the first, soft notes of a slower song. The signal for the dancing to begin.
Seungcheol lets out a low grunt, a sound of pure frustration and resolve. He abandons his brooding post, his whiskey forgotten. He walks over just as Minjae the dentist stands and offers you his hand. Seungcheol interferes with the subtlety of a tank breaking through a delicate garden wall.
“She dances with me,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. It’s not a request. It’s a statement. He doesn’t even look at the other man; his eyes are locked on you. He takes your hand, his grip firm and warm, and all but leads you away towards the improvised dance floor under the twinkling lights.
To say that you’re shocked is a monumental understatement. Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of surprise, indignation, and a treacherous, undeniable thrill. The stubborn part of you wants to wrench your hand from his hold, to argue, to remind him of his place and yours. But you’re too stunned, too overwhelmed by the sheer audacity of it and the intensity in his eyes. So before you can formulate a coherent protest, you’re on the dance floor, and he’s pulling you into his arms. His hands snake around your waist, drawing you flush against him, erasing any space between you. You feel every nerve ending in your body prickle with a restless, trembling energy, hyper-aware of the solid warmth of his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the night air.
For a long moment, there is only the music and the awkward, heavy silence between you. You’re both holding your breaths, the weight of the past two weeks a tangible thing.
“Seungcheol—” you start, just as he blurts out, “I’m sorry.”
You both stop. The conversation that follows is stilted, a clumsy duet of overlapping apologies.
“No, let me—I’m sorry,” you insist, trying again. “For what I said on the phone. I didn’t mean it, I was just—”
“I overstepped,” he interrupts, his voice low, meant only for you. “I shouldn’t have explained like that. I know the rules. I just… I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“But I did,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. The confession feels terrifying. “And I was—I acted like a jerk because I—”
This is a mess. You’re talking in circles, both trying to apologize for the symptoms while ignoring the gaping, bleeding wound of the actual problem. The words are getting tangled, the awkwardness thickening. You can’t take it anymore. You need him to listen. You need to say this, all of it, or you feel you might actually combust right here in his arms.
You take a steadying breath, pulling back just enough to look him directly in the eyes. The music swells around you, a romantic, forgiving blanket.
“Cheol, stop. Please, just… let me talk first,” you plead, your voice gaining a sliver of strength. “I need to say this.”
He falls silent, his dark eyes searching yours, waiting. This pause is all you need.
“These past two weeks have been… agony,” you begin, the words tumbling out now, raw and unvarnished. “And it made me realize… it made me realize your sheer, irreplaceable importance in my life. It’s you. It’s always been you. I was just too blind and too stubborn to see it. I kept looking for something out there, something that could make me feel… I don’t know, complete? Normal? But no one ever compared. Not even close. How could they? They weren’t you.”
You see his breath catch, his hands tightening almost imperceptibly on your waist.
“You’ve been so good to me,” you continue, your voice cracking with emotion. “So patient, and so caring, even when I was being an idiot. Even when I set these stupid rules to protect myself from feeling this… this…” You gesture vaguely between the two of you, unable to find the word for the enormity of what you feel. “I already had everything I wanted and needed right in front of me. I was just too scared to reach out and take it.”
You’re not even finished with your sentence, the final admission still hovering on your lips, when he moves. It’s not questioning, nor is it hesitant. It’s a move filled with certainty. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and he leans in, capturing your lips with his.
The kiss takes your breath away, it feels like a culmination and a beginning all at once. It’s full of two weeks of pent up frustration, of years of unspoken longing, of relief so profound it makes your knees weak and you’re grateful that his strong arms are wrapped around you so tightly to hold you up. You melt into him, your hands coming up to clutch at the lapels of his suit jacket, holding on as the world tilts on its axis. The music, the wedding, the other guests—it all fades into a distant hum. There is only him, his taste, his warmth, the solid reality of his arms around you.
When he finally breaks the kiss, you’re both breathless, foreheads resting together. His eyes are dark, intense, filled with a possessiveness that makes your heart stutter.
“Should’ve claimed you for myself long ago instead of playing this stupid game you’ve set,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough gravel that vibrates right through you. The words are so primal, so raw, so utterly Seungcheol that you feel a thrill travel straight down to your core, making you clench on nothing.
A slow, daring smile spreads across your face, emboldened by the kiss, by the confession, by the look in his eyes. You lean closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper, “We can always go upstairs and you can claim me all you want.”
The sound that escapes him is a surprised, warm laugh, that familiar giggly sound you love so much, the one that makes your heart feel light and full of joy. You grin back at him, giddy.
“What?” you tease. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to.”
“Oh, I do,” he assures you, his eyes sparkling with mischief and desire. “I’m just thoroughly convinced Jeonghan and Alice placed a bet on how quickly we’re going to vanish upstairs after this. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of winning.” He glances over at the happy couple, who are indeed watching you with not so subtle interest. “I’d rather not miss the bride and groom’s first dance. It’d be too rude after they flew us all the way to France.”
“Right,” you agree, your smile matching his perfectly. “We should probably behave. At least until then.”
But the craving is too strong, the magnetic pull between you too powerful to resist for even a moment longer. You lean in and kiss him again, softer this time, a promise of everything that is to come.
The first dance of Jeonghan and Alice comes pretty soon after your world-altering kiss, the band transitioning smoothly into a soft, melodic waltz. Alice has changed out of her monumental ceremony gown and into a simpler, though no less elegant, ivory dress that allows her to move and breathe freely for the remainder of the reception. Now that all the formalities have been lovingly observed, the evening sheds its structured skin, giving way to pure, unadulterated entertainment and celebration. Their dance is a mirror of their relationship: elegant, gentle, and filled with a quiet, profound understanding that seems to create a bubble of intimacy around them even in the middle of the crowded dance floor. It’s the second time that day you feel hot tears welling up in your eyes—not counting the private, awe-filled moment you’d witnessed Alice in her full wedding regalia during the final preparations. You lift your phone, recording a shaky video both for your own memory archives and because Alice had begged you and the other bridesmaids to film as much as possible.
“I want to see everything!” she’d pleaded, her eyes sparkling. “The pretty, aesthetic videos for the ‘gram, and the real, messy, happy ones just for us.”
Seungcheol has been physically attached to your side ever since the kiss, a permanent, warm presence at your right shoulder. You’d always known, on an intellectual level, that he possessed a deeply clingy streak—the man was a certified cuddlebug, a provider of comfort through touch. But you were entirely unprepared for the sheer multiplicative effect of sorting your feelings out. It was as if a floodgate had been opened, and every ounce of affection and possession he’d carefully dammed up for years was now rushing out, an unstoppable tide.
He is basically stuck to you, attached at the hip with a determination that is both endearing and mildly astounding. You mention offhandedly that you want to take some photos of the stunning sunset as it paints the French slopes and hills in hues of orange and violet? He immediately takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “Let’s go. The light is perfect right now.” You need to run up to your room to swap your treacherous heels for the comfortable sneakers you’d wisely packed? He is already steering you towards the hotel’s entrance. “Good idea. I should probably lose this jacket, too.” You need to use the bathroom, a journey that should take no more than three minutes? Guess who’s going to solemnly hold your small beaded purse for you and stand guard—there is no other word for it—outside the door, leaning against the opposite wall with the patient vigilance of a royal sentry. Yes, Seungcheol.
The first time he is truly, physically compelled to leave your side during the night is when the photographer, a frazzled but brilliant French woman, corrals the groom and his groomsmen for a final series of “boys’ club” photos. Seungcheol goes reluctantly, shooting you a look that is equal parts apology and promise. ‘I’ll be right back.’ The moment he’s pulled away, you feel the absence like a drop in temperature. You immediately find a vacant chair at a nearby table and practically plop yourself down onto it, letting out a small, amused sigh at your own sudden independence.
This is when Alice materializes, a vision in ivory silk, her smile knowing and warm. She sinks gracefully into the chair beside you, following your gaze to where her new husband is laughing with his friends, Seungcheol’s arm slung around Mingyu’s neck in a playful headlock.
“Having fun?” she asks, though her tone suggests she already knows the answer.
“Yeah, a blast,” you chuckle in response, and she mirrors the sound, a light, happy giggle.
“You’re holding out real good,” she comments suddenly, her eyes still on the men. You turn your head to look at her profile, confused by the non sequitur.
“What do you mean?”
She finally turns to face you, her expression one of pure, unadulterated mischief. “I bet $500 with Hannie that Cheol would drag you off to bang only after the reception officially ends. He, on the other hand, bet that it would happen somewhere in a dark corner right after our first dance.” She delivers this outrageous information with the mundane cadence of someone discussing the weather or a new lipstick purchase.
Your eyes grow wide, and you gape at her for a good, solid three seconds before your brain reboots. “You little—” you sputter, smacking her lightly on the shoulder. She yelps quietly, laughing and rubbing the spot where your hand landed. “Is it only the two of you, or is everyone else also in on it?” you demand, your eyes scanning the crowd for the familiar, traitorous faces of your so-called friends.
Alice gives you an enigmatic eyebrow wiggle, a master of evasion. “Yes, no, maybe so?” It’s all the confirmation you need. It means the entire betting pool is involved, everyone is gambling on the trajectory of your and Cheol’s relationship. The most startling part, however, isn’t the bet itself. It’s the underlying assumption that isn’t even being questioned. The bet isn’t if you’ll get together; it’s when Seungcheol will finally snap and claim you. The realization is equal parts embarrassing and illuminating. Did everyone else know the inevitable outcome before either of you had the faintest clue?
Before you can interrogate her further, the photographer calls for the bride and her maidens. You and Alice gather the rest of the girls—Soonyoung, who had insisted on being an “honorary bridesmaid,” included—for a series of photos for the official wedding album. Poses are struck, bouquets are held, laughter rings out under the guidance of the photographer. Through it all, you are acutely, electrifyingly aware of a specific gaze fixed on you from across the garden. Even from a distance, amidst the laughter and the chaos, Seungcheol’s attention is a tangible thing, a warm spotlight following your every move. Whenever your eyes accidentally meet his, the look he gives you is one of such unadulterated adoration and warmth that it makes your heart gallop wildly against your ribcage, a frantic, joyful rhythm that feels entirely new.
True to his new form, he is by your side the moment the photographer dismisses you, his arm immediately finding its rightful place around your waist. The swiftness of it makes you laugh, a light, airy sound that gets lost in the music.
“Miss me?” you tease, leaning into his side.
“Terribly,” he deadpans, but the smile in his eyes gives him away.
The rest of the night passes in a blissful, champagne-tinged haze. You dance together more, your bodies fitting together with a familiar ease that now feels charged with a new, thrilling potential. You sit together at a table, talking about everything and nothing—reminiscing about absurd memories from your college years, falling into a familiar, comfortable bickering like an old married couple over some random, inconsequential fact until one of you finally googles the answer, quietly gossiping and giggling about guests outside your immediate friend circle.
And through it all, he continues to hold you in one way or another, seeming utterly comfortable and right in his newly unleashed possessive streak. His hand finds yours, his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles into your skin. His arm rests on the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally playing with the strands of your hair. He pulls you into his side, his hand a warm, steady weight on your waist. He repeatedly showers you with the smallest of kisses—on the crown of your head, your temple, your forehead, the apple of your cheek—each one accompanied by a murmured sweet nothing that is for your ears only.
If you were to choose a single, concise way to describe Seungcheol in this moment, it would be this: a huge, affectionate cat. Content, purring, and blissfully possessive of his favorite person, in the very best of all possible ways.
You only finally slip away to your room long after Alice and Jeonghan make their own grand, rose-petal-strewn departure to their private suite, leaving the remainder of their guests to their own devices for the rest of the night. The party has dwindled to a hushed, contented murmur; most have retired to their rooms, exhausted and happy, and only a few dedicated night owls remain awake, their soft laughter and the clink of glasses drifting from the hotel’s main terrace like a distant melody.
As you step into the quiet solitude of your room, a pleasant, buzzing exhaustion settles over your body, a heavy blanket of contentment. The adrenaline of the day—the emotional ceremony, the intense conversation with Seungcheol, the sheer joy of the reception—finally ebbs, leaving your muscles pleasantly sore and your mind blissfully quiet. You manage the slow, deliberate ritual of undressing, unpinning your hair, and carefully washing the layers of makeup from your face. The hot shower is a baptism, washing away the last remnants of the day’s champagne-sweat and perfume, leaving your skin flushed and smelling faintly of the hotel’s lavender-scented products. You’re just tying the belt of a soft, plush robe when a soft, tentative knock sounds at your door.
You pause, a flicker of surprise cutting through your drowsiness. Peeking through the peephole, your heart gives a familiar, stuttering leap. Seungcheol stands in the hallway, looking endearingly rumpled. He’s shed his suit jacket and tie, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and his hair is adorably disheveled from a night of running his hands through it. In one hand, he holds a bottle of red wine; in the other, two crystal glasses dangle precariously from his fingers.
You open the door just a crack, arching a questioning eyebrow. “Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, your voice still husky from the shower.
He offers a slightly sheepish, lopsided grin. “Jeonghan,” he says by way of explanation, lifting the bottle. “Left this outside my door with a… very suggestive note. Figured it’d be a shame to drink it alone.”
Of course he did. You can practically see the smug, matchmaking expression on Jeonghan’s face. A soft laugh escapes you as you step back, opening the door wider to let him in. “The little devil. You’d better come in, then. Before you cause a scene in the hallway.”
He shuffles inside, and you lock the door behind him, the soft click of the bolt echoing in the quiet room. The atmosphere shifts instantly, the spacious hotel room suddenly feeling much smaller, more intimate, charged with the unspoken promise of the evening. He sets the glasses on the small desk and works on opening the bottle while you retrieve a towel to dry your damp hair.
Soon, you’re sitting side-by-side on the edge of the large bed, the soft duvet dipping under your weight. The rich, dark wine swirls in your glasses, its aroma a deep note of berries and oak that mingles with the clean scent of your shower and his familiar cologne. It’s comfortable. Profoundly, deeply comfortable. This, after all, has always been the bedrock of your relationship—friendship. The easy camaraderie, the ability to exist in the same space without the pressure of constant conversation. Everything else—the heat, the tension, the years of complicated benefits—was built upon this solid, familiar foundation.
The conversation starts light, flowing without a filter. You talk about the wedding, laughing over Soonyoung’s attempts at flamenco during the reception and Mingyu’s disastrously earnest speech. But as the wine level in the bottle lowers, a shift occurs. Seungcheol is already quite tipsy from the reception, and in the private, soft confines of your room, the alcohol translates into a raw, unfiltered honesty. The playful glint in his eyes softens into something more contemplative, more vulnerable.
He falls quiet for a moment, staring into the deep ruby depths of his glass as he swirls it slowly. The silence isn’t awkward; it’s heavy, pregnant with something he’s gathering the courage to say.
“You know,” he begins, his voice a low, quiet rumble that seems to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. “I was thinking today… during the ceremony.”
You stay perfectly still, not daring to breathe, not wanting to break the spell. You simply watch his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the way his brow is faintly furrowed in thought.
“I was trying to pinpoint it,” he continues, almost to himself. “The exact moment. The first time I felt… more. You know?”
Your heart begins to hammer against your ribs, a frantic, hopeful drumbeat. You manage a small, barely-there shake of your head, urging him to continue without using words that might fracture the moment.
He takes a slow sip of wine, buying time, gathering the threads of the memory. “It was that stupid party. Third year. The one at that off-campus house that always smelled like wet dog and cheap beer.”
A faint smile touches your lips. You remember it. Vaguely.
“You were dating… what was his name? The business major with the truly atrocious haircut who thought quoting The Wolf of Wall Street was a personality trait.”
“Mark,” you supply quietly, the name feeling foreign and silly on your tongue now.
“Right. Mark.” Seungcheol says the name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “He’d done something. I don’t even remember what. Said something condescending to you, ignored you to talk to his friends… something that made your face just… fall. Just for a second. You covered it up so fast, laughed it off. No one else probably even noticed.”
He turns his head then, his dark eyes finally meeting yours, and the intensity in them steals the air from your lungs.
“But I saw it. And I saw red. I had this… this visceral, physical urge to cross the room and just… deck him. Not for being a jerk, but for being the jerk who made that look appear on your face.” He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “It terrified me. I had to walk away, go outside and just… breathe. Because that wasn’t a thought a friend has. That was something else entirely.”
He looks back at his wine, as if embarrassed by the ferocity of the memory. “That was the first time I knew. Really knew. That I was in deep, and there was no climbing back out.”
The confession hangs in the air between you, a precious, fragile thing. The image he painted—a younger, angrier Seungcheol, fists clenched in the dark over a slight injustice against you—is so vivid it steals your breath. It recontextualizes a hundred forgotten moments, a thousand casual touches, and years of easy companionship into something far deeper, far more intentional. The wine in your glass suddenly seems insufficient, too weak a substance to hold the weight of this revelation. In one swift, decisive motion, you tip your head back and gulp down the last remnants of the dark, velvety liquid, the taste of oak and dark fruit a faint echo on your tongue.
Seungcheol watches you, his eyes dark and unreadable, waiting for your reaction. But you don’t give him one with words. Instead, you place the empty glass on the bedside table with a soft clink and move. You crawl across the space between you on the soft duvet, the movement deliberate, until you’re straddling his lap. You reach for the half-full glass still clutched in his hand, your fingers gently prying it from his loose grip. He lets you, his gaze locked on yours, a question burning in the depths of his eyes. You place his glass next to yours, a silent promise that neither of you will be needing them anymore.
His hands, now free, seem to move on their own volition, hurriedly finding purchase on your body. They settle on your bare thighs where your robe has fallen open, his palms warm and slightly dry against your skin. The touch is electric, a spark that ignites a slow-burning fuse deep within you. You lean down, closing the final distance between you, and capture his lips in a slow, deep kiss. It’s not frantic or desperate; it’s a silent answer to his confession. Your tongue glides over his lower lip, tasting the rich, lingering sweetness of the wine and the unique, familiar essence that is purely him. Seungcheol parts his lips with a soft, shuddering sigh, a sound of pure surrender, giving you complete access to deepen the kiss. You do, sliding your tongue against his, the kiss turning languid and exploring.
The quiet hotel room, once filled with the weight of memory, is now filled with softer, more primal sounds: the wet slide of lips and tongues rediscovering each other, the softest catch of breath between kisses, the rustle of fabric as you shift against him. You feel your body begin to heat up, a flush spreading from your core outwards, when Seungcheol’s hands slide further up, under the hem of your bathrobe. His fingers skate over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, and then he finds you—absolutely bare beneath the thin layer of silk. A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest as his hands squeeze the soft flesh of your ass, pulling you tighter against him. You can feel the hard ridge of his erection straining against his trousers, a direct counterpoint to the softness he’s kneading.
The discovery—that you’d come to the door with nothing underneath, that you’d been waiting, hoping, perhaps—makes him moan your name into your mouth, the word fractured and breathless. He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. His hands leave your skin for only a moment, coming up to the loose knot of your robe. His fingers, usually so sure and steady, fumble slightly with the simple tie before finally tugging it loose.
“This,” he murmurs, his voice a husky whisper as he pushes the silk from your shoulders, letting the garment pool around your waist before discarding it completely. “Is a crime. Hiding this from me all night.”
The cool air of the room hits your skin, raising goosebumps, but it’s nothing compared to the scorching heat of his gaze as it rakes over your naked body. He always looks at you like this during sex—with a focused, hungry intensity that makes you feel like the most desirable woman in the world—but now it feels different. It feels hotter, deeper, stripped of any pretense or unspoken rule. It’s a gaze of ownership, of awe, of a man finally looking upon something he no longer has to pretend isn’t entirely his.
He is generous with his praise, as he always has been. But like with everything else, it seems all aspects of him that are directed at you have lost an invisible restraint you hadn’t even known was in place.
“So beautiful,” he breathes, his hands following the path of his eyes, mapping your body with a reverence that makes your heart ache. His palms skate over your ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before he leans down to replace his hands with his mouth, laving one nipple with his tongue before drawing it into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. You arch into the sensation, a sharp gasp escaping you. “My love,” he murmurs against your skin, the endearment so natural, so effortless, it makes your eyes prickle with sudden emotion. He moves to the other breast, paying it the same devoted attention. “My precious thing. My little girl.”
He shifts you to lie back on the bed as he peppers kisses down your stomach, his hands pushing your thighs apart to settle between them. He looks up at you from his knees on the floor, his eyes dark with want and something infinitely softer. “My goddess.”
Seungcheol is worshipful, that much you know from all the years of your arrangement. But this is a new liturgy. He takes his time, caressing and kissing every inch of you, as if memorizing you anew, before finally, impatiently, discarding his own clothes. The garments are shed with less ceremony than yours, tossed carelessly onto a chair. And then he’s there, gloriously naked, his body a landscape of strong muscle and warm skin you know as well as your own.
Sure, he makes you beg a good amount, too—that hasn’t changed. A wicked glint appears in his eyes when he sees how wet you are for him, his fingers stroking through your folds but avoiding the place you need him most.
“Please, Cheol,” you whimper, bucking your hips up towards his hand.
“Please, what, baby?” he teases, his voice a low purr. “Use your words. Tell me what you want.”
But it seems tonight, his own patience is a frayed thread. He can’t draw out the teasing for long, not when the air is thick with so much more than just physical want. After only a moment of watching you squirm, he gives in with a groan. “Fuck that, I can’t wait. I need to be inside you. Now.”
He praises you through all of it in his favourite way—a unique blend of endearing degradations masked as praise, the only type of talking down to you that actually turns you on rather than offends.
“That’s it, you gonna take me so well, my precious thing, aren’t you?” he grunts as he guides himself to your entrance.
It starts off achingly slow, the broad head of his cock pressing against you, stretching you open inch by exquisite inch. The feeling is a familiar, delicious burn, a fullness you’ve craved all evening. You whimper, a high, broken sound, and your legs automatically wrap around his torso, your heels digging into the small of his back, trying to pull him in, to bring him even deeper than probably possible. The need to be one with him is so heightened it makes you dizzy even though you’re lying down.
“All of you,” you plead, your voice barely recognizable. “I need all of you.”
He sheathes himself fully, balls deep, with one final, smooth roll of his hips, and you both cry out at the sensation, a shared sound of pure, unmistakable relief. For a moment, he just stays there, buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing ragged. The connection is more than physical; it feels like a circuit has been completed, a missing piece finally slotted into place.
“Mine,” he whispers, the word a vow.
“Yours,” you gasp back, and it feels like the truest thing you've ever said.
Gradually, he begins to move, a slow, deep rhythm that quickly builds in intensity. The patience he lacked during foreplay is gone, replaced by a raw, driving need. He goes hard, pounding into you with a force that steals the air from your lungs, each thrust pushing you further into the soft mattress. The headboard begins a rhythmic, insistent banging against the wall, a stark, percussive accompaniment to the sounds of your skin slapping together and your combined, ragged breaths. Somewhere in the back of your mind you pity whoever is on the other side of that wall, they aren’t getting any proper sleep tonight if they don’t wear noise-cancelling earplugs.
“God, you feel... you feel like heaven,” he groans, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. His praise is a constant, possessive stream. “This perfect, tight little pussy was made for me, wasn’t it? Made to take my cock. Fuck, look at you. My mess.”
And you are a mess. A complete, absolute mess. Tears bead in the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming sensation, from the way his glorious girth rubs and stretches you exactly right, hitting a spot deep inside that makes you see stars. It makes you whimper and keen quietly, a continuous, pathetic stream of sound that is an undeniable indicator of you being utterly fucked out way before your orgasm even hits you. You know it inflates his ego a thousand times, but you can’t find it in you to care, not when he’s making you feel so impossibly good, so cherished and used all at once.
Your first orgasm crashes over you suddenly, a violent, shocking wave that rips a scream from your throat that he quickly muffles with a deep, claiming kiss. He fucks you through it, his pace never faltering, drawing the sensations out until you’re sobbing with oversensitivity. He follows soon after with a guttural groan, his own release pulsing warm and deep inside you, his body shuddering above yours.
But he’s not done. Not even close. After a few minutes of catching your breath, his lips are on you again, trailing down your body with a renewed purpose. He ends up between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for his worship.
“I need to taste you,” he says, his voice rough with desire, and then his mouth is on you, licking your mixed releases out of your fluttering cunt.
You end up cumming two more times from his cock alone, and then... you lose count when he settles on eating you out. You just know that you used up all the small towels from the bathroom rack because he was determined to make you squirt, holding you down through your weak, overwhelmed protests.
“Let go, baby, come on, give it to me,” he’d urged, his voice muffled against your core, and you’d shattered again, a different, deeper, more liquid release that had him groaning in satisfaction against your skin.
Exhausted, boneless, and utterly ruined, you finally collapse into a heap of tangled limbs amidst the disheveled sheets. The room smells of sex, wine, and the two of you. He gathers you against his chest, your head finding its familiar spot in the hollow of his shoulder, his heartbeat a steady, comforting rhythm under your ear.
You love Sunday mornings. It’s a secret you used to keep even from yourself on most days, a quiet pleasure often buried under the relentless march of deadlines, social obligations, and the general clamor of adult life. At times you and Seungcheol were both single Sundays were for slow morning sex, comfortable breakfasts and only then the mundane tasks of laundry, grocery shopping and dreading the impending Monday. But here, in the soft, honeyed light of a French countryside morning, the secret can no longer be contained. It blooms in your chest, a feeling of profound, unshakeable peace.
Now, however, you’re openly, unashamedly luxuriating in it. The world beyond the balcony doors of your hotel room is a watercolor painting of misty green hills and a sky bleeding from pale lavender to a soft, hopeful blue. And inside, the world is even more perfect. Seungcheol is snoring softly by your side, a gentle, rhythmic sound that is more comforting than any silence could ever be. His arm is a heavy, comforting weight over your middle, an anchor holding you securely in this moment of bliss. Your legs are tangled together under the soft duvet, a familiar knot of intimacy that feels brand new and yet as ancient as the hills outside.
He’s as beautiful as ever in sleep, his features softened, the usual slight furrow of concentration between his brows completely smoothed away. But the crucial, world-altering difference is that now, he is fully, irrevocably yours. The thought is so potent it makes your breath catch. You allow yourself the quiet sin of staring, tracing the line of his nose, the curve of his lip, the dark fan of his lashes against his skin.
As if sensing your rapt attention even in the depths of sleep, Seungcheol hums, a low, contented sound deep in his chest. His arm tightens around you, dragging you even closer into the solid warmth of his body as if you were a teddy bear he’s slept with his entire life. “Go back to sleep, you weirdo,” he mumbles, his voice a hoarse, sleep-ravaged scrape that is somehow the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
A wide, helpless grin spreads across your face. You shuffle closer, ignoring his grumpy command, and press a soft, lingering kiss to his pouty, sleep-softened lips.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” you murmur teasingly against his mouth.
He grumbles again, a nonsensical, rumbling noise, but it’s utterly adoring. His eyes don’t open, but a small smile plays on his lips as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm on your skin. “Five more minutes,” he slurs. “Then you can be disgustingly cheerful.”
You laugh softly, content to lie there wrapped around him, listening to the world wake up outside. The five minutes stretch into ten, then twenty, until the promise of strong coffee and buttery pastries finally coaxes you both from the cocoon of the bed.
The two of you come down to the hotel’s sun-drenched terrace for breakfast right on time. The air is cool and fresh, scented with coffee, baking bread, and the faint, floral perfume of the surrounding gardens. Most of the wedding guests are still peacefully asleep, recovering from the revelries of the night before. But your core group is there, looking like a tableau of varying states of consciousness.
Jeonghan and Alice, glowing with the incandescent joy of newlyweds, are tucked into a corner, sharing a single plate of fruit and speaking in low, smiling whispers. Soonyoung and Chan, by contrast, look heavily hungover and in genuine pain. Soonyoung is slumped over the table, his forehead resting on the cool wood, while Chan is meticulously dissecting a croissant with the intense concentration of a man trying not to be sick. Mingyu, ever the pragmatic one, is nursing a large black coffee like it’s the elixir of life, with Minghao by his side, serene as ever, the two of them discussing plans for the day in quiet, sensible tones.
All of them, however, fall silent and look over in unison the moment you and Seungcheol step onto the terrace, your fingers laced tightly together. You can feel the physical weight of their collective assessment, a palpable wave of curiosity aimed squarely at the two of you. It’s not malicious, just intensely, familiarly nosy. They are scanning for tells—a certain glow, a specific kind of tiredness in your eyes, the way Seungcheol’s hand rests possessively on the small of your back.
Alice, of course, is the quickest to it. Her expression takes on a devilish, triumphant turn. Without looking away from you, she extends a demanding hand towards her new husband, palm up. Jeonghan groans loudly, a sound of pure theatrical despair, and pulls his wallet from his pocket, slapping a crisp bill into her waiting hand.
“I told you!” Alice crows, her voice singsong with victory. “I told you they’d have more self-control than to defile a random broom closet!”
This sets off a chain reaction of groans and good-natured grumbling from the rest of the table. Soonyoung lifts his head from the table, squinting in pain. “You owe me twenty, Mingyu! I said they’d last until at least the cake-cutting!”
Mingyu just shakes his head, taking a long, defeated sip of his coffee. “I had faith in your lack of self-control, hyung. I am disappointed.”
Neither you nor Seungcheol have it in you to even pretend to be offended by your friends placing these sorts of bets on your love life. It’s too them, too ingrained in the fabric of your shared history. Instead, you just share a warm, private look, a silent conversation passing between you in the space of a heartbeat—our idiots—before proceeding to load your plates with pastries and fruit from the lavish buffet.
You find seats at the large table, the conversation shifting to everyone’s plans for their last day in the countryside. You’re halfway through a particularly flaky, buttery pain au chocolat, contemplating a lazy day of maybe renting bicycles or simply finding a sunny spot to read, when you overhear a conversation from the small table right next to you.
It’s Jeonghan’s grandparents, a lovely, elegant couple in their seventies. They are speaking in hushed, slightly aggrieved tones to another relative.
“…simply couldn’t sleep a wink last night,” the grandmother is saying, sipping her tea with a slight frown. “The walls in these old buildings are so thin. The room next to ours… my god.” She shakes her head. “It sounded like a warzone. Someone was banging on the wall for hours! And the screaming! It went on and on. I thought someone was being murdered!”
Her husband nods in solemn agreement. “Sounded like they were trying to bring the whole ceiling down. Passion is one thing, but have some consideration for your neighbors, I say!”
The piece of croissant you were about to eat freezes halfway to your mouth. Your eyes, wide with dawning horror, snap to Seungcheol’s. His are equally wide, a faint, crimson blush creeping up his neck. The room next to Jeonghan’s grandparents… that was your room. The ‘banging’… the ‘screaming’… The memories of the previous night flash before your eyes with devastating, embarrassing clarity.
Without a single word, a silent pact of mutual mortification is forged between you. The two of you finish your breakfast at the speed of light, shoveling down the last of your coffee with a haste that has Soonyoung squinting at you in confusion.
“Wow, big plans? Someone’s in a hurry,” he slurs, still holding his head.
“Fresh air!” you chirp, your voice an octave too high. “Lots to see! So much… countryside!”
Seungcheol just nods, already standing and pulling your chair out. “We’re going to… explore. The hills. Bye.”
You practically speed-walk out of the terrace, leaving your friends behind, their curious looks burning into your backs. You don’t stop until you’re safely upstairs, the door to your room closed behind you. For a moment, you just lean against it, and then you both dissolve into helpless, breathless laughter, the kind that makes your stomach ache and tears stream down your faces.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, clutching your side. “Hours? She said hours!”
“We are terrible people,” Seungcheol wheezes, wiping his eyes. “We terrorized a sweet old couple on their grandson’s wedding night.”
The shared embarrassment only cements you together further. Once you’ve changed into comfortable clothes, you flee the hotel, hand in hand, escaping the scene of the crime to lose yourselves in the surrounding vineyards and winding country lanes.
As you take your morning stroll, the crisp air clearing your head, your mind begins to branch off in a million different directions, each one more wonderful than the last. The conversation with his grandparents, though mortifying, has unlocked a new layer of intimacy, a shared future that suddenly feels tangible and real. You’re no longer just two friends who finally got together; you’re a unit, partners in crime, capable of accidentally disturbing the peace of a French countryside hotel.
Emboldened by the sunlight and the feeling of his hand firmly in yours, you decide to voice one of the thoughts that’s been circling in your mind since the ceremony.
“You know,” you begin, your voice quiet but clear. “I don’t know what exactly awaits us in the future. And I don’t need to know every detail.” You squeeze his hand. “But if I’m lucky enough… if we’re lucky enough… I hope that one day, maybe, we’ll be in Jeonghan and Alice’s place.”
Seungcheol stops dead in his tracks on the dusty path. The only sound is the whisper of the wind through the grapevines. The panic is immediate and cold, sluicing through your veins. Too much. Too soon. You’ve ruined the perfect morning. You watch his face, your heart pounding a frantic, terrified rhythm against your ribs.
But all your confusion and fear disappears in the very next second. His expression isn’t one of shock or alarm. It’s one of awe, of a hope so profound it seems to light him up from within. A slow, breathtaking smile spreads across his face, and before you can even process it, he’s sweeping you off your feet—literally, lifting you in a spin that makes you shriek with laughter—and then he’s kissing you, long and deep and full of a promise that tastes like forever.
When he finally sets you back on your feet, both of you are breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.
“You,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, “were standing right there in your lilac dress, crying during the vows, and that’s all I could think about. That I wanted it to be you. That I wanted it to be us. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
It makes your heart feel too big for your chest, like it might just burst with a joy so intense it’s almost painful. You don’t want to think about what could have happened if that stupid, disastrous phone conversation had never occurred, if you hadn’t been forced to confront the terrifying depth of your feelings. The alternate reality where you both remained stubbornly, painfully stuck in your roles of ‘just friends’ feels like a bleak and lonely path. You are immeasurably, overwhelmingly happy and grateful that it all played out the way it did. The awkwardness, the jealousy, the silence, the grand, romantic confession under the fairy lights—every single messy, imperfect part of it led you here.
To this sun-drenched path in France.
To this man.
To this future.
Because now, against all odds and after years of circling each other, the two of you finally, truly have each other.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!
genre: smut (with cute bits in it, again), best friends to ???
word count: 6k (got a lil into this one lmao)
summary: When you get a new order of lingerie, who better to call in than the most fashionable person you know, your best friend, Seonghwa! You had been friends for so long that there wasn't anything you wouldn't do together, but perhaps you should've thought twice about the fact that you'd be dolled up in lace and modeling for a man who has always been very easy on the eyes. What could go wrong?
warnings: unprotected sex (pls wrap it up irl i beg), needy!reader (you want it oh so bad), dirty talk (Seonghwa loses it a little), Seonghwa calls reader petnames (doll and good girl), breeding/accidental creampie (dont do that!!! reader is cool with it though), p in v sex, marking (hickeys specifically), mating press, rough sex
author's note: Super excited to share this one because not only is it my first Seonghwa fic but it's the first installment of an ot8 series I'm starting called Friendly Favors! Each member will have their own part following the same premise, but each story will be unique to them. One down, 7 to go! I hope you enjoy this one!
series masterlist | main masterlist
Seonghwa is one of the most fashionable people you know. Every single time you two made plans to step out on the town, he would show up in a look that belonged in Vogue or on a runway during Paris Fashion Week. He's helped you craft jaw-dropping, traffic-stopping outfits for first dates plenty of times, and even if the dates went to shit, at least you looked good enough to get some compliments (and sometimes even a phone number) on your way back to your car. So when your order of new lingerie sets arrived, of course the first thing you did was call Seonghwa to your place so he could help you decide which to keep and which to return.
Which brings you to the current moment; Seonghwa leaning against the headboard as he sits on your bed, and you rifling through your choices.
"Pick a color." You say distractedly as you pour the contents of your laundry hamper onto the sheets. Seonghwa chuckles to himself as he watches your hands move faster than your brain could process. Always an excited one you were. Cute. At least to him.
"Blue." He responds, crossing his legs.
You pull out the first blue article of clothing you find, a floral embroidery set. What pulled you to this set was the fact it came with a garter belt as well, and you enjoyed thigh highs perhaps a little too much.
"Close your eyes." You call over your shoulder as you start taking off your shirt.
You don't check to see if Seonghwa is actually doing it or not, you knew he would. Sure, he was going to see you basically naked in a few seconds but that didn't mean he needed to see everything laid bare. You could still cling to a small bit of your dignity knowing he hasn't seen your bits entirely bare.
After some final adjustments to make sure no strap was twisted and the belt wouldn't snag on your thong, you turn to the mirror and do a full 360 spin to look over yourself. The blue and white lace with gold accents complemented your skin nicely. Filling the space between the gorgeous embroidered patterns was see-through white lace that left little to the imagination. The design covered your nipples but parts of your areolas were clearly visible. Thankfully the see-through portion of the thong cut off before your pussy would show, only the upper mound area was peeking out from the lace, but it was still a lot to show and much too belatedly you start reconsidering whether you should show Seonghwa. He was your best friend without a doubt and he wouldn't make this weird, if you thought for even a second he would then you wouldn't have invited him over.
But this? Maybe it was too much to show him even as a best friend.
"You alright?"
Seonghwa's voice breaks your train of thought and you whip around to face him. His eyes were still closed as you expected they'd be.
"Oh! Yeah I, um..." You trail off, unsure of what to say anymore as you glance in the mirror one more time. You were welcomed with the sight of your very bare ass in the pretty lace thong you had on, "Not sure if this one is for me."
"I bet you look beautiful, you look pretty in everything you've ever worn."
For reasons you can't really put your finger on in this moment, that reply makes your face grow hot. You shake your head, trying to remove whatever weird feeling settled into your chest. It was just Hwa being Hwa, nothing else.
"Even that neon orange dress that reminded me of the Lorax." Seonghwa continues, a small smile on his lips as you burst into laughter like he hoped you would.
"Okay fuck you, I wanted to try something new." You cross your arms with a small pout and Seonghwa chuckles to himself as he turns his head in your direction but keeps his eyes shut.
"It was new! And truthfully it looked worse online than it did on you. You just look good in general. That's how I know you look great in whatever blue set you put on. Let me see you, please?"
His voice was so gentle, so sweet, gently coaxing you out of whatever mental pit you put yourself in. Seonghwa was always good at that, being the most reassuring person in your life who made you feel like you can conquer everything. Even this little moment where you're suddenly feeling slightly out of your comfort zone despite this lace being some of the softest fabric you've ever felt. You take a deep breath to steel yourself before responding in what you hope is a normal tone of voice.
"Okay. You can look."
Your best friend's eyes open, a trace of amusement still in them from his earlier comment, but then his eyes graze over your entire body - slowly, carefully, his gaze turns analytical. You were no stranger to Seonghwa's attention. He's given you many looks: adoring, annoyed, exhausted, amused, and anything else you can think of, but in your years of knowing him you've never seen this look before. There was something sharp in his gaze, not the type that would normally settle when he admired something beautiful. No, this sharpness pierced into you in a way that made you squirm, your skin growing warmer the longer he looked.
"Turn slowly." He commands with a weight in his tone that makes you listen before your brain can fully process what's happening.
You slowly twirl, showcasing the embroidery and the way it clings to your skin - accenting your figure in ways that made Hwa's head spin. Halfway through your turn, you use the mirror stationed right behind you to your advantage and sneak a peek at Seonghwa's face. The intensity in his eyes only seems to deepen as your back faces him, and the light warmth under your skin flares into a steady blaze that creeps down your neck to your stomach.
Did you...like him looking at you like this?
No, that can't be it. Seonghwa is a gorgeous man and sure maybe for the first month you knew him you harbored a small crush, but that was years ago and the crush died back then, right?
Right?
You finish the spin, facing Seonghwa again as you swallow thickly, waiting for him to speak. He shifts a bit on the bed, eyes locking onto yours before he nods.
"Keep. Black next."
He closes his eyes and leans his head back on your headboard as if this was normal. As if the energy in the room hadn't shifted in a way that made your stomach flip on itself. As if you couldn't feel your body reacting to his lowered tone in ways it really shouldn't. As if he wasn't effected at all.
Maybe he wasn't? Maybe you were making a mountain out of a mole hill and this was normal-
"I don't hear you moving, Y/N." Seonghwa teases, an eye cracking open to look at where you were still frozen, "I wanna see the others, come on."
Your limbs move of their own accord, picking through the options on the bed as you avoid his gaze like the plague. Not that you had to try hard, Seonghwa closed his eyes again once he was sure you were moving.
You take deep, quiet breaths - trying to steady your heart as you choose a black babydoll chemise and a black pair of hipster panties to go underneath it. You peel off the set you have on carefully, setting it aside before slipping on the chemise and panties. Somehow you feel even more exposed in this set than the previous one despite it technically covering your entire midriff. The lace flows down your body like a gentle caress, settling just below your mid-thigh. The panties covered most of your ass but your cheeks were still peeking out and another unique feature was very prevalent the more you moved in them but that wasn't something you wanted to think about right now. You already felt like you were on a hairline trigger and last thing you needed was to be set off. You chew your lip as you run your hands down your body, spinning to watch the flow of the chemise before it settles against your curves again.
Would Seonghwa like this one? One part of you hoped he did because you thought it looked nice on you. Another part of you, deep deep down hoped he liked it for reasons you refused to address in this moment.
Just two best friends, one modeling lingerie and the other choosing which to keep, nothing more nothing less.
"You can look." You internally flinch at how your voice cracks slightly, but your face stays neutral as Seonghwa again sets his sights on you. You notice he's now fiddling with one of your plushies as it rests on his lap.
For the second time you stand still as his eyes traces over your body, that fire relighting in your belly when he tilts his head ever so slightly as his eyes move down to your thighs.
"Spin." Seonghwa commands, eyes locking with yours with an intensity that makes your brain buffer.
He raises a brow when you don't move after a few seconds.
"I said spin, doll."
That nickname was one you always loved hearing from your best friend's lips, but right now? With that heaviness in his voice that made you want to sink to your knees and his eyes staring as if he could see just how he was affecting you, it was almost too much to bear.
You barely hold back whatever sound was about to squeak its way out of your throat as you start to spin in a circle. Just like before you watch Seonghwa in your mirror as your back faces him. His eyes trail down your back, to your ass, to your thighs, back to your ass. For just a few moments, thinking you can't see him, he lets the calm exterior melt and reveal his true thoughts of you modeling for him. You watch as your best friend catches his bottom lip between his teeth, his movements quick and subtle as his hips gently rut into your plush and he keeps his eyes on your cheeks peeking out of the panties.
As soon as you start facing him again, he's back to the Hwa you know and love albeit with darker eyes. Not a trace left behind of his lewd actions against your plushie, if it wasn't for the mirror you never would've known.
"Definitely keep. Let's do red next." He says calmly, taking one more look at your body before he averts his gaze to the other sets on your bed.
But you don't move. You stare at him, brain running a mile a minute. You know what you saw. He was just grinding against your plushie, getting off to your backside as if it was standard procedure not even 30 seconds ago and you're supposed to just change into another set as if your brain isn't actively melting? As if you aren't torn between lust taking over your entire being and climbing into Seonghwa's lap or continuing this game that's unknowingly started? As if you weren't starting to stain these panties with arousal? As if the energy in this room wasn't suffocating you with how potent it was, lust swirling around both of you and filling your lungs with desire you've never felt for anyone before, let alone this man sitting on your bed?
No. That's not what's about to happen here.
You're walking to Seonghwa's side before your logical mind can scream at you to stop. To not risk your years of wonderful friendship with this man over some urges you thought died years ago, but the warning bells in your head fall on deaf ears.
Seonghwa raises a brow as you stop next to him, wordlessly asking what you need and trying desperately not to look at your tits deliciously filling the cups of the chemise.
"Do you think this fabric is nice to the touch?" You ask sweetly, tilting your head slightly as you hold a part of the chemise out to him.
Your voice had dipped into a territory you know all too well, the tone you used when you were trying to hook someone into your bed for a night. A tone you've never once used on the man sitting in front of you.
Were you really going to do this?
Seonghwa licks his lips absentmindedly as he looks at your offering, contemplating something. You wish you could crack open his mind and see what he was thinking. Were his thoughts as clouded as yours? Clearly his dick was in it but was his head in it too? Would he also want to do this?
As he gently rubs the fabric between two of his fingers and the plushie in his lap falls off him just enough to show his cock straining against his sweatpants, you pray to any entity who may hear you that he will because your mouth waters at the thought of seeing what's underneath.
"It is." He nods as his eyes flit up to meet yours, the chemise still between his fingers.
"Do you like it?" You ask, inching a bit closer to him.
Whiplash doesn't even begin to cover what you feel. A few hours ago you would've laughed in the face of anyone who would suggest you want to sleep with Seonghwa, but now you find yourself craving it in ways that should make you take a moment to reassess the situation. Yet there was no time for that because Seonghwa was here now. You didn't need to understand why you wanted something to know you do want it.
Seonghwa watches you pull your bottom lip in-between your teeth, likely due to nerves. He could read your body like a book, seen this song and dance more times than he can count at various social gatherings once you've found someone to go home with, but never did he think he'd be the recipient of it.
Never did he think he'd loved it.
"I said keep it, didn't I?"
The silence that follows is thick, the lack of words easily substituted with the heaviness of what's happening between you two. His hand hovering close to your thighs, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, his darkened eyes laser focused on you, his jaw clenched. Not a single touch from him and yet your mind was starting to feel hazy, not entirely thinking through your actions. Your next words shock both of you.
"You're hard."
Your tone isn't accusatory, or disgusted. It was neutral, as if you were pointing out the weather instead of the state of arousal your best friend was in. Seonghwa can't help the chuckle that huffs out of his chest.
"Yeah."
"I didn't think you saw me like that." You admit, voice quieter than usual.
"I'm respectful, not blind, doll." Seonghwa replies, eyes trailing down your body heatedly.
Your thighs clench and his eyes catch the movement, you notice the knowing quirk of his lips before he schools his expression. You lick your lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry as the air continues to crackle with newfound tension. Seonghwa thought you were attractive. He was sitting here, holding your lingerie in his hand, his expression still sharp and intense as when you first came to stand next to him. And you?
You were into it. The feelings you swore died years ago bubbled right to the surface, loudly taunting you as you stood just inches away from Seonghwa's hard cock, but he makes no move. Despite the want in his gaze reading clearly, he just holds your chemise in his hand, other hand firmly planted against your bed. He was restraining himself, and that fact drove you even crazier.
Your body moves before your brain catches up, a knee settling next to his hip on the bed before you throw you other leg over him, straddling his hips and sitting back gently on him, his clothed cock pressed right against your drenched core. You watch your best friend's eyes widen almost comically, and in any other instance you would've probably laughed, but that was the furthest thing from your mind as you fight the urge to grind against the man below you.
"We should probably test the durability too, don't you think?" Your voice betrays your attempt to be casual, cracking slightly as you speak.
Seonghwa doesn't speak for a moment, instead he takes in the sight of you straddling his lap, pretty lace draped on your skin as you look at him with those sweet, sinful eyes of yours. Slowly he drops the lace and moves a hand to settle on your hip, goosebumps blooming where his fingers land.
"Are you sure?"
The gravity of the question doesn't go over your head, the unspoken parts are loud even if he left them off.
Are you sure you've thought this through? We can't turn back if we do this. This can change everything.
Knowing all of this doesn't stop you from leaning down toward the blonde haired man, lips hovering over his as you place a hand on his chest. Your pulse racing and your core throbbing, consequences be damned, you'll deal with it later. You needed him now.
"Fuck me, Seonghwa."
Three simple words and the tension finally snaps.
You're on your back faster than you can blink, lips and tongue tangling with Seonghwa‘s in a flurry of passion that leaves your heartbeat pounding in your ears. His hands are all over you, gripping your chest, pushing your chemise out of his way to rub your stomach and grip your waist. He grinds his hips into you hard but slow, emphasizing the drag of his sweatpants against your barely covered pussy in a tease that makes you whine against his mouth. You help him shrug the straps off your shoulders, pulling the lace down until your tits were completely exposed. Only when the need for air becomes desperate does he finally pull away to let you breathe, but he doesn't stop there. His kisses trail from your jaw to your earlobe, which he gently bites before moving down your neck to your chest. You watch him with lidded eyes, trying to make sense of the sight of Seonghwa kissing his way down your body but nothing could ground you as Seonghwa bites down on the swell of your breast. Your back arches toward his mouth as he sucks at the tender skin to soothe it, his other hand moving to circle the nipple of the tit his mouth wasn't currently on.
He teases you, thumb gently rolling it around then lightly tugging in time with his soothing sucks before biting down again, growling into your skin as your fingers thread into his hair and pull on the soft strands. Only when he was sure a mark would stay behind did he repeat the same on your other tit, his wild eyes staying on yours as he watches you shudder beneath him. He pulls off your skin with an audible pop, adjusting so he was more to your side and able to reach a hand between your legs. Despite you starting this, you still shy up when he spreads your legs, eyes still locked on yours while he exposes your wetness to the room.
"Keep those eyes on me, honey." He purrs, voice dropping into an octave you've never heard from him before.
Your thighs tremble under his feather light touch as he begins at your knee, slowly making his way toward your core. A small smirk tugs at his lips when you whine desperately, your eagerness starting to show through your hips jolting up toward him, wanting something - anything to touch your aching clit and give some form of relief.
"You're so responsive." Seonghwa hums, drawing a circle on your skin midway down your inner thigh before gently slapping it, making you jump slightly, "But patience."
You pout in response, close to throwing a fit but something in his stare kept you pinned to the bed, listening to him even with need pulsing through your veins.
"Good girl."
Your eyes almost roll back at that and Seonghwa notes it with a widening smirk.
"I'm learning a lot about you today." He muses, fingers continuing their way to your core, "I thought I knew you inside and out, but it seems you continue to surprise me. What else will you show me today?"
You don't give him a response. He isn't expecting one.
Seonghwa's fingers finally come into contact with lace and the smirk falls from his features, face becoming entirely unreadable. A panic starts to rise in your chest as his stormy eyes slowly turn away from you to look in-between your legs. In your cloudy mind you try to figure out what's gotten his mood to shift so fast, but then he presses his fingers into your panties and you feel it, a loud moan ripping from your mouth as his fingers press right into your clit.
Oh yeah. That.
The unique feature you entirely forgot about.
The fact that these panties were crotchless.
That melted out of your head long ago and now Seonghwa was looking at you with a hunger that makes you clench around nothing. He doesn't move for a few moments, his fingers still pressing against your clit and your desperate mind makes you rock your hips against his fingers, taking anything you can get out of him. Seonghwa swallows thickly, adams apple bobbing as he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His eyes snap back to yours and your body freezes under his stare yet again, there was an almost...unhinged glint in his eyes that made you shudder. He pulls his hand away, taking his shirt off with one hand and tossing it behind him somewhere.
"I promise next time I will take you apart slowly piece by piece. I will devour you inside and out until you're a completely delirious mess." He begins, eyes moving to your exposed wetness as he licks his lips.
He shifts back to his spot between your legs and instinctively they try to close but he grips your knees firmly and keeps them spread wide open for him.
"I will figure out what makes you tick and break you beyond what you ever thought was possible, doll." He continues, leaning to hover over you again, his eyes moving to lock with yours once he was right in your face. His heavy breaths fan across your cheeks.
"But right now? I can't wait any longer. I need to be inside you. God, crotchless? You really thought to straddle me in panties that leave nothing between you and my cock?"
He grinds his hips against you again. A slow, hard, filthy drag that sends a spark up your spine when your clit connects with the fabric of his sweatpants.
"Hwa, please." You beg, your legs locking around his waist to meet his grinding.
Satisfaction thrums through his body hearing you plead for him in such a desperate, whiny way. He never once thought about how you sound when you break, but now it's all he wants to hear.
"You sound so sweet when you beg. Let me hear that again." Seonghwa encourages, a wicked smile pulling at his plump lips.
You aren't making it easy for him to get his sweatpants off but you don't care, unwilling to unlock your ankles from behind his back as he shimmies them and his boxers down enough to get his cock out. You could sob from joy when you feel a weight against your cunt that couldn't mistaken for anything else.
"Please."
Your voice was so soft, small, unlike you, but you can tell Seonghwa is thoroughly enjoying it when his cock twitches against you.
"Again." He commands, his hips rutting against you again as your back bows into him slightly.
What you wanted was so close, so close, to where you wanted it. You couldn't see it due to him being almost chest to chest with you but you could feel it. How thick it was, how wet you were making his shaft, his precum dripping on the brim on your panties, his now slick cock rubbing right against your needy clit, and it was filling you with a yearning so bad it made tears well up in your eyes. There's no shame left in you as you beg Seonghwa once more.
"Please, Seonghwa! Please, I need it so bad- need you so bad! Please fuck me-"
Your cry is cut short as you're rewarded with the feeling of a blunt head at your entrance and then Seonghwa bottoming out in one smooth, solid thrust. No resistance, your body accepted him like it was made for his cock and you moan in sync into each other's mouths. For a few beats, there's no movement. You both sit in the moment, as if the reality of the situation at hand has finally sunk in.
But neither of you care. Not with Seonghwa hitting you so deep and your walls fluttering around his cock, trying to pull him impossibly in further.
Seonghwa's lips find yours again before he pulls his hips back halfway and slams them into yours. You cry into his mouth and hear the softest exhale of a laugh leave him before he sets a harsh pace, slipping his tongue into your mouth. One of your hands returns to his hair, trying to keep your mind somewhat in the moment but with each thrust the only grip you manage to keep is the one on his hair and shoulder as Seonghwa sucks on your tongue. Your mind is gone, swimming in pleasure as he fucks you into the mattress and his hand moves to roll and tug on your nipple again. The stimulation melts you to the bone, your once tightly locked legs weakening into jelly, threatening to limply fall to the bed, but Seonghwa has other plans.
Before they can hit the sheets he catches your legs by the knee, pausing his strokes only to maneuver them onto his shoulders, a devilish grin on his face as he leans over and folds you in half - putting you in a mating press. Your eyes widen as you realize how he had you, how open you were for him, how much deeper he'd get with the new angle. The look in Seonghwa's eyes shows he is well aware of that, giving you a wink before he thrusts with a force that makes your bed creak alarmingly. The wail that leaves you is your loudest yet, for a moment you think of your neighbors who could very well be home but that thought is quickly fucked out of your mind when Seonghwa thrusts deep again, hitting that sweet spot that makes your legs tremble and jaw go slack.
"There it is. Right there, yeah?" He husks, one hand holding a leg in place while the other held onto your hip to keep you in place.
You didn't have to reply, he already knew, and he made it his mission to hit that same spot every time he fucked into your cunt slow, deep, and heavy - gravity aiding him in fucking you harder than you've ever been. You thought he was deep before, but this? This was an impossible depth, one your mind couldn't wrap around, not that you could think of anything in this moment. The only thing you could register was the rhythmic pounding of your best friend's cock as he pushes you closer to an orgasm that was winding your body up tighter than it ever has before.
Words, a warning sound, anything. You tried to get something out of you to let Seonghwa know how close you were getting but nothing was coming out except nonsensical whimpers and wails as you sink your nails into his chest. Your eyes start rolling back into your head as your chest heaves with your quick breathing but Seonghwa stalls his hips. Your eyes come back forward and you look at him, ready to complain when your breath catches in your throat. For the first time you really take in how he looks: body covered in a light sheen of sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, lips slightly puffy, eyes blown wide and swirling with carnality, veins in his neck protruding, chest heaving with the effort of him fucking you into oblivion.
"No, no, doll. Look at me." He brushes your cheek with a tenderness that is a stark contrast to how he throbs inside you. "I want you to remember this. I want you to remember exactly how I looked when you touch yourself later, wishing I was there to fuck you open like I am now."
You've never heard such filth come out his pretty mouth but the way you flutter around his cock is more than enough proof that you loved it. You shrink back into yourself a bit as Seonghwa leans in closer, his eyes scanning your face as the hand holding your leg moves to cup your cheek. His thumb slowly runs over your bottom lip and you part them naturally, not needing a prompt to let him slip his thumb into your mouth and rest on your tongue. No prompt was needed for you to start sucking on his thumb either, still maintaining eye contact as your tongue runs along the pad of his finger.
“You’re gonna drive me insane.” Seonghwa groans through gritted teeth, cock twitching at the attention your mouth was giving his thumb.
Part of him wants to put your mouth to better use, but the part that wins is his deep need to see you fall apart around him. He fucks you faster and harder than before wanting to push you over as soon as possible. His thumb isn’t deep enough to trigger a gag reflex but you find spit pooling in your mouth and dripping down your chin as you jaw falls open to let out more moans.
Seonghwa’s insistent pounding at your g-spot, eyes trained on your mouth, sweat dripping down his temple pushes you back to the edge very quickly. It's a struggle to keep your eyes on him like he ordered you to, but you try your best, even as that coil in your stomach twists dangerously and you tighten like a vice around Seonghwa's pulsing length. Sensing your impending orgasm, Seonghwa bends you further somehow, his torso pushing your legs further into your chest as his lips meet your ear.
"That's it. Cum for me, doll. Fall apart on my cock like a good girl. You can do that for me, right?"
The words register as praise but the tone he uses, guttural with the tiniest hint of degradation, strikes a chord in you that has tumbling over the edge. Your vision goes white as you cry out his name, body tense and trembling in Seonghwa's grasp but he doesn't stop fucking you through your orgasm. He couldn't stop even if he wanted to, his hips moving of their own volition, seeking the warmth and tightness of your cunt as soon as he slips out of it enough to leave just his tip in. It was addicting, you were addicting, and with your walls spasming around him like that his delirious mind doesn't think twice before he follows suit and cums as well.
Deep inside of you, hips flush against yours, balls smacking your ass harshly one last time, he paints your insides white with a broken moan and the hand in your mouth moves to grip the pillow beside your head. The sensation of being filled makes you whimper, turning your face into his sweaty neck at the filthy feeling that you loved. In a bubble of your own, Seonghwa entirely curled over you, breathing heavily into your shoulder, you both lay in silence.
Seonghwa moves first, letting your legs fall to the side as he leans back to sit on his heels. Even when he's wrecked, he somehow looks like a God. It's unfair really. He carefully pulls out of you, watching as his cum flows out of your hole. The emptiness felt wrong, you wanted him back inside of you. The realization that that was your immediate thought makes you cover your face.
"Sorry about the..." Seonghwa trails off, eyes still heatedly watching his cum flowing out of you, "It sort of snuck up on me...I meant to pull out."
Your hands slowly slide down from your face and Seonghwa is already looking at you, tips of his ears red with embarrassment.
"It's cool. I'm on birth control and I...like that anyway."
This time your face is the one to heat up as Seonghwa blinks in shock.
"Don't say that to me, I'll end up flipping you over and doing it all over again." He groans as he drags himself off the bed.
You watch him leave the room, to get a towel you can only assume, and take a moment to look at yourself in your mirror across the room. Two hickeys blooming on your chest, tits out, hair messy, a lot of cum pooling under your ass - and you start laughing. A small giggle that becomes your shoulders shaking as you cackle.
Seonghwa comes back in with a towel, confusion on his face as he approaches the side of the bed and begins cleaning you up.
"What's so funny?" He asks, a corner of his lips quirking slightly from seeing you so joyful.
"This whole situation is, I just can't...believe we did that. That was..." You trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"Crazy? Insane? Really good? I'm taking reviews actually." Seonghwa speaks up, smiling as you playfully push him away.
He continues cleaning you up as you reply.
"I'd give it a solid 9.5 out of 10. Great mouth, great cock, almost broke me in half. Would recommend."
Seonghwa rolls his eyes with amusement, setting the towel aside before he sits next to you.
"Would recommend, alright. Would you do it again?"
The question hangs in the air as you stare at your best friend. One of your absolute favorite people. The one who was there for your hangovers, your life achievements, your lowest moments, your great days, and your worst. A lot had happened today, and you were sure you had a lot to think about more thoroughly, but right now in this moment the answer was-
"Yes."
No hesitance, no uncertainty, the honest truth. Seonghwa smiles warmly at you and your heart annoyingly thumps harder as he leans in closer to you.
You stare into his brown eyes, no longer clouded with lust or hunger, just soft, warm, adoration - a fondness that wasn't new but felt different now. His gaze lowers to your lips before going back to your eyes and you find yourself leaning in to meet him halfway. His lips meet yours in a soft, chaste kiss. Almost like he was testing the waters despite cumming inside of you 5 minutes ago. When you pull away from each other, the smile that breaks out on your face is involuntary. You liked his kisses, that's something you knew for sure. You open your mouth to tell him as much when Seonghwa starts speaking first.
"The lingerie works well, by the way."
"You're so annoying." You deadpan and Seonghwa laughs heartily, falling to lay back on the bed next to you.
Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,
Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.
𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚: Forbidden romance, angst, eventual hard smut, semi-slow burn, enemies/lovers/manipulative counterparts, vampires 18+ (read the warnings please!)
Pureblood! Stepbrother Wooyoung x Pureblood! Reader, Pureblood Childhood Friend! Hongjoong x Pureblood! Reader
—synopsis: Pure bloods are a dying breed in vampyr society—coveted, revered, and feared. When your father suddenly weds the widowed matriarch of the influential Jung family, the union is meant to strengthen alliances. But behind the flawless image of your new blended family festers something far more twisted: an illicit entanglement with your enigmatic stepbrother, Wooyoung.
He’s possessive, sharp, and impossible to predict. You're the only one who can sate his bloodlust, and he knows it. What begins as an unspoken dependency spirals into a brutal game of dominance, jealousy, and seduction. In a house ruled by secrets and power, love is just another weapon—and you’re both armed to the teeth.
WC: 3k (unedited)
𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: stepcest (they were not raised together) , blood, rough sex, light gore, biting, and everything under the sun. this is filthy so if u don’t like it…don’t read. chapter specific warnings will be provided.
series masterlist
part ii->
Wooyoung feels your eyes before he even sees you, running a silken tongue over his sharp incisors. His hand drapes lazily over the shoulder of a visiting Pureblood’s daughter—eyes gleaming with performative hunger, sharp and deliberate. He was a good liar and a disgusting churning filled his stomach, carrying the threat of vomiting under the dishonesty of his pointed want.
It’s a ploy at vacancy even though he was full of you. Visions of your bleeding neck and him saddled above you—your panting mouth. Your beloved beauty. The glazed fever of your eyes and thoughts of you drag him slowly to a dangerous corner of quiet madness, where obsession coils beneath a calm exterior, ready to snap. You belong to him, though no one else sees the storm waiting to break.
The blood in his mouth isn’t yours and he hated that.
A soft tension fills the room. The seemingly transient kind that wafts and reaches forward before putting a hand down after careful, morose consideration. Others are blind to it, but for you and Wooyoung—there’s a spiked line waiting at the edge of something bloody between you two. The air crackled and bared its teeth. The veins on his neck slowly rose to the surface, tongue bleeding under the pressure of his teeth.
Your voice echoes in the room, turning heads at its siren-like cadence. “Where’s father?” He almost shivers when your dark eyes fall on him, naturally sullen under the thick lining of your obsidian lashes.
“Off somewhere making love to mother, probably. I’m not his keeper.” He puts up a poor mask of nonchalance. A distant humor—practiced familiarity, like adults forced to play at being siblings after knowing each other only briefly.
You hum, disregarding him after the dry reply. The waves of your dark hair drape down your back, basking the air with the fragrance of something heated. Anise, pepper, an undetermined sweetness somewhere lost in its notes. But your eyes drift to the arm laying around an unknown woman—a quiet simmering brewing violently under the surface.
You take a seat next to Hongjoong—a mutual childhood friend and another Pureblood, before leaning towards his neck. He doesn’t flinch when you puncture the skin with your teeth and continues flipping through the pages of his book, sighing lightly.
You rarely asked anymore—he’d been your personal blood bag since you were preteens. Even among the elite, you were the unrivaled princess of the purebloods. Wooyoung’s fist clenched minutely as he gazed at the open wounds on Hongjoong’s neck.
“Could’ve sworn I saw you feeding on the son of the head of Southern India’s precinct,” Hongjoong drawled, shooting you a sidelong glance. You say nothing—just lick the remnants of blood from your lips. “You drive me mad with your gluttonous behavior, Y/N.” He finalizes with a quiet mutter.
Opulence surrounds the grand expanse of your manor: Tucked away on the outskirts of New Orleans and cemetery overgrowth, pretentious and lively—wealthy and immortal laughter humming in the backdrop of the gala’s operetta and jazz tunes to fit the changing tastes of the times. Lace curtains, taper candle chandeliers, and opium drunk humans lay naked at the center of the room—billowing red on the previously cream textile. This was staple entertainment, center stage dining.
Their silhouettes cast dull shadows on the fabric, small moans leaving open mouths. Your eyes flash maroon once you take on the sight of a particular human with raven black hair and asymmetrical eyes.
Adjusting the length of your dress, you step forward—each movement deliberate. All eyes follow, drawn to the rare spectacle of you approaching a human to feed. Most days, you kept to your own kind, carrying an innate distaste for lower life forms.
Your cold hand tilts his face upward, fingers brushing against his cheek. He’s half-lucid, drowning beneath the haze of opium and something heavier—dependence, maybe.
“Human,” you say softly, enchanting and elegant. “What’s your name?”
Your deadly seduction didn’t demand much from you. A small touch was enough for his gaze to grow warm and half lidded.
“Aramis.” He whispered, looking less and less like Wooyoung with his submission. You wanted him to die.
You wanted to spit out whatever of his remains you forced yourself to chew.
“Aramis—“ you start, nodding—acknowledging. “Will you die for me?” Wooyoung watched, transfixed—all fabricated nonchalance and coldness fading under the light of your hunt. The room falls silent, pinprick curiosity freezing the air as the partygoers turn with unrestrained interest. Even the musicians pause, resin-rubbed bows slackening in their hands.
He watches you—watches the flicker in your eyes, quick and sharp, as blood-red spills across your irises like ink dropped in water.
That.
That’s what made you even more dangerous among your kind. Your dark gift of compulsion. It’s never failed. Not once.
“Gladly, princess.” There’s something sorrowful in Aramis’s eyes—and you fleetingly recognize that he would’ve said yes even without the usage of your gift. He bows his head, dark hair falling into his eyes as he tilts his neck. What a cruel life—and a cruel, unsurprising end for a man like him. Doomed from the start: young, wretched, and beautiful. So beautiful, he drew the eyes of monsters—creatures who make a habit of destroying anything that dares to rival their own reflection.
You were a vampyr—cold blooded murder was branded instinct. But it was his eyes that beckoned you and the moles on his face—so strikingly similar to the man you will never admit to wanting—that allowed a certain softness to the eventual sinking of your teeth. As if on queue, the soft shrill note of a violin proceeds to play in accompaniment to the moment. Its morose. Heavy. Foreboding and enigmatic in tone. A cello joins shortly, mellow timber carrying a promise of death and slow draining.
Hushed whispers fill the room when you meet Aramis’ lips with yours. It’s deceivingly apologetic and lulling. A slow massage. A parting message.
Both a promise of doom and branding of foolish loyalty.
Wooyoung stills, eyes flashing a shade of cold steel. He flinches when his mother’s soft laughter greets him, her arm wrapping around his in amusement. “It seems that your sister’s ability to hunt rivals your own. How interesting.”
Your father arrives shortly after, not paying your spectacle much mind. “Strange. She doesn’t like human blood.” He utters, mildly appalled before excusing himself to speak with a nearby gentleman.
When your eyes rest on him just as you dug your teeth into Aramis’s jugular, a dark heat poisons Wooyoung’s body. He knows exactly why you chose that human.
You were a cruel, cruel woman.
And he loved that above any sweetness any others had to offer. This is why he damns you.
Aramis’s body goes limp and his beauty proceeds death—his bleeding neck is the only thing giving away that he wasn’t, in fact, sleeping.
And so when you rise slowly, elegantly brushing your hair to drape down one side before leaving the room—Wooyoung waits exactly three minutes before excusing himself and evaporating into dark mist before arriving in your room. Moments like these made him grateful for his gift of teleportation.
You undressed yourself slowly before the fireplace in your room, ivory silk dress falling softly onto the floor—skin molten and flushed from the heat licking at your skin. Wooyoung’s silent entrance carried the weight of a heavy storm—a soft gasp tumbling from your lips when a veiny hand wraps around your throat from behind before his fangs pierce through the skin.
He groans in relief, eyes scrunching from the bitter aftertaste of Aramis’s blood still pulsing through you. “Did you enjoy ingesting filth?” He spits out lowly, sheathing his fangs out with heaving breaths.
Your eyes glisten, but there’s no warmth in it—only something brittle, cracking beneath the gloss. A sharp incisor glints as your lips part into a cold, amused smile.
“And you?” The words drip slow and deliberate. “Didn’t you savor that tiny blonde diplomat just a little too much?”
It’s a jest by form alone—every syllable cut to sting.
“You already know the answer to that,” is all he offers—just a whisper of confession—before sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His arms wind around your waist from behind, fingers pressing slowly into the soft flesh of your stomach, possessive and unhurried.
You shiver unintentionally when his left hand trails to your breast, palming softly as he took in more blood. There’s a lightness that accompanies a vampyr’s bite, and only one kindness nature provided for prey—a friendly delirium injected from jagged edges of teeth to soften the eventual decay.
“Hongjoong’s a good man.” He starts with—flicking at the sensitive tip of your nipple and smiling softly when he feels goosebumps raise under his hand. “—I could already imagine the grandiose wedding your father will start planning once he takes notice of how often you indulge in him.”
Thinly veiled jealousy, as always. Like clockwork, it begins as a play on words—friendly suggestions and table talk whenever he slid his fangs out your throat.
And you’d bite back.
“I suppose if it were anyone, I wouldn’t mind it being Hongjoong.” You sigh out in pleasure, guiding his other hand downwards towards the slick building around gummy flesh. He stills, eyes visibly darkening as the air thickened.
“You wouldn’t mind?” He repeats, tone breaking open—sharp at its edges.
“And who else should I consider?” You snap and pull away from him.
Wooyoung chuckles darkly, undertones of bitterness splotching his words “Ah yes—that’s right. You like power. And none of the other purebloods can match the height of your pedigree with the exception of him.” He hated the acidic envy he began to carry towards his old friend for the nature of his abilities.
Hongjoong was the golden child of a lineage whose lore strongly intertwined with your own—it’s appalling that there weren’t any arrangements made between your families before. His distinct ability to read memories made him a troublesome opponent—thankfully, he rarely drank from you, despite the fact that you treated him like your personal blood bag.
The tension’s so tight it could snap. You were agitated. Flashes of that diplomats daughter laying in his arms—him being already half full by the time he came to your room. It made something ugly burn inside of you.
You turn and slowly wrap your arms around his neck, enjoying the way his breathing stills when your bare chest presses against his leather jacket—intimacy and skin contact only separated by a layer of fabric. “I enjoy having power no less than you. But you know what I think?” You whisper softly against his lips. “I think it’s drives you mad that I am the only non-negotiable in your life. You have no jurisdiction over me—not in the ways you truly want to. And you can’t rid yourself of me either, Wooyoung.”
His face is immaculate—porcelain and a professional layer of casual, unphased coolness—staring down at you stiffly. Poker faced.
“You may be right—“ voice unreadable, sweet cadence filling the air. “But don’t fool yourself into thinking you have any power, little fang. I hear you call for me in your sleep. I feel your eyes on me each time you have to drink from someone else.
You can’t control yourself around me and that’s what scares you the most.”
The air is an electric hum, throbbing. Full.
Pointed eyes refusing to relent and bodies refusing to part. Your eyes fall on the blood on his lips before reaching up to drag your tongue across the flesh.
Two singular heartbeats pass before he kisses you fiercely, breaking the silence with a gasp—hands cup your cheeks and pull you towards him to deepen it. You sift through the kiss—finding traces of the blonde in it and sink your teeth into his bottom lip, reprimanding. He tears himself away, rawness in his gaze and lips. Bleeding.
He looks like the air between you hurt him.
Like he wanted more of you even if it ended up with you in a coffin.
And then a sudden black mist, perfuming the air—like he was never there and both the blood in your mouth wasn’t his and on your neck wasn’t yours.
Exhaling shakily, you sit in front of your antique vanity, combing your hair with a boar’s brush. Fingers dragging over the sealing wound his teeth left behind.
It’s in a vampyr’s nature to desire power. To be above all things. And loving Wooyoung meant wanting to see him in tatters beneath you. You’d only admit it if he finally submitted to you.
But you weren’t the only Pureblood in the equation and his teeth on your neck promised possession and murder.
This was the dance—the very game you’d been playing since your parents’ sudden marriage two years ago. By the time you and Wooyoung officially met, it already felt too late: you were both too old, too distant, and burdened by a tension no one dared to name. His name had floated through your social circles for years, a familiar echo from your youth that you had to piece together to visualize. His father’s unexpected passing, just as he turned seventeen, only deepened the gap between your worlds. It was as if fate tried its best to delay your meeting—until the night of your 25th gala, when he arrived without warning.
Raven black hair falling into distinctly shaped eyes, sharp features, and beauty marked like the stars laid claim on him. A hypnotic clinking of silver earrings with each step he took. He arrived in mist. Cloud. Smoke. Without notice or heralding.
Although his gift wasn’t particularly notable—Wooyoung’s ability to hunt with ease proceeded him. It was his effortless charm, uncanny seduction, and silver tongue when needed be. It was strange to see the man you’ve heard of all your childhood stand before you after being a phantom in your life.
You remember first feeling the weight of his gaze—a small click in your diaphragm as you digested it. Neither of you said anything for a minute. No room for pleasantries or etiquette when a strange carnal rawness rose to the surface of a room upon first meeting.
The two of you found out about your parents involvement only a week later—but the week served enough of its dues. Prolonged glances, grazed fingers over dinner plates, a drunken confession of confused allure from Wooyoung’s end.
And when you found out, you tried your best to stifle it. For a time, it worked—with Wooyoung growing colder by design, keeping a distance, and your ability to perform disinterest. Together, you looked the part of a regal family. Flawless. Untouchable. Ink and ivory.
Cold.
No ties of blood, but a shared experience of unadulterated bloodlust pulsing through you. The lot of you stood above all others—even the greatest of your society, with your parents alliance.
But the crash was inevitable. And once Wooyoung had a taste of you, he couldn’t let you go.
“My dearest, has no Vampyr bitten your heart yet? Still?” The tone in your father’s voice is careful. Like there are eggshells under his feet he couldn’t afford to break. Wooyoung pauses briefly from cutting into his steak, knife clinking against the porcelain plate.
He saw this one coming.
Nonetheless, you carried on. “Hm, not that I recall— sorry father.” Nonchalant, elegantly apologetic. Clearly disinterested in the conversation that you only entertain out of respect for your father.
“What of the Kim’s son?” Ah. He must’ve finally aught on to your closeness.
You were a hard woman to please. Distant—as if constantly daydreaming and living vicariously through a song only you knew how to play. Eccentric. Strange. Hard to keep up with and rarely held any interest for interpersonal relationships—thus, the only suitors your father could deem having a chance were among the few friends you had.
And the fact you even drank from one source regularly was a feat on its own—to a boy of his stature no less? He doesn’t know how he’s missed it, but your father’s jumping on the chance.
Your chewing slowed, deliberating. Glancing briefly at Wooyoung with a curious fire to your eyes. “I suppose I don’t hate him. He’s one of the very few men I could say that about.” You turn towards him, playful—covert intentions and jealousy poking at the bear.
“Oh, but what of Wooyoung? Did you see the daughter of the Russian Diplomat curled in his lap?” Your voice rang like a bell—sweet, bright, and edged. “He so rarely lets them stay after drinking.”
His mother perked up at that, her eyes gleaming with sudden interest.
“Is that so? In all my days—my boy’s all grown up now.” She dabbed delicately at her mouth, beautiful and radiant. Even as a Vampyr—a race carved in shadows—she was the sun incarnate. Brilliant, impossible.
Wooyoung’s unreadable, calm, and collected. “She was a well behaved girl— I have little to no complaints.”
The tension in your heart could slice like a heated knife. “She looked lovely with your teeth in her throat.” You smile teasingly, but your eyes don’t hold the same gleam. “—good catch, brother.”
Your own teeth catch and scrape at your fork as he watches you swallow slowly. Refined wit wrapped in quiet cunning.
Internally, Wooyoung was seething. You knew he hated the rare occasions you called him that—and every time you did, it was deliberate. A bratty little jab that practically screamed: Well, go on then. Fuck off if you want her so badly.
And so he played the game with bitter precision—inviting her over, leaving the door just ajar enough for the sounds of her bliss to spill into the hallway. He made sure to catch your eye as you passed, your expression unreadable. Each time he rocked into her, building up intensity until it bordered on frenzied violence—he thought of you under him. Of your open mouth and curls splaying on his red silk sheets.
Your gasps and delighted humming in his ear, legs wrapped around his waist in hazed want. You were his opium flower—and no one, in all the wide, wretched expanse of your cursed universe—would ever truly possess you. No wedding will break the forbidden union already festered between you. What encompassed the secret and wretched bond between you two wouldn’t be ruined by the sweet candor of politics and light hearted love.
He wasn’t surprised that in response to his bitter agenda, you tripled the stakes by inviting Hongjoong into your room, where he gave into you as he always did, and indulged in his servitude for seemingly hours. The house wreaked of blood and incense.
When Hongjoong emerged, he only gazed at Wooyoung with a certain knowing. He knew your secrets now.
Your body.
Your blood.
And most of all—by ingesting you, he knows Wooyoung and one of your most well kept secrets.
This is what truly got under his skin.
You allowed Hongjoong to know the most profound parts of you when you let him drink from you—and in their world, society knew that act was rare for someone like you. Sacred, even. You were above all else—exclusive, hard to reach. While others willingly offered themselves to you, the action was never reciprocated in full. To drink from you was almost a promise: of seclusion, of vulnerability. The Princess of the Vampyr and the Golden son of the Kim’s lineage, tied together in their hushed whispers
When your father asks if Hongjoong had your heart now, you only smile—calculating gaze cracking onto Wooyoung’s form, and choose to remain silent to maintain enough mystery to keep them all suspended.
You offered him a slow, knowing grin as you mouthed the word checkmate—no sound, just intent. And then you left without another glance, your perfume the only proof you’d ever been there at all.
Wooyoung takes a slow sip, eyes trained onto the door you just disappeared through. Brooding. Planning.
synopsis: You made one rule when moving in with Johnny Suh: don’t fall in love. But after one too many late nights and one too few boundaries, breaking it feels inevitable.
You wrote it on a sticky note your first week living with Johnny Suh and stuck it dead center on the fridge, right below his schedule and above the magnets shaped like tiny penises. He laughed when he saw it.
“I break hearts, not fridges,” he said, that cocky smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Your chastity’s safe with me.” You rolled your eyes. But you also knew what you were getting into.
Tall. Tatted. Too charming for his own good. Johnny was every walking red flag you told your friends you’d never fall for, which is exactly why you agreed to the roommate situation in the first place. Two bedrooms. Cheap rent. No romantic risk.Simple. That was before you realized the walls were basically paper. Now, you hear everything. The headboard. The girls. His voice.
The worst part isn’t even the noise it’s the way he acts the next morning. Like nothing happened. Like you didn’t lay awake for three hours with your pillow over your head, staring at the ceiling while someone else got to fall apart underneath him.
You learned not to flinch when you hear it. Not to react when you walk into the kitchen the next day and see a stranger’s toothbrush in your cup. And when he teases you about never getting any? You play it cool. Because you refuse to be another name on his list. You refuse to care.
But still… Every time he laughs that deep, reckless laugh or says your name low and slow like it means something…
It gets harder to remember Rule #7.
You unlock the front door, earbuds in, exhausted from class and craving nothing but a shower, a hoodie, and silence. Instead, you walk into chaos.
Heels on the welcome mat.
A jacket tossed on the arm of the couch.
A lacy black bra, her bra, hanging off the doorknob to Johnny’s room like some kind of victory flag. You stop in your tracks.
Your keys are still in your hand. Your mouth is flat. The girl giggles from inside his room, her voice high and bubbly, followed by the unmistakable sound of his laugh.
You blink. Then turn right back around. But you don’t even make it to the door before it opens behind you.
“YN?” His voice is thick with sleep. Or sex. Probably both. “Where you going?” You turn slowly, glaring over your shoulder. “The fuck do you mean where am I going?”
Johnny leans against the frame of his bedroom door, hair messy, sweatpants slung low, and absolutely nothing on top. There’s a hickey blooming at the base of his throat.
He smirks. “Didn’t know you were stopping by.”
You scoff. “I live here, jackass.”
“Oh, right.” His smile stretches wider, lazy and amused. “My bad. Guess you don’t usually come home this early.”
Your eyes flick to the bra. Then back to him.
“You could’ve at least cleaned up the battlefield before inviting civilians over.”
Johnny shrugs like he doesn’t see the problem. “She’s chill. She won’t be long.”
You narrow your eyes. “Wow. She must feel so special.”
“She’s not the one writing rules about not falling in love with her roommate,” he says, voice lower, teasing. “You sure you’re not the one catching feelings?”
You walk toward him, slow, steady, until you’re close enough to smell his cologne mixed with her perfume.
“Only feeling I’ve got right now,” you murmur, “is disgust.”
And with that, you walk past him calm, collected, pretending your heart isn’t pounding so loud it echoes in your ears. You slam your bedroom door. It doesn’t drown out the sounds coming from his.
The giggle.
The moan.
The “Johnny~” that makes your skin crawl.
Your suitcase is half-packed in thirty seconds.
Toothbrush. Phone charger. A hoodie. Extra panties. You don’t even think. You’re on autopilot, stuffing your things into a duffel with one hand while texting your best friend:
you up? can i crash? he’s being gross again.
No questions. She says yes.
You don’t bother saying anything to Johnny as you walk out the front door.
[Two Hours Later – Johnny’s Room]
She’s gone.
The girl who was in his bed is already dressed and checking her phone. He barely remembers her name. Didn’t care to ask for her number.
His head’s pounding. His room smells like sex and regret. He walks out to the kitchen to grab a water—and that’s when he notices it.
Your shoes are gone.
Your keys are gone.
Your room is dark.
“YN?” he calls softly. No answer.
He walks to your door. Knocks. Opens it. Empty.
He checks your location, but you’ve got it turned off.
You haven’t read any of his texts. And suddenly it hits him in the chest like a truck. You left. You never leave.
[One Hour Later – Your Phone]
Johnny: where are you
Johnny: y/n i’m not playing, you good?
Johnny: i didn’t mean to piss you off
Johnny: at least tell me you’re safe.
Johnny: please.
Johnny: come home.
Your screen lights up again. It’s the tenth message in two hours. You put your phone face-down on the pillow.
Your friend glances over at you. “You sure you don’t wanna text him back?”
You shake your head. “He can fuck someone else to sleep tonight. Not my problem.” But your chest aches anyway.
And Johnny? He’s pacing the living room at 2:17AM like he’s never felt so stupid. Because for the first time in a long time — He actually wants someone to stay. And she walked out.
The apartment smells like faint cologne and stale regret.
You push open the door slowly, unsure if he’s even home — until you see him.
Johnny’s on the couch, completely wrecked. Hair all over the place. Yesterday’s hoodie. One sock on, the other lost somewhere. His phone is face-down on his chest, and there are two water bottles on the floor like he couldn’t figure out which one was coldest.
He’s asleep. But it’s not peaceful. He looks stressed even in his dreams — brows slightly furrowed, lips parted like he was mid-sentence before sleep yanked him under.
You step inside, setting your bag down quietly. The click of the lock wakes him up instantly. His eyes fly open. He sees you. He sits up so fast he nearly drops his phone. “YN?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Expecting someone else?”
He blinks. Still groggy. Still confused. “You… You weren’t here.”
“Wow. You do pay attention.”
“Wait.” He stands up slowly. “When did you leave?”
“Last night,” you say, voice cool. “Mid-thrust, if I had to guess.”
He winces like you slapped him. You head toward your room, but he follows.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were busy,” you say without looking at him. “Didn’t wanna ruin the moment.”
Johnny rubs a hand down his face. “You blocked your location. I didn’t know if something happened. I thought maybe you were—”
“What? Hurt?” you turn around, arms crossed. “You didn’t even notice I was gone until hours later, Johnny. Be for real.”
He swallows. “I didn’t think you’d actually… leave.”
You stare at him, exhausted. “Neither did I.”
Johnny stands in the hallway, frozen in front of your door as you start unpacking your bag like nothing happened.
“I didn’t think you’d actually leave,” he says again, a little quieter this time.
You shake your head. “You didn’t think about me at all, Johnny.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh, really?” You glance over your shoulder, eyes sharp. “You were too busy getting your ego stroked by some girl who doesn’t even know your real middle name. And I was sitting there in my room, again, pillow over my head, trying not to scream.”
He opens his mouth — but nothing comes out.
You keep going, voice steady but loaded. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to pretend I don’t hear it? How many times I walked into the kitchen and saw some random girl wearing my hoodie and just smiled like it was no big deal?”
He flinches. He didn’t know that.
“YN…”
“No, seriously,” you say, folding your arms across your chest, trying to keep the crack in your voice from showing. “Why now? Why do you care that I left? What changed?”
His jaw tenses.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly, finally looking you in the eye. “I just… when you weren’t here, it felt—”
“Empty?” you finish flatly.
He nods once.
You sigh. “You don’t get to suddenly miss me just because you realized I won’t always stay.”
The silence stretches between you, but it’s different now. Thicker. Heavier.
He steps a little closer. “You think I don’t care about you?”
You look up at him, really look at him, and for once… he doesn’t have that cocky shield in his eyes.
“I think you’re used to people letting you get away with things,” you whisper. “And I’m not one of them.”
He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, breathing harder than he should be, chest rising and falling like he wants to say a hundred things but doesn’t know how.
You step past him again, brushing against his arm. “Clean up your mess, Johnny. I’m not gonna be one of your regrets.” His hand catches your wrist.
You freeze.
Not because he’s rough. He’s not. He’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go again.
You turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes. And they’re wide — raw. Like everything he’s ever swallowed down is suddenly clawing its way to the surface.
“I don’t want you to be,” he says, voice low.
You blink. “What?”
“One of my regrets.”
His grip tightens just a little. “I don’t want that. I don’t want you to be that.”
You stare at him, not saying anything, because your heart is racing, and you’ve spent weeks building walls around it. But the way he’s looking at you now—
Like you’re not just some girl.
Like you’re not just a warm body.
Like you’re his person.
“Then show me,” you whisper, almost like a dare.
That’s all it takes.
His mouth is on yours in seconds.
Hot. Desperate. Like he’s been holding it in for too long and it finally snaps. His hands are in your hair, your hoodie, pulling you closer like he needs to feel everything.
You don’t push him away. You pull him closer. Your back hits the wall as he kisses you harder, like he’s trying to memorize you. His lips move against yours with heat and hunger but there’s something else too—something that feels like longing. ike he’s kissing you for every night he made you hear someone else. For every time he teased you just to keep his distance. For every time he wanted to touch you and didn’t.
You gasp into his mouth, and he takes it like oxygen.
His hands slide down to your waist, gripping tight. Your fingers tug at his hair and he groans into the kiss—low, rough, real.
When he finally pulls back, just a breath away, his forehead rests against yours.
“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs, voice ragged. “And I still don’t know what I’m doing. But if you tell me to stop right now, I will.”
You stare at him, lips still parted, chest rising and falling.
But you don’t tell him to stop.
You whisper, “Then don’t.” Johnny's eyes darken with desire at your words. He steps closer, his presence towering over you as he cups your face with one hand.
“You're playing with fire, YN,” he growls softly, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “But I like it.”
Johnny backs you against the wall, his tall frame caging you in. His other hand slides down to your waist, fingers digging into your skin.
“I've wanted to have you like this for so long, YN. All to myself.” He leans down, his breath hot against your neck as he kisses along your jawline. His lips find that sensitive spot behind your ear, making you shiver. His knee pushes between your legs, creating friction that makes you gasp.
“Tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with need. “I need to hear you say it.” His eyes lock onto yours, filled with desire. His fingers trace patterns on your thigh as he waits, every muscle in his body tense with anticipation.
“I want you to take control,” he breathes huskily. “Show me what you like, YN. Let me please you.” Your breath hitches as you look up at Johnny, your hands sliding up his chest.
“I want you to make me feel good, Johnny. Touch me everywhere.” Your voice is soft but commanding, filled with a confidence that makes his eyes lower even more.
Johnny groans at your words, his control slipping further. His hands move to the hem of your shirt again, this time pulling it up slowly.
“As you wish, beautiful. I'll make sure you never forget this night.” He kisses you deeply, his fingers brushing against your bare skin. His hands glide up your sides, pushing your shirt higher as his thumbs brush over your nipples through your bra. He swallows hard, visibly affected by the feel of you.
“God, you're perfect,” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your neck as he continues his exploration. His skilled fingers expertly unhook your bra, letting it fall away. He takes a moment to admire you, his breathing becoming heavier.
“You're absolutely stunning, YN. I could spend hours just looking at you.” He gently cups your boobs, his thumbs circling your nipples more deliberately now.
He leans down, capturing one nipple in his mouth while his other hand teases the other. His tongue flicks and sucks with increasing intensity.
“I want to taste every part of you,” he says, moving to give your other boob equal attention. His free hand slides down your stomach. Johnny pauses his ministrations, looking up at you with lustfilled eyes as his hand hovers at the waistband of your pants.
“Can I take these off, baby? I need to feel all of you.” His voice is filled with desire, his fingers playing with the button. You nod, biting your lip as you watch him with heated anticipation. “Yes, Johnny. Take them off.” You lift your hips slightly, helping him as he slowly undoes the button and zipper, slowly sliding them down your legs. His eyes widen at the sight of your underwear.
“Fuck, you're wearing my favorite color,” he murmurs, running his fingers along the edge of the fabric. “This just got even better.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband, looking up at you for permission again. His breathing becomes more ragged, his pupils dilated with desire.
“May I?” His voice is husky, barely above a whisper as he waits for your consent. Your breath hitches as you nod again, your heart pounding in your chest. You reachdown to help him, your fingers brushing against his.
“Please, Johnny. I need you to touch me.”You whisper, your eyes locked with his. With a groan, Johnny pulls your underwear down, exposing you completely. His hands tremble slightly as they grip your thighs. “You're absolutely breathtaking, YN. Every inch of you is perfect.” He positions himself between your legs, his gaze intense and hungry. Johnny's eyes darken with desire as he takes in your exposed form. His hands slide higher up your thighs, thumbs gently spreading you open. “I've dreamed about this moment,” he confesses, his voice thick with need. “About tasting you, making you mine.”
He leans down, his hot breath fanning against your sensitive skin. His tongue darts out to tease your inner thigh. You moan softly at his touch, your fingers tangling in his hair.
“Then show me, Johnny. Show me how much you want me.” your voice is breathy and needy, her body arching toward him. Johnny growls at your words, He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, moving closer to where you want him most. His tongue finally makes contact with your clit, circling it slowly. He flicks his tongue expertly, alternating between long strokes and quick flicks. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place.
“You taste even better than I imagined,”he murmurs against you, before diving back in with renewed intensity. One hand slides down to tease your entrance, gathering your wetness before slowly pushing a finger inside.
“So wet for me already,” he groans, adding another finger and curling them upward. You gasp writhing beneath him, your fingers tightening in his hair.
“Oh god, Johnny, right there. Don't stop.” you moan louder, your hips bucking against his mouth and fingers. Johnny adds a third finger, pacing them faster while his tongue works your clit mercilessly. He looks up at you with dark, lustful eyes.
“I want to feel you come on my fingers first. Then I'll give you what you really need.” His voice is commanding yet tender, filled with raw desire. Your body tenses as your orgasm crashes over you, your walls clenching around his fingers.
“Mphh fuck—Johnny” you cry out, trembling with pleasure. Johnny watches your face intently, not stopping until he's milked every last wave from you. He then slowly withdraws his fingers, licking them clean with a satisfied smirk.
“Beautiful. absolutely beautiful” He positions himself above you, his hard length pressing against your entrance. His hands frame your face as he leans down for a deep kiss.
“Ready for more, baby?” He asks huskily, grinding against you teasingly.
You pant, still coming down from your high. Your eyes lock with his, filled with desire and trust.
“Yes... I need you inside me, Johnny. Please...” Your voice is soft but needy, your body arching toward him eagerly.
Johnny captures your lips in another passionate kiss as he slowly begins to push inside, groaning at how tight and wet she is.
“Fuck, you're perfect... so perfect.” He bottoms out, giving you time to adjust while his hands explore your curves. He starts moving with deep, deliberate thrusts, watching your face for every reaction.
“Tell me how it feels, baby. Tell me who's making you feel this good.” His voice is rough with pleasure as he sets a steady rhythm. YN moans loudly, her nails digging into his back.
“You're making me feel incredible, so full, don't stop, Johnny.” You wraps your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. Johnny growls and increases his pace, hitting that perfect spot inside you.
“That's it, baby. Take all of me. I want to feel you come again.” His thrusts become more urgent.
Your eyes roll back as the pleasure builds again, your walls fluttering around him.
“I'm close, so close again, faster, please” You beg desperately, your body trembling with need. Johnny groans deeply as he feels you tightening around him, his thrusts becoming erratic.
“Cum with me, baby. Let go for me one more time.” He slams into you one final time, burying himself deep as he releases inside of you. Both of you collapse together, breathless and spent. He holds you close, pressing soft kisses to your sweaty forehead as aftershocks of pleasure course through your bodies.
You’re still trembling when he pulls out, careful and slow, and disappears for a second to grab a warm towel and water.
When he comes back, he wraps you in his arms like you’re something breakable. No teasing. No jokes. Just his hand on your back, his breath in your hair, his voice quiet.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod. “Yeah. I… I’m good.”
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “That wasn’t just sex for me. I need you to know that.” You look up, surprised by how serious his eyes are.
“I believe you,” you whisper.
And for the first time in weeks.. maybe months—you let yourself fully relax against him. Safe. Seen. Wanted. No rules this time.
🔮 preview. You have an ulterior motive with Mingyu, but you’d bet your right arm he has one too. Most of the guys you’ve met who are into you don’t bother with getting to know you, or having similar interests. Men in this day and age have - for the most part - lost their ability to engage in the nuances of wooing, but there’s something about this cute, beefy art major that tells you he might just have what it takes to build something meaningful with you.
tw/cw. Unprotected sex, masturbation, mention of porn addiction, foreplay, ‘weird kinks’, massaging, breast worship, body worship, oral, pussy eating, blow job, hand job, man handling, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, mentions of voyuerism, degradation, praise, dirty talk, Mingyu is a switchy simp, big cock Mingyu agenda, fingering, etc… I pet names: (his) puppy boy.
👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 5.8k
🍭 aus. Svt cam boy au, frat au, university au, perv!Mingyu, etc…
☀️ mlist + an. This is part 3 of a 3 part cam boy svt au. Each story can be read as a stand-alone, but exists within the same universe :) Wonwoo is April, Seungcheol is May, and this Mingyu fic concludes the series. Find the completed masterlist here.
Prologue:
Mingyu had joined the Sigma Veta Tau frat for brotherhood, and at first, everything had been sunshine and rainbows for the Art major. He’d found friends that he knows will be lifelong mates, and it feels as if his family has truly grown at least another twelve members.
However, things have changed since he joined.
Now, two of his closest friends have started dating, and suddenly, the whole ‘Bros before hoes’ thing has gone out the window.
Mingyu’s not mad about it per se, in fact, it’s kind of nice to see Seungcheol and Wonwoo enjoying life- but there are other factors to consider.
The first factor is that Mingyu no longer seems to have gym buddies. Turns out that tonight, instead of their usual Monday workout, Seungcheol and Wonwoo are at a double date business meeting.
Which leads to factor number two. Wonwoo is a notorious camboy, and Seungcheol’s girlfriend is as well, in fact, Seungcheol’s girlfriend is BabyDoll246, who, up until recently, Mingyu used to watch religiously every time he needed to get his rocks off.
Mingyu doesn’t even know what this whole ‘buisness meeting’ thing is about- Seungcheol is probably doing a presentation for everyone about numbers and aesthetics and how to make a ‘brand,’ because that’s what Seungcheol does. Even though the whole scenario sounds boring, for some reason, Mingyu wishes he was invited.
So things are a little complicated.
Mingyu feels jealous, and left out- and horny… there’s only so much distraction free weights can provide, so in order to distract himself, Mingyu begins to look at the people around him.
Since the gym is on university property, there are a lot of cute girls his age. Most are scantily clad in booty shorts and sports bras, and Mingyu thanks god for feminism and the right to bare skin.
Then his eyes find you.
You’re a frequent gym goer, like him, and Mingyu would be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to you.
You’re in one of those oversized tshirt and booty short combos that drive Mingyu wild- after all, what does your body look like under the fabric?
He’s got a pretty good imagination, and Mingyu finds himself practically drooling as he watches you do some sets on a shoulder machine.
When you’re done, you stand up, reaching for your water. You turn to look at the gym as you drink, and your eyes meet.
Mingyu is quick to avert his gaze, his skin flushing with embarrassment at having been caught staring.
In an effort to further distract himself, Mingyu moves to the lying barbell section, where he begins to put weights onto either end.
“Hey.” Your voice draws his attention, and Mingyu’s heart almost leaps out of his chest to find you standing right next to him.
“Hi.”
“Where are your friends?” you ask, taking another sip of your water.
“My friends?”
“Yeah, those two guys you’re always here with.”
So you’ve noticed him too. “Oh, uh, they’re on a double date tonight,” Mingyu says shyly.
You nod. “Looks like you need a spotter then.”
“I’ll be okay-”
“The girl I usually come with broke her wrist at volleyball last week, so I’ll need a spotter too,” you tell him. “Maybe we can help each other out?”
Mingyu swallows thickly. “Yeah, uh, okay.”
It feels awkward for him to lie down on the bench, adjusting his hands on the barbell while he looks up at you.
He wonders how well you’d actually be able to spot him if something was to go wrong, but he supposes that’s not the point. In reality, he’s going to be helping you while you’re doing your sets more than you’ll be helping him, but Mingyu doesn’t really mind.
He’s never dropped a barbell in his life, and he’s not about to drop it now with a gorgeous girl looking down at him.
“I’m y/n, by the way,” you say.
“Mingyu,” he responds.
“What’s your major?”
“Art, you?”
“Funny, you don’t look like an artist,” you laugh.
Mingyu cracks a smile. “What do I look like?” he asks.
You shrug. “I don’t know, but not an artist.” Mingyu continues his set and after a moment you speak again. “I’m in nutrition.”
“That explains it,” Mingyu says under his breath.
“Explains what?”
That you’re sexy as fuck.
“Uh, that, well, you know, you work out?” Mingyu stumbles over his words. “I mean, if you’re into nutrition, it makes sense you’re into the gym too.”
“I guess.”
Mingyu can tell from your smirk that you can probably guess his real reasoning, and he can feel his palms getting sweaty- suddenly, holding onto the barbell isn’t as easy as it usually is.
Mingyu realizes he may have overestimated his ability to keep things cool while you’re watching over him, and he pauses his set.
“You good?” you ask.
“Yeah, just uh, need water.”
One:
It’s been a couple of days since you met Mingyu at the gym, and you’re surprised to see him during a trip to the pool.
Once again, the beautiful man is alone, and you wait for him to finish swimming a lap so you can talk to him.
“Hey, stranger,” you grin. “Fancy seeing you here.”
You watch the way he swallows thickly, and you can practically see him fighting the urge to look at your swimsuit.
It’s nothing flashy, after all, you’re here to work out, not to show off. But you know Mingyu’s probably wondering what you look like under your baggy gym shirts, after all, he’s a man, so it’s not like he’s hard to predict.
“Hey,” Mingyu says. “Uh, how have you been?”
You shrug. “Been okay. Do you come to the pool often?”
“Sometimes, if my muscles are sore. You?”
“My kinesiology buddy suggested I implement swimming into my routine, a similar thought pattern to you, better for the muscles and the body.”
You see Mingyu’s attitude shift. “I guess a kinesiology buddy would know a lot about that.”
It takes you a moment, but you realize that Mingyu must think your ‘buddy’ is a man, and that maybe you’re taken or on the precipice of a relationship.
God, Mingyu is so easy to read.
“She’s pretty smart,” you note, “my kinesiology buddy.”
Again, an entire emotional shift in Mingyu, and it would almost be laughable if it weren’t so cute.
This man has a schoolboy crush on you, that much is obvious.
“So… where are your friends?” you ask.
“They’re with their girlfriends,” Mingyu sighs, and you get the sense that he’s not too happy about his workout buddies being more loved up than juiced up.
“Maybe we should just be workout buddies,” you suggest.
Mingyu’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”
You shrug. “Why not? We have similar work out schedules already, it wouldn’t be that difficult to sync them.”
“I’d actually love that,” Mingyu admits, and you love how pretty and glowy he looks.
You have an ulterior motive with Mingyu, but you’d bet your right arm he has one too. Most of the guys you’ve met who are into you don’t bother with getting to know you, or having similar interests. Men in this day and age have - for the most part - lost their ability to engage in the nuances of wooing, but there’s something about this cute, beefy art major that tells you he might just have what it takes to build something meaningful with you.
It’s not that you’re necessarily looking for a relationship, but you wouldn’t say no to one either.
Overall, you just want a connection with a man that’s not solely built on him pressing you for a one night stand, and as horny as Mingyu clearly is, there’s a shyness to him too, a shyness that draws you in.
Two:
Mingyu’s at it again. He’s found a new camgirl to jerk over, but even as he watches the pretty brunette stroke her pussy, his mind keeps wandering to you.
You’ve been workout buddies for two weeks now, and God, there are so many instances and interactions that have gone straight into Mingyu’s spank bank.
There’s something about the way you look when you’re sweating- fuck, Mingyu could just lick it up if that wasn’t such a taboo thing to admit.
Mingyu can’t help himself, he puts his computer to the side, closing his eyes and imagining that you’re the one whimpering and moaning.
Mingyu is man enough to admit that he’s a bit of a pervert. He knows it, he accepts it- he’s ashamed of it sure, but in that shame is something that only arouses him further. A certain type of obsession with self-degradation. He’s a bad boy, and being sinful only makes him harder as he strokes his cock.
He imagines you in the pool with water glistening on your skin- and that image turns into you in the gym doing dumbbells, sweat on your brow.
Mingyu groans, pumping himself harder. He can feel the tension building in his balls, the tingling sensation that’s beginning to brew.
He thinks about the way you encourage him to do more sets, the way he teases you that you’re his ‘drill sargent’ and you’ll sometimes aquiesce by telling him to drop and give you twenty-
Fuck, why are you so sexy?
Why does he want you to tell him what to do all the time?
He imagines what it would sound like if you told him to be a good boy and cum for you- and just like that, he pops.
Mingyu cums hard, a groan escaping him as he fist fucks himself through it, his hips shaking, sweat on his brow-
Mingyu can’t even bring himself to care that he’s cum all over his own chest, and as he finishes, he lets out a sigh, his hands falling to the bed next to him.
He’s so into you, and it’s not just your body. You’re an interesting person, and you’d sensed he needed a gym partner. Your presence has made the lack of Wonwoo and Seungcheol feel better, and that’s not something Mingyu will undervalue.
The only problem is… Mingyu’s one of the horniest men he knows, and he’s aware that his extreme sex drive may just be a problem.
Three:
In the three weeks you’ve been working out with Mingyu, you’ve had enough situational awareness to see how other women in the gym stare at him.
And it’s not like you can blame the other girls, after all, you also used to look at him when he wasn’t going to notice.
Mingyu is hard not to look at, he’s just so big and pretty, and his muscles bulge like nothing else when he’s doing sets.
The two of you are going hard today, and you’ve come to an agreement that for every ten sets you complete, Mingyu gets to ask you a question, and vice versa.
He’s asked you some regular run of the mill things, like your favourite movie, what inspired you to do the degree you’re working on- but then, out of knowhere, Mingyu asks, “Why are you single?”
Mingyu must notice the way you falter, your grip adjusting on the machine, and he’s quick to try to remedy it.
“I just mean, you’re pretty, and nice, and all that sort of stuff, so, I’m just confused,” he says.
“Honestly?” You let out a sigh, trying to tailor your response to intrigue the pretty man. “I have a pretty big drive for physical sensation, if that makes sense. It’s why I gym a lot, and it can be intimidating for guys. Also, I’m not into the whole one-night stand thing, and that seems to be all men want these days.”
“Wait, you’re saying, you’re uh… your sex drive is too big for most guys to handle?” Mingyu chokes.
“I’m just a girl with needs who doesn’t put out unless we’re actually dating,” you shrug.
Hook, line, and sinker.
You can see Mingyu getting hard through his gym shorts, and he coughs awkwardly.
“Uh, let’s switch,” he suggests, and you almost want to laugh.
You acquiesce, and in his newly seated position, Mingyu is able to hide his boner from you, but you’ve already seen it, and confidence is now surging through you.
Mingyu does his first ten reps, and you don’t bother to start with easy questions.
“Like what?” you ask, and to your annoyance, Mingyu makes you wait for another full set before answering.
“I guess it’s the sort of thing you kind of have to see for yourself, I don’t know how to explain it.”
“But we’re talking about weird tastes in bed, right?”
Mingyu nods, his ears turning red.
“Look, I just told you I don’t fuck around unless it’s going in the direction of something more than fuck buddies or one night stands,” you tell him. “So, I’d love to see these ‘weird tastes,’ but only if you’re actually interested in something with me.”
It’s been three weeks of getting to know each other, if Mingyu’s not sure what he wants yet, then that’s on him. You’re being direct, and you’re not going to feel bad about that.
“I’m interested,” Mingyu confirms quickly.
“Are you free tomorrow night?” Tomorrow is usually your rest day, and you’ve never really asked what Mingyu gets up to when you’re not at the gym or pool.
“Tomorow would be great,” he confirms.
“Then it’s a date,” you conclude. “Tomorrow you can show me these weird tastes that apparently make it hard for you to find a woman.”
“And maybe you can show me about this whole ‘drive for physical sensation’ thing you have.”
God, your panties are wet just thinking about it.
Four:
It feels a little odd to have Mingyu in your one bedroom on campus apartment. This is uncharted waters, and the usual social map that you use at places like gym and pool is no longer here to guide you.
The two of you know what you’re here to do, but it’s clear you’re both shy about it as you go to sit on your bed.
Being shy isn’t usually something you experience, but you also haven’t had a legitimate dating prospect in a while, especially not one as handsome as Mingyu, so you’re being careful not to mess anything up.
You find yourself lying next to Mingyu, both of you looking up at your ceiling.
“So… tell me about your weird tastes?” you suggest.
He swallows thickly. “What if you tell me some of yours first?”
You laugh. He’s even more shy than you are. “I guess, manhandling is fun. Feeling small and being able to be thrown around is hot.”
Mingyu nods. “I like that you’re smaller than me too. But… I also kind of like that, when we’re at the gym, you get bossy with me.”
This is an interesting development, and you sit up, resting your elbow against the pillow so you can look at Mingyu while you brace your head with your palm. “So you’re not very dominant?”
“Not really,” Mingyu says shyly.
“More into the whole ‘good boy’ thing.”
You note the way Mingyu reacts, his gaze meeting yours, his breath catching. “Yeah.”
“What else?” you prompt. “There has to be something else for people to consider your tastes ‘weird.’” He stays quiet and you lean forward, letting your lips ghost past his ear. “Be a good boy and tell me.”
Mingyu swallows thickly, and you note the way he’s begun to fidget with his fingers where his hands are resting on his chest.
“I guess… I’m really into porn? Which is horrible, I know it’s bad for your brain and stuff, but I really just can’t help myself. There’s this word for it, where you like to watch people-”
“Voyeurism.”
“Yeah, voyeurism,” Mingyu nods. “I don’t know, it’s like… watching other people, and, you know, touching myself while I watch-”
“Lots of people like porn,” you assure him.
“Yeah, but, I watch it a lot.”
He’s looking at you now with an expression you’ve never seen on Mingyu’s face. It’s as if he’s waiting for something, and after a moment, you realize what it might be.
“You like the way it makes you feel,” you note, “how it makes you feel dirty, but you’re also eager to redeem yourself by being a good boy.”
“Exactly. I think it’s also because I’ve been single for a while, I mean, if I’m in a relationship with someone, I don’t think I’ll need to watch as much.”
It’s definitely an interesting kink.
Sinning by watching porn, then proving yourself to be a good boy by doing sexual favours- or at least, that’s what you assume he means.
Mingyu is really just a puppy boy, and there’s something so adorable and endearing about this large, beautiful man, admitting these things to you.
Well, he’s told you he likes when you take control, so you muster up your confidence to take the reins.
“A lot of people in this university make sex videos,” you note. “If you do well tonight, if things go well between us, maybe one day we can make our own videos.”
Mingyu makes a choked sound, and you note the way his cock is starting to rise in his sweatpants. “Really?”
“Maybe, if you do well,” you repeat. “Why don’t…” you trail your finger across his cheek, “you show me what you’ve learned from all these educational videos you’ve watched?”
Mingyu swallows thickly, and then he sits up a little. “Can I kiss you?”
“You can do anything you want.”
Mingyu is slow about it even though he now has permission. His hand reaches out to cup your cheek, and he leans forward, eyes double checking you’re actually okay.
Even though you’d both known you were meeting up to fuck, he’s still being careful about it, and that makes you like him even more. A man who respects boundaries? Husband material for sure.
You appreciate that he’s testing the waters, but you’re eager to dive right in, so you make the final move.
You lean forward, pressing your lips to his eagerly.
Mingyu groans, cupping your face to kiss you back.
He tastes good, and he’s not too forceful with his tongue, which gently strokes your lip to ask for entrance.
As you kiss, he shifts, slowly moving so he can be on top of you. Your legs open for him, and he slots against you.
You can feel how hard he is already, and when you tangle your fingers in his hair, he moans louder against you, rutting gently for stimulation.
Mingyu’s lips move to your throat, and he also teases your ear a little, which sends a shiver through you.
One of his hands slips under your shirt, and he grabs your boob over your bra, massaging you tentively.
“Take it off,” you tell him, arching your back in an effort to do it yourself.
Between the two of you, you’re able to remove your shirt, and you also remove your bra, making yourself bare to Mingyu from the waist up.
“You’re so pretty,” he muses, sitting up and looking down at you. Both of his hands find your breasts, and he begins to massage you. “Do you have any oil or anything?”
In preparation for this, you’d put a few sexy items in your bedside table, so it’s easy enough to reach for the coconut oil you have hidden there.
Mingyu drips some oil onto his hands, and then he begins to massage your breasts again.
The silky sensation of the oil makes you moan, and you relax against the bed, closing your eyes to enjoy it all.
You love a man who takes his time to worship you, and no one has massaged your chest in a very long time.
His thumbs brush over your nipples and you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second.
When you look up at Mingyu, you find his gaze fixed to your chest, as if he’s bewitched by the prettiest sight he’s ever seen.
You love how big his hands are, how soft and warm-
Even so, you’re eager for more.
You haven’t had sex in a while, and your core is almost starting to hurt with anticipation.
This must be what blue balls feels like- or at least, the female equivalent, and you find yourself wrapping a hand around Mingyu’s wrist to make him stop.
“I know what your hands do,” you tell him, “but what about your mouth?”
You’re almost a little shocked at the confidence you seem to have gained, but being confident with Mingyu just comes naturally.
You know he’s man enough to take commands from a woman, in fact, he enjoys doing what he’s told, and something about that is so immensely sexy.
Mingyu shifts down the bed, and he hooks his fingers in your sweatpants, looking up at you for permission.
“Go ahead,” you nod.
The large, beefy man slowly slides your pants down your legs, and then he situates himself between your thighs. He starts by massaging your muscles, pressing kisses along your skin as he slowly works up to where you need him most.
You can feel his breath through your panties, and you shift against the bed, core throbbing already.
Then, Mingyu kisses you through the fabric, and it’s such an interesting sensation.
He begins to lick, pushing his tongue at your panties.
“Just take them off,” you groan.
Mingyu is quick to do as he’s told, and you lift your legs to make the process easier, leaving you completely bare for him.
Upon returning to his spot between your legs, Mingyu begins kissing your thighs again, and this time, as he slowly makes his way up to your pussy, you know there’s nothing standing in the way of him pleasuring you.
He kisses your clit, and the sensation makes you twitch.
Your hands snake down to grab at his hair, and he looks up at you.
Something in his eyes tells you he really enjoys you having a hold on him like this.
“Show me what your mouth can do,” you repeat, body tense with anticipation.
Mingyu wastes no time now, he dives in, and this time, he holds nothing back.
His tongue pushes into you, hot, puffy lips making full contact on your core as he licks and eats and slurps.
He’s a messy eater, and you actually kind of love it.
You love how lost he gets in it, how his eyes close, his hands gripping your thighs on either side of his head as he groans against your pussy.
Then you realize the rest of his body is moving too, his hips are wiggling, as if he’s looking for stimulus while he eats you out.
Fuck, he’s so hot- grinding against the bed, so turned on from giving you oral that he can’t even help himself.
“Just like that,” you tell him, throwing your head back and closing your eyes to focus on the sensation.
You’d been so wet and needy just from him massaging your breasts, and now that he’s eating you out- well, you know you’re not going to last long.
Some men don’t know what to do with a woman’s body, but Mingyu isn’t one of those men.
It looks like he has actually learned a thing or two from watching copious amounts of porn, which is kind of shocking if you’re being honest with yourself.
Mingyu shifts, and then a finger is pushing into your wet heat, his mouth now giving its full attention to your sensitive clit.
He pumps his digit in and out, and you can feel how wet and slick you are by the ease in which he fingers you.
One becomes two, and he adjusts his hand, his digits crooking up toward your g-spot.
You’re practically squelching now, and moans are escaping you without barriers. You want Mingyu to know how good he’s making you feel, and there’s no use in restricting yourself.
You begin to move, wiggling your hips so you can help him pleasure you, and your motions make Mingyu groan. He sucks your clit even harder, his hot tongue flicking the sensitive bud with more force as he fingers you.
“I’m close,” you tell him.
Mingyu only moans in response, his motions getting faster as he worships your core.
You close your eyes, focusing entirely on the ecstasy he’s providing you.
Your muscles are getting tighter, your body preparing yourself for the orgasm that hits mere moments later.
You let out a gasp, your core clamping down on Mingyu’s fingers as pleasure erupts through you. It hits you in waves, making you moan and whimper at each contraction of your pussy around Mingyu’s fingers.
Your clit is ultra sensitive, but fuck, it feels so good-
Mingyu continues to eat you out as you cum, and it almost boarders on being too good- but you’re not about to push him away for being too good.
Your hips are still wiggling, your body unconsciously wanting your orgasm prolonged- you’re a glutton for punishment and pleasure in that way, but you know Mingyu doesn’t mind.
Finally, you begin to push at Mingyu’s head, and he pulls away, looking up at you.
“Do you want another?” he asks innocently.
You laugh. “Want you inside me.”
“I am inside you,” he smiles, his fingers pushing in and out of you again, making an obscene squelching sound that has your skin heating with embarrassment.
“You know what I mean,” you tut.
Mingyu takes his digits out of you, plopping them in his mouth to suck clean while he groans. When he’s done cleaning himself off, he sits up. “So uh… condoms?”
“I’m on birth control, are you clean?”
“I’m clean,” he nods.
“Then fuck me.”
Mingyu starts by taking his shirt off, and you marvel at his toned muscles. This man works out at least four days of the week, and it shows.
He’s so sexy, you’re pretty sure you’re drooling, and you swallow thickly.
“Suck a pretty puppy boy,” you whisper.
“Puppy boy?”
“Yeah, you’re a puppy boy,” you insist.
He looks at you for a moment, and then you note the way his shoulders relax. “I like that.”
“Here,” you sit up. “Lie down.”
Mingyu does what he’s told, like any good puppy boy would, and you take control.
“Lift your hips,” you instruct next, and when he follows through, you tear his sweats and his underwear off with one rough tug.
The biggest cock you’ve ever seen slaps up against his stomach, and your jaw drops.
“Holy shit.”
Mingyu flushes a pretty shade of pink. Leave it to him to be shy about how big his dick is as opposed to turning into a cocky piece of shit like most men would.
You can’t help but wrap your hand around him, bringing your mouth to his tip to suck on it.
Mingyu groans immediately, grabbing at your bed sheets as you begin to suck him off.
It helps that you’re practically drooling, but even so, he’s so large that you really can’t take a lot of him.
After a minute, you sit up. “Pass me the oil.”
He does as he’s told like the good puppy boy he is, and you coat your hand in the slick.
When you return to blowing him, you begin to pump what you can’t reach with your mouth, twisting and squeezing and teasing.
Mingyu groans louder, and you give the act of pleasuring him your all, as he’d just given you.
When a man treats you well, it’s only right that you treat him well in return, and something tells you that if things with Mingyu continue, there are going to be a lot of moments like this one.
You love sucking on his mushroom tip, teasing him endlessly as he groans and shifts below you.
“Fuck, you’re good at this,” Mingyu tells you.
You hum happily around him, and he moans even louder.
Then, you pull your mouth off of him, continuing your motions with your hand. “Part of me wants to just tease you like this for hours.”
“And the other part?” he asks.
“Wants to ride you.”
He swallows thickly. “Can… can you ride me, please?”
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
You sit up fully, straddling him. But you don’t immediately put him inside of you, instead, you lean forward to kiss him, grinding down against his oil slicked cock so you can lubricate yourself.
You know this isn’t going to be easy getting him inside of you, after all, his cock is massive, but teasing both of you like this will make the process smoother.
Mingyu kisses you eagerly, grabbing the back of your neck with one hand and your hip with the other. He applies pressure to help you wiggle against him, and your oiled breasts make the whole situation extra nice and slippery.
Soon, Mingyu’s hips begin to twitch, and you know you’ve teased him long enough.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing the base of his cock so you can line him up with your core.
You’re gentle with yourself as you sink onto him, taking just the tip at first to get used to the stretch.
“Fuck,” Mingyu groans, panting already.
“Be patient for me,” you tell him, taking another inch.
Mingyu decides to distract himself by grabbing your breasts, and he begins massaging you again, making you groan as you do your best to take more and more of him.
He toys with your nipples and a shiver of pleasure runs through you.
Another inch.
It’s good to be on top of him for your first time. You’re sure Mingyu would have been gentle if he was on top, but you’re happy to have full control of the penetration speed. Your core is twitching tightly around the massive intrusion, but you’re not someone who gives up. You take inch after inch until you’re finally fully seated on top of Mingyu.
You both groan desperately from the sensation, and you begin to swivel your hips.
“So deep,” you whimper.
“So tight,” he echoes back.
You lean over him again, pressing your lips to his so you can bounce up and down. Mingyu’s hands find your hips and he kisses you back desperately.
God, he feels absolutely unreal.
You pride yourself on being someone with a lot of stamina in bed, so you’re prepared to ride him until your thighs are burning- but then Mingyu begins to thrust up to meet you, and suddenly he’s hitting even deeper.
You let out a deep moan, staying still so he can fuck up into you.
And that’s when you decide you want to know what doggy with Mingyu feels like.
“Shit, okay, fuck,” you swallow thickly. “Want you to fuck me from behind.”
“Okay,” he pants.
You pull off of him, adjusting on the bed while he sits up to get onto his knees.
Your ass is in the air, but your lower body is close to the bed, back arched.
Mingyu brings his cock to your wet hole, and he slowly pushes in. Your core is absolutely soaked, and it’s easier for him to enter you now than the first time.
Soon, his front is flush to your back, and he grabs your hips.
“Okay, fuck me,” you tell him.
Mingyu doesn’t waste any time, he begins to rut into you. His grip is tight on your skin, and he pulls you back to meet each thrust.
He’s so deep that you’re seeing stars. Sounds are leaving your mouth that you’ve never heard come from you before.
Each thrust is magic, filling you unlike anything else ever has.
You’d mentioned you like manhandling, and this is what you were talking about.
You can feel Mingyu’s power in the way that he’s pulling you back and forth like a rag doll. There’s something so sexy about allowing a man the chance to use you, about being the one in control even while he decimates your pussy.
You can feel your orgasm begining to bubble up inside of you again, and you know from the sounds Mingyu’s making that he’s probably close to- after all, you’ve got to cum once, but so far, all of this has been foreplay for Mingyu.
“I’m getting close,” you whimper.
“Me too,” Mingyu admits. “Lay flat for me.”
It takes a moment to resposition, but now you’re on your stomach. Mingyu’s still fucking you, but now he’s laid over your back. His breath is hot against your throat and you turn your head so Mingyu can press his lips to yours.
He’s straddling your closed legs, but your back is still slightly arched so he can enter you easily.
This angle has him hitting spots you’ve never had touched, and it feels like heaven.
Your bodies are fully pressed together, there’s no distance like in doggy, and you love that this will be the position you both come in.
It’s close, but your back is still to him, so it’s not as vanilla and domestic as something like missionary.
Mingyu’s groaning more and more, and you echo his sounds with whimpers of your own.
“Shit,” Mingyu cusses. “I want to cum with you.”
“Then cum for me, I’m so close,” you whimper.
“Fuck,” he groans again, fucking you even harder.
The whole bed is rocking, but that only turns you on more as you get closer and closer to the edge.
“I’m almost there,” you whimper, body tensing on the verge of ecstasy.
“Me too, me too,” he moans.
He presses his lips to yours and that sends you over the edge.
Your core clamps down hard on his cock and Mingyu moans desperately, his cock twitching inside of you before he explodes.
The orgasm is all-consuming, and every sensation is Mingyu.
He does his best to fuck you through it, but you know that he’s overwhelmed like you are.
No orgasm has ever felt this good, and your core continues to milk Mingyu, filling you up unlike anything else.
“Shit, shit-” he groans, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against your shoulder, panting desperately as you both try to come down from your highs.
He lays on top of you like this for a while as you both recollect yourselves, and then, he lets out a sigh.
“Give me like, five minutes, and some time to massage you again, and I’ll be able to do round two.”
He’s as insatiable as you are. Sure, he’s a little weird, but who isn’t. You’re kind of weird too, but at least your weirds seem to work together, and you kind of love it.
☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! If you're interested in Wonwoo's chapter about No Face, find it here, and Seungcheol's chapter is here.
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🔮 preview. Mingyu had told you about some ammature porn videos where there’s some ‘sir pussy licker’ or something, and how a bunch of his content is just eating out his girlfriend and making her squirt- so of course, Mingyu wants that to be a major part of the content you make.
cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, sex tape, multiple reader orgasms, oral, pussy eating, blow job, hand job, overstim, squirting, breast worship, body worship kink, dirty talk, praise, mentions of self inflicted edging, mentions of cock rings and other things, big dick Mingyu agenda, etc… I petnames. (his) Puppy.
👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.7k I teaser wc. 150
🌙 starring. Kim Mingyu x afab!Reader
bonus
You’ve been with Mingyu for about six months now, and true to your word when you’d started seeing each other, the two of you have made a few sex tapes for your eyes only.
Mingyu’s absolutely obsessed with you, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same way.
The two of you are lying in bed after filming a new thing for the two of you, and Mingyu releases a breath. “Maybe… maybe we should start actually doing the whole cam thing,” he suggests.
“Yeah?”
“You know, make money.”
“How much do you think we could make?” you ask, not fully opposed to the idea.
“I have two friends who do the whole solo cam show thing,” Mingyu admits. “They both bring in a lot of money, but they also do solo stuff. If we made stuff together, our target audience could be bigger.”
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in which Seonghwa cant get enough of Mingi's little sister
park seonghwa x fem!reader (third person)
tw: smut, 18+, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names (angel, baby), seonghwa wants her sooo bad, fem user, forbidden love, reader is 18, minors dni, non idol au
my seonghwa fever is getting worse, especially after the lemon drop mv...
wc: 5,7k
There were a few unspoken rules in the Song household. One: never blast loud music after midnight. Two: Mingi gets control of the aux in the car—no arguments. And three, the most sacred of them all—Park Seonghwa was strictly, eternally, absolutely off limits. At least, that’s what Mingi always said to his little sister.
She was eighteen now. Legally an adult. Technically allowed to vote, sign her own documents, and finally order iced Americanos without her brother making a face like she’d committed treason. But in Mingi’s eyes, she was still that tiny girl who used to follow him around the neighborhood in mismatched socks and two pigtails, trailing behind him like a puppy. That made things complicated. Because Park Seonghwa had been Mingi’s best friend since middle school.
And she had had a hopeless, fluttery, chest-squeezing crush on him for exactly that long.
She still remembered the first time she met him. She was ten, a little shy and quiet, peeking around the corner to spy on the tall, handsome boy who’d come over to play video games with Mingi. He had this soft, almost angelic face—kind eyes, a gentle smile—and he’d said hi to her in that voice that made her ears warm.
Now, eight years later, nothing had changed. At least not for her.
Well, okay, maybe some things had changed. Like how she had grown into herself—still sweet, still a little shy around new people, but prettier than she gave herself credit for. Polite to a fault, soft-spoken, and with a kind of delicate presence that people tended to notice without her even trying. But when it came to Seonghwa, she still turned to jelly.
He was in his last year of university and still best friends with her brother. He came over often, flopping down on the couch like he lived there, teasing Mingi with that lazy grin and tousled black hair that made her want to run into a hole and never come back out.
Because it wasn’t just a schoolgirl crush anymore. It was deeper now. Softer. The way he’d pass her a mug of hot chocolate without being asked. The way he’d say, “You look good,” in passing like it was just a fact. And the way his eyes would sometimes linger—just a second too long—when she smiled at him. But he never acted on it. Never crossed that line. Never let himself.
Because she was Mingi’s little sister. And Mingi would absolutely commit murder if he ever found out his best friend looked at her that way.
But what she didn’t know—what anyone couldn’t know—was that Seonghwa was already halfway in too deep.
He didn’t remember when it started, exactly. Maybe it was that day last winter when he found her asleep on the couch, curled up like a kitten, a book fallen across her chest. Or maybe it was the way her laugh lit up the whole room when she finally let herself be comfortable. But now it was impossible to ignore. The softness in her gaze, the subtle scent of her shampoo when she brushed past him, the way she chewed her lip when she was nervous—
He was screwed.
And yet, he kept showing up. Kept pretending he didn’t feel it. Kept pushing it down, like some heavy weight pressing into his ribs. Because her brother trusted him.
So when Mingi decided to throw another party, his excuse being halloween, claiming it would be the only thing to cure his boredom, Seonghwa, being the good friend he is, immediately offered to help.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚
Upstairs, some hours before the party, she was putting the final touches on her costume. The bathroom was small and a little stuffy from the heat of her hair curler and the flurry of makeup she had been working on for the last half hour. The mirror was fogged at the corners, the counter a mess of brushes, glitter, and tiny containers. She tugged at the hem of her dress — if you could even call it that. It was small, shorter than she expected when she ordered it, and so delicate it almost looked like it would dissolve if someone touched it. White lace clung to her body in all the right — or wrong — places, little sparkles catching the bathroom light. She wore thigh-high white stockings, thin and lacy too, giving her an almost sinful kind of sweetness. Her angel costume. And she definitely didn’t wear it for him.
And when Seonghwa saw her, he almost lost it.
She looks so... fucking perfect.
He couldn't stop the thoughts from flooding in again—this time even more intense than any other time. He was dangerously close to forgetting all the reasons why he should stay away. She was beautiful, radiant, flawless in every sense, and she seemed so completely out of reach.
I can't keep doing this, he thought, trying desperately to distance himself from his own feelings. She’s not mine. She never will be. But that didn’t stop the ache in his chest, the tension that was still building between them. His jaw clenched as he crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze never straying from her. She would be the death of him.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚
The party was in full swing now—noisy, wild, and exactly the chaos Mingi had wanted.
The bass from the DJ's massive speakers made the floor vibrate under their feet, lights flashing between red, blue, and green, giving the whole house an almost surreal, dreamlike feeling. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, drinks in hand, some dancing in the living room, some gathered in the kitchen, shouting conversations over the heavy beat. Mingi had somehow managed to turn the whole place into a mini nightclub, and it was obvious the college crowd was loving it.
She was somewhere near the middle of it all, surrounded by her friends, laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol she’d been sipping—sweet drinks that went down like water—and her smile was bright, a little looser than usual. Her friends were dressed just as cute as she was—some in sparkly tops and tiny skirts, others in barely-there witch costumes—but none of them even touched the way she looked tonight. She stood out like a soft, shining light in the middle of it all—her white lacy dress and wings making her look almost untouchable.
And college boys, already buzzed and confident from their drinks, had been flocking around her friendgroup like moths to a flame. She didn’t mind the attention, exactly—she giggled when they flirted, batted her lashes once or twice—but even as she joked around and clinked red plastic cups with strangers, her mind kept wandering back to one person. Seonghwa.
Her eyes flickered to him without meaning to, seeking him out instinctively. And there he was—standing across the room by the makeshift bar Mingi had set up in the corner, leaning against the counter, a cup in his hand, casually talking to San over the thundering music.
He looked so good like this. Relaxed but sharp, his costume fitting him too well, his slicked-back hair and intense gaze making him look even hotter than she remembered from earlier. The blood spatter on his shirt and collarbone only added to it somehow. And the worst part was that his eyes never left hers the whole night. Even while he nodded at something San was saying, Seonghwa’s eyes barely left her body. His gaze was heavy, following her every move—the way she leaned into her friends, the way she laughed, the way her dress clung to her hips when she shifted.
It was killing him. Absolutely fucking killing him.
He took a sip from his cup, pretending to be nonchalant, but inside, he was a mess. Every inch of him was taut, straining not to walk over there, grab her, and make it clear to every other guy that she wasn’t available—even if she technically was. Next to him, San caught the direction of his gaze easily, even through the haze of music and lights. He smirked, nudging Seonghwa’s side with his elbow.
"You're so fucking screwed," San shouted over the bass, laughing as Seonghwa shot him a quick, warning look.
Seonghwa scowled, tilting his head like he hadn’t heard right. "What?"
San only laughed harder. "You’re not even hiding it, hyung. You keep staring at her like you’re two seconds from dragging her upstairs. Mingi’s little sister," he added pointedly. "You’re dead if you even think about it."
Seonghwa barked out a low, humorless laugh and shook his head, forcing himself to act normal. "You’re drunk," he lied easily, taking another sip of his drink. "I’m not staring at her."
San arched a brow, clearly not buying it. "Sure, man. Whatever you say."
Seonghwa didn’t argue further. There was no point. He knew it was dangerous. He knew it was wrong. But fuck if he could help himself.
He watched as some college guy with too much confidence leaned too close to her, making her laugh again, and his jaw tightened painfully.
Stay cool, he told himself. Stay fucking cool.
He couldn’t act on it. He wouldn’t. No matter how badly he wanted her—how badly he wanted to be the only one making her laugh like that. Because San was right. If Mingi even suspected how Seonghwa felt about his little sister… He’d kill him. And worse, he would deserve it. He was supposed to protect her. Not fantasize about bending her over the nearest surface.
Still, even as he told himself all these rational things, his eyes refused to leave her, drawn back to her like she was the only real thing in the entire crowded house.
⋆. 𐙚 ˚
As a few hours passed, he music was deafening, drinks had been flowing like water, and she was officially gone. She was a giggling mess, her cheeks flushed pink, her hair a little tousled from dancing and moving around so much. Her angel wings were slightly crooked on her back, but she didn’t seem to care. She and her friends had been dancing non-stop earlier, but now they were getting bored — the DJ had switched to some slow, repetitive beats that weren't nearly as fun, and she pouted, dramatically whining over the music.
"I need to fix this," she slurred to her friends, determination flashing in her tipsy eyes.
She spun around, trying to find Mingi — he was the host after all, he could tell the DJ to change it — but in the packed, sweaty crowd, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Still, she was stubborn, stumbling a little as she weaved through bodies, her drink almost tipping over.
That’s when she bumped right into someone’s solid chest.
And of course it was fucking Seonghwa.
He turned instantly at the light shove, his hand shooting out to steady her by her hips without even thinking.
And when he saw her—her wide, glazed eyes, her little pout, the way she swayed slightly on her heels—his whole demeanor shifted. He went so soft for her.
"Hey," he said, lowering his head closer so she could hear over the heavy bass. "You okay, angel?"
She giggled at the nickname, swaying again. "M'fine!" she chirped, nodding too hard.
Seonghwa didn’t look convinced. He kept one hand lightly on her waist just to make sure she didn’t topple over again. She leaned closer, getting on her tiptoes slightly to speak near his ear.
"I needa... change the music," she explained seriously, her words a little jumbled, her breath warm against his skin. "It's boring now. We need, like—" she hiccupped cutely, frowning, "I don’t know… some spanish songs."
Seonghwa chuckled lowly, heart squeezing at how adorable she was like this — so determined and tipsy and so irresistible. "Alright, alright," he murmured, giving her waist a gentle squeeze. "Let’s fix it."
Without giving her a chance to get lost again, he grabbed her hand — her tiny fingers slotting against his — and started leading her toward the DJ booth, parting the crowd easily with his larger frame. She stumbled after him, wings bobbing slightly behind her, her grip tight and trusting in his hand.
When they got to the DJ, Seonghwa stood right next to her, close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest every time she shifted. He watched, amused and fond, as she leaned into the DJ’s ear, pleading cutely for "some spanish songs, pleaseeee." The DJ laughed and gave her a thumbs up, scrolling quickly through his playlist.
He couldn't take his eyes off her.
The way her dress clung to her curves, the way her makeup glittered under the flashing lights, the way her lips curved into that triumphant little smile when the opening beats of Chantaje came blasting through the speakers.
Before he could even react, she turned back to him, beaming up at him, her eyes sparkling.
"Come dance with me," she said, grabbing his hand again, tugging him toward the middle of the floor.
Seonghwa didn’t even hesitate. "Yeah," he said, his voice low and sure. "I’ll dance with you."
At first, it was innocent enough. They laughed, moved together easily to the upbeat song, spinning and hopping around like idiots. She threw her arms up, her wings bouncing with her movements, and Seonghwa couldn't stop smiling, completely charmed. But as the music shifted into a slower, heavier bass beat—more sultry, more rhythmic—their movements began to change too.
Still tipsy and emboldened, she moved closer. Her body brushed against his. Then pressed. Her hips started swaying in a slow, hypnotic way that made Seonghwa’s throat go dry.
He didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.
His hands found her waist again, holding her there gently, but firmly.
She looked up at him through her lashes, all coy and mischievous, her body rolling to the beat, her ass brushing against his hips as she moved. Seonghwa sucked in a breath, sharp and strained, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist.
She’s drunk, his brain screamed. She doesn’t mean it.
But another, darker part of him, the part that had been craving her for months now, whispered:
She wants you.
Her scent was dizzying — sweet perfume and vanilla and alcohol — and she felt so fucking good against him he thought he might actually lose his mind.
The music throbbed around them, but all he could focus on was the way she was moving — for him, against him — her laughter, the way her hips fit so perfectly against his. She wasn’t even aware of what she was doing to him, and it made it even worse. Seonghwa dipped his head closer to hers, fighting every instinct to not pull her even tighter.
Seonghwa was rock hard at this point, the front of his pants unbearably tight, every brush of her hips against his enough to make his hands twitch at his sides. He tried—God, he tried—to keep himself in check. To tell himself she was just drunk and having fun. That she didn’t mean it. That it didn’t mean anything.
But when the girl leaned her body back more fully against him, her ass pressing flush against his aching cock through the thin lace of her dress and hispants, Seonghwa’s self-control cracked.
His hands shot to her waist—gripping it tight—and for a second, he just held her there, breathing hard against the back of her head. And when she kept moving—kept grinding against him like she had no idea what she was doing to him—his hands slid lower, gripping her hips, his thumbs dangerously close to the curve of her ass.
"Stop," he rasped into her ear, barely audible over the music, but his hands betrayed him, tightening almost possessively.
But she only laughed, soft and tipsy, and turned around in his hold—tilting her head up, eyes gleaming. And without thinking, without caring, Seonghwa crushed his mouth to hers.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate.
Months and months of pent-up longing exploded between them.
She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head while the other stayed firm on her waist, holding her tight against his body so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him.
Their kiss was messy, needy — all teeth and tongues and muffled moans.
Her hands fisted the front of his bloody costume, pulling him closer, and he deepened the kiss, tilting her head back just to taste more of her.
She was kissing him back like she wanted him, like she needed him just as badly.
He wanted to lift her up and fuck her right there against the wall. He wanted to tear that little dress off her and worship every inch of her body like he’d dreamed about so many nights. He wanted her.
But reality crashed back into him like a cold slap.
She was drunk. She wasn’t thinking clearly. He couldn’t take advantage of her. Not like this. Never like this.
Breaking the kiss felt like ripping his own heart out of his chest. He pulled back sharply, panting hard, staring at her swollen lips, her half-lidded, dazed eyes.
“Come on,” he muttered hoarsely, grabbing her hand again before he did something even worse. “We need to get you some water.”
She pouted, confused and frustrated, but she let him tug her through the crowd.
Seonghwa barely noticed the people around them. His brain was a haze of her and you fucking idiot, get it together. He dragged her into the kitchen — blessedly quieter — and let go of her hand only to grab a bottle of water off the counter.
“Here,” he said, shoving it into her hands. His voice was still rough, his heart hammering against his ribs.
She blinked at him, still looking a little dazed, her lips parted and he groaned internally and pushed the bottle closer.
“Drink, angel,” he said more gently. “You need to sober up.”
Obediently, she brought the bottle to her lips, taking small sips at first, then longer gulps.
Seonghwa leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as if that could somehow cage the overwhelming need clawing inside him. She looked like sin itself, standing there in that tiny white dress, her wings slightly crooked, her cheeks flushed from alcohol and dancing, her lips still red and kiss-swollen from him.
He closed his eyes briefly, breathing deep through his nose. He needed to get a fucking grip. Because if he didn’t he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself a second time.
"Slow down, angel," he murmured when she tried to chug the rest of the bottle, stepping closer and curling his fingers gently around her wrist. His touch was careful this time. Controlled.
She looked up at him, cheeks puffed slightly from drinking too fast, and giggled.
he smiled despite himself, soft and fond, smoothing a stray piece of hair from her face. And when she lifted her head to look at him after some minutes, her big eyes soft and a bit clearer, her mouth parting slightly like she wanted to say something he snapped.
He dropped the water bottle onto the counter with a dull clatter and stepped right into her space. She barely had time to gasp before he was cupping her jaw and crashing his mouth onto hers again.
This time, there was no hesitation. Just pure, desperate need.
She kissed him back immediately, almost hungrily, her hands flying up to fist the front of his shirt. Seonghwa groaned deep in his chest, kissing her harder, pushing her backward until her hips bumped against the counter. He didn’t even stop to give her a second to breathe.
His hands roamed greedily — one tangled in her soft hair, the other sliding down her back, gripping her ass through the scandalously short lace dress. She made a little needy sound against his mouth when he squeezed, and he swallowed it down like a man starved. Her dress was so fucking thin. Seonghwa could feel the heat of her skin right through it. He broke the kiss only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, to her neck, sucking gently at her pulse point.
She whimpered, arching into him, her nails scraping lightly at his chest, and it drove him wild.
"You have no idea," he muttered against her skin, voice rough and wrecked, "no fucking idea how long I've wanted this."
She shivered under him, her hands moving up, framing his face, pulling him back up to her mouth. He kissed her like he was claiming her, like he needed her more than he needed air. She whimpered again when his hands slipped down to her thighs, squeezing and lifting her effortlessly onto the counter. Her wings shifted and rustled behind her, but neither of them cared.
From this angle, she was so perfect—sitting pretty in her tiny white dress and lace stockings, flushed and panting, her thighs spreading naturally for him.
Seonghwa's hand slid up one of her bare thighs, fingertips brushing along the edge of her stockings, feeling the slight bump where lace met soft skin.
He pulled back just barely, breathing heavily, forehead resting against hers.
"You’re dangerous," he rasped, his voice almost trembling with how much he was holding back. "So fucking dangerous, angel."
He kissed her again, rougher this time, swallowing her little gasps, his hands greedy, sliding up under her skirt now, feeling the heat of her bare thighs. She moaned into his mouth, shifting closer, her legs wrapping around his waist without even thinking. Seonghwa was losing it. She was so warm, so soft, so fucking willing. It took everything inside him not to rip that little dress right off her body. Not to drop to his knees and worship her the way she deserved.
When he finally broke away again, panting, he rested his forehead against hers, trying to calm down, but it was useless.
"I need to get you alone," he whispered hoarsely, voice wrecked with want.
She giggled breathlessly against his lips, her fingers still playing with the collar of his costume.
"Then take me," she whispered back, mischief glinting in her pretty eyes.
Seonghwa growled low in his throat, already spinning plans in his mind—
how to get her upstairs, how to lock the door, how to finally, finally touch every inch of her he’d been dreaming about. He was going to make her his. And he wasn’t going to let anything or anyone stop him. He slipped his hands under her thighs, lifting her off the counter like she weighed nothing. she gasped and clutched his shoulders, giggling quietly as he carried her across the kitchen.
He kept her close against his chest, weaving through the crowd carefully, taking a side route avoiding the main hallway, avoiding Mingi, avoiding any possible disaster.
All that existed for him right now was her. He was so fucking hard it hurt.
They made it upstairs somehow, slipping into her room, and the second the door closed, Seonghwa pinned her against it. His mouth was back on hers before either of them could breathe, his hands greedy, roaming everywhere at once down her sides, over her hips, squeezing her ass with both hands and pressing her harder against the door.
She moaned sweetly against his mouth, rolling her hips up into him without shame, feeling how desperate he was for her.
"Hwa—" she whimpered, tugging at his hair, kissing him back with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.
"You’re driving me fucking crazy," Seonghwa growled against her lips, grinding into her, making her feel just how hard he was.
He kissed down her neck hungrily, sucking a dark mark just under her jawline where her brother wouldn’t see it later. His hands slid up her thighs, under the barely-there lace of her dress, until his fingers brushed between her legs. And he froze.
"Fuck," he rasped, pulling back just enough to look down at her, his hand still pressed firmly against the heat between her thighs. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.
"You’re killing me, angel," he muttered, voice wrecked, eyes dark and hungry.
She giggled softly, slightly drunk on the way he touched her, on the way he looked at her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted.
"I wanted to be good for you," she whispered, biting her lip.
Seonghwa almost lost it right there.
Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of her, pulling her thighs apart with his large hands.
She gasped, blushing fiercely, her wings trembling slightly behind her as she steadied herself against the door. He kissed the inside of her thigh first, slow and deliberate, making her shiver. Then higher. And higher. Until he was mouthing at the place she was already slick and needy for him, her sweet little wet pussy dragging a moan from her lips.
"Seonghwa—!" she gasped, her fingers burying themselves in his hair.
He groaned against her, the taste of her driving him wild, and he started working her open with slow, lazy licks, like he had all the time in the world to devour her. She whimpered and bucked her hips, desperate, but he kept her pinned, spreading her thighs wider, feasting on her like he was starving. Oh, she tasted so sweet. So fucking sweet.
When he finally slipped a finger inside her — slow, careful —she gasped again, her whole body trembling against the door. "So perfect," he muttered against her, curling his finger just right, making her sob. "So fucking sweet."
He kept going, slow and relentless, adding another finger, his mouth still working her, until she was writhing, tugging his hair, sobbing his name over and over. It didn’t take long.
She came with a loud, breathy cry, her thighs shaking around his shoulders, and Seonghwa grinned against her, helping her ride it out with slow, gentle kisses.
But he wasn’t done. Not even close.
He stood up again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed her hard — letting her taste herself on his tongue.
She was dazed, breathing hard, clinging to his shirt.
"Bed," he rasped against her lips. "Now."
She stumbled backward, letting her wings fall off as she crawled onto the bed, looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He stripped his shirt off, not caring about the costume anymore, revealing a lean, sculpted body that made her mouth go dry. He crawled onto the bed after her, catching her mouth in another hot, desperate kiss, grinding against her slowly.
She could feel him now — hot, thick, pressing against her — and she whined softly, squirming beneath him.
"You want me?" he murmured, kissing down her neck, nipping at her collarbone.
"Tell me, angel."
"Please," she whimpered, arching into him. "Hwa, please..."
He groaned, his last bit of control slipping. He yanked her dress up, and his fingers found her nipples, hardened by the cold of the room. He started pinching them, taking one in his mouth and started sucking, leaving her a moaning, desperate mess. When he was satisfied, he pushed her thighs apart, and finally — finally — slid inside her in one long, slow thrust.
Both of them moaned at the feeling, Seonghwa clenching his jaw, trying not to come instantly at how tight and warm she was, and she was moaning, her nails raking down his back. He stayed still for a moment, breathing heavily into her neck.
"So perfect," he whispered again, almost reverently. "So fucking tight for me."
Then he started moving. At first his thrusts were slow, deep, that had her gasping and clinging to him, then faster, rougher, pounding into her, making her cry out with every stroke.
Their bodies moved together like they were made for each other, sweaty and desperate, moaning each other's names like prayers. She wrapped her legs around him tighter, pulling him deeper, and Seonghwa buried his face in her neck, losing himself completely.
"You’re mine," he growled into her skin, thrusting harder. "You hear me, angel? Mine."
"Yours," she gasped back, barely able to breathe, barely able to think — all she could feel was him, everywhere, overwhelming and perfect.
It didn’t take long before she was tipping over the edge again, sobbing his name as she came around him, and the feeling of her clenching so tightly around him pushed Seonghwa right over the edge too. He groaned brokenly against her throat, hips stuttering, spilling deep inside her. They stayed tangled together afterward — sweaty, trembling, kissing each other slowly, lazily, like they never wanted it to end.
Seonghwa brushed a strand of hair from her face, kissing her forehead gently. "My angel," he whispered. She just smiled up at him, dazed and happy, and tugged him down into another kiss. The room was thick with heat, the faint pulse of the party's bass still thudding distantly through the walls. But here, in the dim light of her bedroom, nothing else existed except them.
She was sprawled beneath him, flushed and beautiful, her body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks. He hovered over her, breathing hard, his skin slick with sweat, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead. He kissed her again, slow at first, savoring it, then deeper, hungrier, his hand sliding down her side, squeezing her hip.
And she whimpered softly against his mouth, her body already arching back into him, wanting more.
"You’re killing me," Seonghwa muttered, voice low and wrecked. "You’re so fucking addictive."
Before she could say anything, he was kissing down her neck again, nipping her skin, sucking another dark mark just above her breast. His hand slid between her legs finding her still slick and sensitive and he groaned deeply.
"So wet for me still," he breathed, dragging his fingers slowly through her folds, teasing her.
She gasped, clenching the sheets, her thighs already falling open for him.
"You want more, angel?" he asked, kissing lower, his mouth now between her tits again, as he loved how soft and plump they were.
"Yeah," she breathed out, desperate. Seonghwa chuckled darkly against her skin —
then without warning, he grabbed her thighs and flipped her over onto her stomach.
The girl yelped in surprise, giggling, but the giggle turned into a moan when Seonghwa dragged her hips up, forcing her to kneel on shaky legs while her chest stayed pressed to the mattress.
"Fuck," Seonghwa hissed under his breath, just looking at her flushed skin, the glitter of her stockings, the soft curve of her ass presented perfectly for him. He ran his hands slowly down her back, over the swell of her hips, squeezing her roughly. Then he leaned in and bit the inside of her thigh, making her whimper.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he growled, lining himself up again — teasing her, rubbing the thick head of his cock through her wetness but not pushing in yet.
"Hwa, please—" she whined, pushing back against him needily.
"Patience," he smirked, slapping her ass lightly, making her jump.
She whined again, trying to push her ass back, to grind on him, to feel something, but he was having none of it. He slapped the soft flesh of her ass, which turned into a pale red color, which made her cry out but stay still. Then, with one slow, brutal thrust — he pushed back inside her, burying himself to the hilt.
"oh my god," she gasped, clawing at the sheets.
Seonghwa groaned low in his chest, gripping her hips tight as he started moving, setting a hard, punishing rhythm that had the bed creaking under them. The filthy sounds of skin slapping skin, her whimpering, his grunts, was obscene, and he loved every second of it.
"Look at you," he panted, slamming into her harder. "So needy for me. So perfect."
She could barely answer — all she could do was moan, her body completely at his mercy, so cock drunk.
Seonghwa reached forward, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her up so her back was flush against his chest. She gasped, the new angle making him hit even deeper, her legs shaking uncontrollably. He kissed along her shoulder, murmuring filth into her ear between his deep thrusts.
"Feel how deep I am, angel? You’re made for me. Fuck, I could live inside you."
She sobbed his name, her nails digging into his arms, and he slammed against her skin.
"You’re mine," he whispered roughly. "No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to have you."
"Only you," she whimpered, clenching around him, and Seonghwa cursed under his breath, his rhythm faltering from how fucking good she felt. He slid a hand down between her thighs, rubbing tight, fast circles over her swollen clit, pushing her closer and closer to the edge again.
"Come for me," he growled into her ear, thrusting harder. "Come all over my cock, angel. Let go for me."
It didn’t take long. With a loud, broken cry, she shattered again, her whole body convulsing, squeezing him so tight he almost blacked out. Seonghwa cursed, slamming into her a few more times before spilling deep inside her again with a low, wrecked groan.
They collapsed onto the bed together, panting, sweaty, trembling.
He kissed her shoulder softly, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her against him protectively.
"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his forehead against her back. "I’m never gonna get enough of you."
She giggled weakly, turning in his arms to face him, her cheeks still flushed.
"This will be our little secret, okay? We can’t have anyone knowing baby. Especially your brother." He said as he slowly slid out of her, looking at the mess they both made.
The smell of rain on pavement always made you feel safe.
It reminded you of childhood warm lights, tea kettles whistling, your brother calling your name with tired affection.
But this storm didn’t feel safe. It was quiet. Too quiet. You stood at the window of your apartment, watching water drip from the overhang, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Minjae’s name. Five calls. No answer. Not even a read receipt.
That wasn’t like him. Not when he was the one who usually flooded your phone with updates and late night “grab eggs on your way home” messages. Not when he was the one who always said, “We only have each other. Stay close.” You should have known something was wrong. The apartment was modest but clean furnished with secondhand furniture, tastefully decorated with soft neutral tones and a few framed photos. One of them sat on the entryway table. You and Minjae. Both laughing. Back when things were simple. Back when you still believed he could protect you from anything.
10:34 PM The sound of keys jiggling in the front lock made you exhale in relief.“Finally,” you muttered, padding to the door. But it didn’t open. The metal scraped. Then again. Then Your breath caught in your throat. Not keys. Not him. The lock was being picked. “Hello?” your voice trembled, barely above a whisper.
Then a second of stillness before the door burst open with a slam, and three men in black stormed inside. You didn’t even have time to scream before one grabbed your arm, another yanked your phone from your hand and slammed it to the floor, and the third cuffed your wrists behind your back like you were a criminal. “LET GO OF ME!” You kicked. Fought. Bit one in the shoulder hard enough to draw blood. “GET OFF ME, I’M—!” A fist connected with your stomach. You dropped to your knees, gasping.
“Shut her up,” one muttered. A black cloth was tied over your mouth. The hallway lights spun as your body was lifted dragged out of the home you fought to build, down the stairwell, into the pouring rain. No one stopped them. No one helped. The last thing you saw before the trunk door slammed shut… was the cracked photo of you and Minjae on the ground. Shattered.
𝒪𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝒹ℯ ℴ𝒻 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝒸𝒾𝓉𝓎
“She’s on her way,” a man said, adjusting the cuff of his suit. Across from him, Park Seonghwa sipped from a glass of red wine, his expression unreadable. “Was there trouble?” “She fought like hell.” The man in front of him said Seonghwa’s lips curved just slightly. “Good.” He set the glass down. Turned toward the hallway that led to the grand staircase. “I hate quiet women”
𝒯𝒽ℯ 𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓋𝒶𝓁
The mansion was cold. Not cold like winter, but cold like death like silence that never left. Your boots one of which had been ripped halfway off dragged uselessly across the marble floor as two men hauled you through the gilded foyer.
Your face was bloodied, Lip split, Knee raw from when you slammed into the pavement trying to run. Wrists swollen from the cuffs. Your hair stuck to your face from the rain and the fight. But your eyes they still burned. You didn’t cry. You wouldn’t.Not until you found your brother.
They dragged you up a staircase lined with oil paintings and security cameras, then down a velvet runner to double doors with black handles. One of the guards knocked once. Someone inside said, “Let her in.” The door creaked open.
And there he was. Park Seonghwa. Leaning against a sleek black desk. Dressed in black, from his collared shirt to his gloves. Clean. Unbothered. Cold. His eyes met yours like you were dirt tracked into his house. His gaze dropped to the blood on your chin, the bruising on your wrists.
“Tch,” he said. “I told them to bring you in one piece. They always overdo it. You ripped your arms out of the guards’ hold and staggered into the room. Your breathing was ragged, but your voice was steady. “Where’s Minjae?” Seonghwa tilted his head. “Hm?”seongwha questions “My brother. Where. Is. He.” You ask
He slowly walked toward you, his gloved hands in his pockets, lips twitching into something that might’ve been a smirk or a warning.“You mean the man who sold you?” You flinched. “Shut up.”“He did,” Seonghwa said, stopping a few feet from you. His tone was light. Amused.
“He offered you up like a business deal. Told me you’d be quiet. Obedient. Well-trained.” He chuckled lowly. “Clearly, he oversold.” Your nails dug into your palms. Your voice cracked.“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” he said softly, leaning in close enough for you to smell the leather and wine on his breath. “Then why aren’t you in your home right now, sweetheart?” “Why hasn’t he come for you?” “Why did he disappear the moment his debt was wiped clean?”
You stared at him, heart pounding. “He would never do that to me.” Seonghwa smiled. Not kind. Not gentle. It was the kind of smile people saw before a gunshot. “Then I have some bad news.”
“Your brother…” He walked slowly around you like a predator circling a wounded animal. “Is the reason you’re here.” “He’s the reason you’re standing in my house.” “On my time. On your knees, if I tell you to be.” You turned and shoved him hard. “GO TO HELL!”Seonghwa didn’t even stumble. He just laughed.
“You think this is hell?” he asked cruelly. “You haven’t even worn the dress yet.” Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away. “He’s going to come for me,” you said. Seonghwa’s eyes sharpened like a blade. “No, he’s not.” “He—” just as you were about to deny it “He thinks you’re dead.” Seongwha says. You froze.
“And if he ever tries to prove otherwise…” He leaned in. Voice low. Deadly. “I’ll make him wish he never crawled out of his mother’s womb.” You fell silent. Everything inside you cracked, then went quiet. And for the first time since they’d dragged you out of your home You felt truly alone.
The bed was too soft. The sheets too clean. You lay still in the dark, surrounded by velvet, silk, and the scent of roses that somehow made your stomach turn. The bruises on your ribs pulsed with every breath. Your wrists still burned. Every time you blinked, you saw Seonghwa’s smile that cold, beautiful smirk right before he said your brother wasn’t coming.
You didn’t cry. Tears meant defeat. You just stared at the ceiling and waited for morning like it might bring a knife or a miracle. Neither came.
soft knock stirred you awake.“Miss YN?” a quiet voice called. “It’s morning. We’ve brought you clothes.” You didn’t move.
Seconds later, the door creaked open. Two women stepped inside, dressed in sleek black uniforms, heads slightly bowed. Their hands moved quickly—pulling open curtains, laying out folded clothes in pale linen, a basin of warm water. You sat up slowly, muscles aching. “I don’t want your clothes,” you said. One of them spoke softly. “Mr. Seonghwa asked for you to join him for breakfast.”
“I don’t care.” Still, they helped clean your wounds gentle hands, but no warmth behind them. Like trained staff changing a display doll. You didn’t fight. Not because you gave in. But because you were watching. Learning. Waiting. They dressed you in a soft, cream blouse and a long skirt that hugged your waist. Barefoot. Hair fixed to be perfect. Lip still cracked.
The Dining Room. You were escorted through a hall of mirrors and marble to a wide, sun-drenched room. The table was long enough to seat twenty. At the end sat Seonghwa, dressed in a pressed gray shirt, sipping black coffee like he hadn’t destroyed your entire life twelve hours ago.
“Good morning, Mrs. Kang,” he said calmly, not looking up from the newspaper. “Or shall I say, soon-to-be.” You didn’t respond. You sat at the farthest end of the table, untouched food in front of you fruit, toast, eggs, tea. Your stomach turned. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked, finally meeting your eyes.
“I’d rather starve.” He leaned back in his chair, his tone smooth. “Go ahead. I’ll feed you myself if I have to.”You said nothing. He smirked. “Fine. Starve. But don’t faint during the fitting. That would be dramatic even for you.” Your head snapped up.“What fitting?” You asked “Your wedding dress, of course,” he said simply. “Unless you’d prefer a coffin. You’d look stunning in either.”
The Fitting Room
The room looked like it belonged in a bridal magazine. Ivory walls, full-length mirrors, gowns in every shade of white hanging from delicate racks. You stood in the center, arms crossed, refusing to speak as a designer shaky and nervous presented one dress after another.
“This one is Paris silk. Or this, in hand-beaded lace—” “I’m not wearing any of them,” you snapped. Seonghwa sat in the corner, legs crossed, sipping wine like it was water, watching you like a man amused by a storm behind glass.
“You’ll have to wear something, darling,” he said lazily. “Unless you want to be married naked. I’m not opposed.” You turned to him, eyes blazing. “Why are you doing this?” He didn’t answer immediately. He just stood slowly and walked toward you hands in pockets, posture relaxed, like he wasn’t the villain in the room.
“You want a reason?” “Fine.” “Because your brother begged for his life and gave yours instead.” “Because I can.” “Because I wanted to see if you’d look this angry in white.” He tilted his head. “And you do. It suits you.” You tried to slap him. He caught your wrist. “There it is,” he whispered, smirk gone. “The fire.” You yanked your hand away, trembling.
“You can force me into a dress. But I will never belong to you.” He smiled softly now, something far more chilling than mockery. “You already do.” Then he turned to the designer. “Let her choose whatever she wants. But make sure it fits her neck just tight enough to remind her it’s still a noose.”
Dinner was quiet. Too quiet. You sat at the end of the massive dining table in a soft ivory dress. Your wounds were mostly healed, though a faint bruise still lingered on your cheek, hidden beneath powder. Seonghwa sat at the head of the table like a king cutting his steak calmly, sipping wine like the world was perfectly in place.
He barely spoke to you. Just the occasional glance. You fixed your face to smirk when your fork scraped the plate too hard. He knew you hated this. That you were performing. But tonight, you didn’t fight. You played along. Because tonight, you were going to run.
After Dinner A warm bath had already been drawn for you. Lavender. Rose oil. All too gentle for a prisoner.
Two maids helped you in silence, washing your arms and legs like you were royalty instead of a woman stolen from her own life. You didn’t argue. You let them dress you in a pale silk robe, fixed your hair up for what’s appropriate for bed, place slippers at your feet.
You smiled. Thanked them. And when they left the room, you counted down from sixty…And moved.
You crept down the hall like you’d done in your mind a dozen times.The guards rotated out every thirty minutes. You’d timed it. The side door near the garden was always unlocked between dusk and nightfall. The window at the end of the corridor? Slightly faulty. You tested it once when no one was looking. You moved fast and quieter than you’d ever been.
You turned the corner. Pressed your fingers to the window latch Lifted A voice stopped you cold. “I was wondering when you’d try this.” You froze. No, No, no, no He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Seonghwa stood at the end of the hall, his sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable. No guards. No violence. Just him. “You bathed. You smiled at dinner.”His voice dropped. “That was your first mistake.” You turned and bolted down the hall “oh fuck, fuck” you say but you didn’t make it far.
His arm came around your waist, spinning you into him. You fought like hell kicking, elbowing, screaming into his chest but he didn’t flinch.
“Let me GO!” “You had your chance,” he growled.
He threw the door open and slammed it shut behind him, locking it with a loud click. You backed away, eyes wild, chest heaving. “You’re a fucking psycho!” You screamed “You’re a terrible liar,” he said. “You don’t smile when you eat with people you hate.”
“You think this is about dinner?” “No,” he said coldly, taking off his watch and setting it on the table. “It’s about you not learning.” You lunged for the door. He caught you, this time pinning your wrists to the wall. But he didn’t strike. He didn’t curse. He just stared at you.
“Are you going to sleep now,” he murmured, “or do I need to tie you to the bed?” You spit at him. He laughed. Low and dangerous. “You’re lucky I like fire.” He didn’t tie you down.But he did something way fucking worse.
He slid into your bed that night. Fully dressed, one arm around your waist, holding you like an anchor. Like a threat. His breath hit the back of your neck. His body heat wrapped around you like chains. “Sleep,” he murmured. “If you try to run again, I’ll cut the air out of this room.” You hated him. But still… you slept.Because for one fucked up moment You felt warm.
Wedding Morning
You woke alone, in silks and sunlight. A note sat on the edge of the bed in his handwriting: “Don’t bother running. The whole estate is locked. See you at the altar, Mrs. Park.” You tore it in half. But part of you… knew he was right.
The Ceremony The air was thick with incense and expectation.
The hanbok was heavy on your shoulders, red and gold silk trailing across the floor like blood. You stood at the edge of the ceremonial platform, staring at the courtyard full of strangers and snakes every one of them dressed in power, silence, and secrets.
Then Seonghwa entered. His robes matched yours. Traditional, regal, perfect. His expression was unreadable. Cold like always. His father nodded. His mother didn’t blink. His sister whispered something to a woman beside her and smirked.
You didn’t want to bow. You did anyway.You went through the motions.The rituals. The slow, careful sips of tea. The hand-holding. The gazes locked as petals fell from above. It looked beautiful. But it felt like a funeral. You couldn’t help but wonder which version of yourself had died. The free one? Or the foolish one who thought she could ever escape?
The Wedding Night
The room was dimly lit, the bed adorned in red. You sat on the edge in silence, still wearing the hanbok. You refused to change. You refused to make this more real than it already was. When Seonghwa entered, he looked amused.“Still dressed?”“Still waiting to fight.” He poured himself a drink. Didn’t come near you. “You think I’m here to sleep with you,” he said, sipping slowly. You stayed silent.
“Oh please,” he scoffed, turning to face you. “I’m not that evil. I don’t fuck people without consent.”You looked at him then. Calm. Sharp. “You’ve done everything else without consent.” He didn’t flinch. But the tension shifted just slightly. “Touché,” he said softly. “I’ll give you that.”
He walked toward you, slowly. Stopped in front of you, his hand reaching out But only to undo the ribbon holding your hanbok together. You flinched.“Relax,” he muttered. “Just take it off. You’ll sleep better.” “Not if you’re in the room.” “Then I’ll sleep on the balcony.” “I don’t want you near me.”
“You’re not getting what you want,” he whispered, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “But you are getting what you need.” You slapped his hand away. He only smiled. Then walked out onto the balcony and shut the door behind him.
The Next Morning You woke up alone. Again. You sat up, sore in places that had nothing to do with the body and everything to do with the soul. You got dressed in silence, ignored the breakfast tray someone had left, and paced the room like a caged animal. Then the knock came. And before you could answer, the door flung open. “OHMYGOD you’re so pretty! You’re even prettier up close. hi! HI! You must be YN right? The wife? Oh my god, I’m so nervous—”
A girl barreled into the room like a caffeinated storm. Probably around your age, but her energy felt like it belonged to someone half that. She was short, bubbly, wearing a bright yellow dress that absolutely did not belong in this house of marble and menace.
“Who—” “Oh! Sorry! I’m Jiwoo. Seonghwa said I’m your gift!” You blinked.“My what?” “Your gift. Companion. Friend. Emotional support prisoner okay, I made that last one up but seriously! He thought you might be lonely and since I never shut up and he’s y’know, him he said maybe we’d balance each other out.” You stared at her.
She smiled. Big, Bright, Unapologetically chaotic. Then Seonghwa appeared in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching the chaos unfold with deadpan amusement. “She talks too much,” he said flatly. “I’ve thought about killing her at least a dozen times.” “Hey!” Jiwoo pouted.
“But…” he continued, eyes on you. “I didn’t. I thought you might want someone… different.” You said nothing. “Don’t thank me,” he added coolly.
“It wasn’t kindness. I just don’t want you going mad and slicing your wrists before the reception.” “Wow,” Jiwoo whispered beside you.
“He’s so romantic.” As she says that you look at her like she just bitch slapped you in the most offending way “what?, am I wrong”
You weren’t told about the reception until an hour before it began. You had just finished dealing with Jiwoo who was now humming and twirling in the corner of your room like this was a princess movie and not your private hell when another knock came.
Two women entered with a new hanbok, this one sapphire blue with gold embroidery. “Mr. Seonghwa is expecting you downstairs. His family and inner circle are waiting.” You didn’t move. “Inner circle?” “The rest of The Gild,” one said quietly. “His brothers.”
The Reception ballroom was opulent, candlelit, laced in gold, white peonies, and shadow. Music drifted through the air, traditional instruments mixed with low modern undertones. Guests stood in clusters, sipping champagne and smiling like none of them had killed a man in their lives. And then you saw them. They weren’t wearing name tags. But you knew they were different. Eight of them. A unit. A force. Seonghwa’s Gilded Circle.
“Don’t look so stiff,” a voice murmured beside you. It was him. Seonghwa, appearing at your side, dressed in jet-black hanbok lined with silver. “Smile, Mrs. Park. You’re about to meet the people who can ruin countries with one phone call.” He took your hand. You didn’t smile.
The Introductions were…..kinda weird but some comforting and some not. First came Hongjoong. Sharp eyes, short stature, commanding presence. He gave you a polite nod, but his gaze was calculating. “So you’re the fireball,” he said. “Didn’t think Seonghwa had it in him.” “Had what?” You questioned “A conscience. Or a wife.” Seonghwa just sipped his drink beside you, unimpressed.
Then San stepped forward, grinning. More casual, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You punch people when you’re mad or break their stuff?” “Both.”you say “Nice,” he smirked. “You’ll fit in.”
Then came Wooyoung, who looked you up and down shamelessly before letting out a low whistle. “Damn. We thought you’d be boring.” “I am,” you deadpanned. “Feisty I see” he winked, nodding toward Seonghwa. Seonghwa didn’t even blink.
Yeosang came next elegant, quiet, and unreadable. He didn’t speak to you. He just bowed his head slightly and moved on. But his eyes lingered long enough to say he was watching.
Then Mingi towering, warm smile, but his knuckles looked like they’d never fully healed.“I don’t like what he did to you,” he said, completely unprompted. “But if he didn’t, someone worse would have.” You blinked. He gave you a small, sad smile.
Jongho was last younger, observant, and with a presence that felt like stone beneath silk. “You’re stronger than you look,” he said quietly. “Don’t let him break you.” You didn’t answer. Because if you spoke, the truth might come spilling out. I’m already cracked.
The reception was winding down fewer strangers, more silence, and far more eyes on you. You stood near a row of white camellias, clutching a glass of untouched wine, barely breathing. Then he appeared beside you. “It’s time,” Seonghwa said, quiet enough that only you heard. “My family wants to speak with you.” You didn’t answer. He didn’t wait for one.
His Mother. Lady Park was standing beneath a paper lantern tree, dressed in a soft jade hanbok that shimmered like water. Her features were refined but not cold, and when she saw you, her entire expression changed. Warm, Gentle, and Surprisingly maternal. “So… you’re our girl,” she said softly, stepping forward.
You were braced for something sharp. Instead, she took your hands in hers. “You must’ve been so scared,” she murmured. “I can only imagine how strange all of this must feel to you.” You blinked. “I—yes. It’s… a lot.” She gave a small, knowing smile. “My son is many things. He’s not good at slow beginnings.”You almost laughed. Almost.
“But he’s loyal,” she added. “And dangerous. And sometimes kind in ways no one sees.” “You’re stronger than I expected. That’s good. He needs someone who doesn’t flinch.” Then she did something no one else had done since you were taken. She hugged you. No theatrics. Just soft arms around your tense frame, and a mother’s calm voice in your ear. “You’re not alone here. Not entirely.” You didn’t know what to say.
His Father. Lord Park stood to the side, swirling a glass of dark liquor, eyes unreadable. He looked at you once. Nodded. “Strong jaw,” he said. You blinked. “Excuse me?” You say confused by the words he chose to use “Your face. You’re not weak. That’ll serve you well here.” He says. You weren’t sure if it was a compliment or a warning. Maybe both. He didn’t speak again.
His Sister. You didn’t notice her until she popped up beside you with a full plate of snacks and the world’s most mischievous grin. “I saved you the only good food they served,” she whispered. You blinked. She shoved a piece of tteok into your hand. “Eat. You look like you haven’t had a real meal since they kidnapped you.”You choked a little.
“I’m Yeona,” she said, linking your arm with hers. “Seonghwa’s sister. Technically. Emotionally? Way cooler.” You didn’t know how to react. She winked. “If you ever wanna run, I know five exits, six secret doors, and which guards take bribes.” “You’re joking… right?”you ask She just smiled. “I’ll let you decide.”
Later That Evening You sat on the balcony alone, hair undone, shoes off, wine glass half-full. For the first time since you arrived here, your body wasn’t clenched in fear.
You didn’t feel safe. But you felt seen. Maybe… maybe that was something. Seonghwa appeared in the doorway. “They liked you,” he said. “Even your father?” You say “That was his version of affection.” You glanced up.
“Your mother… she hugged me.” You say softly “She doesn’t do that for just anyone.” he answered “And your sister?” You asked “If she gave you food, you’re part of the family now. Permanently.” You paused. “That’s not comforting.” Seonghwa smiled just a little. Then turned to leave. “Get some rest. Tomorrow I’m giving you a gift.” “A gift?” You asked “You’ll see.” He says
“Why the hell are we going to a mall?”you say confused “Because I said so,” Seonghwa replied. That was your only warning. Jiwoo squealed with excitement as soon as she heard, spinning in her socks down the hallway. “OHMYGOD YES. I haven’t touched real lip gloss in months. I’m going to buy fifteen.”
“I’m not going,” you muttered. “Yes, you are,” Seonghwa said without looking up from his watch. “You need clothes. You’re not wearing funeral gowns for the rest of your life.” “I like black.”you say “And I like seeing you in things you didn’t fight someone to wear.”
In the car You sat in the back of the black SUV. Seonghwa beside you. Jiwoo in the front seat, feet on the dash, singing along to a girl group like this was a road trip instead of a power play. The windows were tinted. The guards followed in a separate vehicle. Two more were stationed in the mall already. You weren’t escaping.
You knew it. He knew it. But you still glanced at every exit like a plan might suddenly fall into your lap. “Don’t,” Seonghwa said without looking at you. “They’ll shoot you before you hit the street.” “You’re charming,” you muttered. “You’re married. Get used to me.”
The Mall he took you too was packed. You hadn’t seen so many people in weeks. The lights were bright. The air smelled like cinnamon pretzels and perfume samples. Teenagers laughed. A couple held hands by the escalators. Two kids were playing in the fountain and got scolded by their mom. The normalcy was dizzying. You didn’t realize how empty you’d felt until now.
Jiwoo dragged you into a clothing store within seconds. “Okay, okay, hear me out,” she said, holding up a sparkly crop top. “This and the red heels. Boom. Hot girl vengeance.” “I’m not trying to be hot.” You say coldly“You already are,” she said.“Now let’s dress like it.”
You let her shove clothes into your arms, not fighting this time. Not yet. Not here. You tried on a few outfits. Picked some jeans, tops, soft sweaters. Things that didn’t feel like chains.
You stepped out of the dressing room in a simple beige dress, short and sleeveless. Seonghwa, seated casually by the wall, looked up from his phone. Paused. And stared. “Is it too much?” you asked Jiwoo. But he answered.“No,” Seonghwa said. “It’s perfect.”
The Food Court was filled with many people and You didn’t want to eat with him. So Jiwoo filled a tray with bubble tea and spicy tteokbokki and sat with you in the corner booth. Seonghwa sat across from you both, sipping iced Americano like he wasn’t a mafia husband watching his wife eat fish cakes. “Why are you really here?” you asked him, low. “To spend time with you.” “So now you care?” You asked
“No,” he said, lips curling. “I just like keeping you close. Watching you squirm.” “You’re sick.” You say glaring “And you’re still here.” He says Jiwoo made a dramatic choking sound between bites. “Can you two NOT flirt like villains at a high school lunch table? I’m trying to digest.” You glared. Seonghwa smirked.
“Okay this is it,” Jiwoo grinned.She dragged you to the glowing beauty counter like it was a holy altar. “Today, I turn you into a hottie in mascara.”
“I don’t need makeup to be a hottie” you smirked. “Fair. But imagine being hot and bad as hell. That’s unstoppable.” She started dabbing highlighter on your cheekbones while you scowled in the mirror. Seonghwa stood across the store, arms crossed, watching like a hawk as two guards lingered nearby. But for the first time… you didn’t care.
You were laughing. With Jiwoo. With someone who didn’t want to own you or control you. Someone who might actually be your friend. “Hey,” Jiwoo whispered while brushing powder on your jaw. “You know why he brought me to you, right?” “Because I was lonely?” You say confused “Because he trusts me to kill anyone who gets too close.” You blinked surprised. she smiles like nothing. “I may be loud, but I’m trained. Your little bodyguard. And You? You’re the only person he’s ever looked at like you matter.”
Your stomach flipped. “He doesn’t care.” You say determined that he doesn’t “He would’ve killed me a long time ago if he didn’t care about you.”
You were exiting the store when something happened. You caught a glimpse of a man in a cap too still, eyes too alert. You turned, just in time to see the blade glint in the air “SEONGHWA—!” You yelled But Seonghwa had already seen it. He pushed you back, took the hit with a grunt. A silver dagger buried deep in his side. Blood soaked through his white shirt instantly.
The guards tackled the attacker. A another attacker coming towards you this time. Jiwoo without hesitation kicked the attacker back knocking him to the ground and swiftly kicking him in the face knocking him unconscious.
You dropped to Seonghwa’s side, shaking. “Stupid girl,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Why are you shaking? I’m not dying.” “Shut up,” you whispered “Stop talking like it’s just a scratch—”you scold him “It is.” He inputs
But it wasn’t. Blood poured from the wound, hot and terrifying. And yet all he said wasAre you hurt?” ”What?” You say caught off guard by the question “Are. You. Hurt?” He repeats “No—god, no, but you—” you say “Good.” Then he passed out in your arms.
Later That Night He survived. Of course he did. Three doctors. Private surgery. And a scar that would haunt you forever. You sat beside him in his private room, still in your dress, blood dried on your sleeves. He hadn’t woken yet. Jiwoo brought you tea. She didn’t talk much after that. “He told me once,” she said, quiet, “that there are only two reasons he wouldn’t kill someone who got close.”“Why?” You ask “One because they were useful. Two because they made him feel something he couldn’t understand.” She looked down at her cup. “He doesn’t understand you.”
He woke at midnight. Groggy, Pale, But alive. And the first thing he did? “Check her,” he rasped. “Did anyone touch her?” The guards shook their heads. You were stunned silent. Later that night, after the chaos cooled and the bleeding stopped, he called for you. A black velvet box sat beside him. “What is it?” You questioned “Our rings.” He says “What?” You say confused “Marriage rings. Real ones.” He says.
You stared. Inside were two delicate silver bands, thin and simple. One for him. One for you. Etched with some sort of symbol you didn’t recognize.“You’ll wear it,” he said. “Always.” He says “What if I take it off?” You ask. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t.”
You slid it on your finger. Something cold pricked your skin for a brief second like a needle under the surface. You gasped. “What the hell—?” “Security,” he said. “So you’re never unmarked again.” You stared at him. He wore his too.
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