yang ⟡

mdni ⋆˚࿔ i would give up heaven if i had to ⋆˙

[liuhsng]

SUGAR TALKING ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ──── NAVIGATION

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────⟢ yang , 18+ , she/they , mdni ‎‎ ‎ ────⟢ english is not my first language (🇵🇭) ‎ ‎ ‎ ────⟢ masterlist , requests , asks , taglist , alt

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SIGNATURE PIECES

‎⤷ untouchable — an enhypen omegaverse series

⤷ xo, with you — an enhypen university series

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© 2021 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ cherry-stained skin ( nk ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — ni-ki x fem!reader

⤷ word count — 16.2k ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — hi my loves ! sorry this one took so long but here it is !! this inspiration actually has two different and separate derivations—this is the first one, and the other one will be a bit more on the intense side. had to pull from my series just to write this piece since i couldn’t resist. hope you enjoy 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), idol au, idol!ni-ki, non-idol!reader, boyfriend!ni-ki, girlfriend!reader, established relationship, ni-ki gets a secret-not-so-secret tattoo, marking/bruising (hickies everywhere), fingering, oral sex (f & m receiving), praise kink, possessive!ni-ki, overstimulation (brief), hand-holding during sex, dirty talk, bath aftercare, playful teasing, engene camera interaction, protective boyfriend vibes, ni-ki’s secret tattoo reveal, clingy!ni-ki, domestic intimacy, fluff

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — nishimura riki was known to be secretive—smiles that never gave too much away, glances that kept people guessing. but secrets never stayed hidden forever. one night, your lips leave marks that makeup can barely cover, and your eyes catch the tattoo he thought you’d never see—a kiss mark inked just below his abdomen, dangerously close to where only you should know. or where bruises, secrets, and late-night tenderness remind you that loving ni-ki means uncovering the things he tries so hard to keep tucked away.

It had only been a few weeks back, one of those nights where the city outside seemed too quiet, when the clock read a little past three in the morning.

Sleepiness finally crept over you, weighing down your lashes as you burrowed deeper into the comforter.

The fabric brushed warm against your cheek, coaxing you into that hazy state between wakefulness and dreams.

The foot of the bed dipped, pulling you back, and your gaze fluttered downward to find Ni-ki.

He was leaning over you, soft blonde hair falling into his eyes, his hands resting gently on your legs as he smiled at you.

You were staying over at their dorm again—or more like, your boyfriend had flat out refused to sleep without you.

It didn’t matter that he ran back to you backstage after every performance, sweat still dripping, adrenaline still high. It never seemed enough for him.

“Done already?” you murmured sleepily, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, shoulders sinking. “Yeah. Turned it off.” His nose scrunched, the way it always did when he got annoyed. “Kept losing. It pissed me off.”

A laugh slipped from your lips, groggy but genuine.

With a small sigh, you lifted the covers in invitation. He didn’t hesitate—climbing in behind you, sliding an arm around your waist like he’d been waiting all day just to do that.

The weight of his chin settled in the crook of your shoulder, and instinctively, your hand found its way to his hair, threading through soft strands of blonde.

“I really miss your black hair,” you muttered, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Ni-ki’s chuckle rumbled low against your back, his breath warm on your skin. “Mmhm. I bet you do, baby.”

You turned in his arms, cheek pressing against his chest, and the steady thrum of his heartbeat lulled you further. His hands slid to cover yours, fingers lacing together loosely.

“I really do, Riki,” you said quietly, tipping your head back just enough to catch the smirk tugging at his lips.

He looked down at you, eyes glinting in the dim light as the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

“Maybe one day,” he murmured, voice low and playful. “I’ll be sure to tell my manager first.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at the mention of Yuki—the long-haired man who was more like Ni-ki’s shadow, constantly reminding you, ‘Look after him, please. He forgets.’

“Okay,” you whispered, grin tugging at your lips.

Ni-ki pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead, the warmth of it making your eyes droop even more.

“I’m so sleepy, Iki,” you mumbled into his chest, the nickname slipping past your lips without thought.

He chuckled, a sound that shook through his body and into yours. That name was yours alone—only spoken when it was just the two of you, safe in the quiet.

He shifted down further, pulling you tighter against him as his long arm reached to tug the blanket over the both of you.

“Go to sleep, baby,” he whispered against your hair. “We’ve got a full schedule tomorrow.”

You rolled your eyes even through your drowsiness, tilting your head to look up at him. “Can’t we just postpone the tour? I mean, I get it—you’re an idol, but you need to rest too.”

He laughed softly at your pout, the sound carrying a kind of fondness that always melted you.

You reached up, brushing his bangs away from his face with gentle fingers. He caught your hand mid-motion, bringing it down to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles.

“I know, baby. I wish I could too.” His words were tender, weighted with exhaustion. “But we’ll get our break after they’re done, okay?”

You huffed, brows furrowing, not quite ready to surrender to sleep. As your hand rested against his chest again, your eyes caught the glimpse of black ink peeking out from under the cuff of his hoodie sleeve.

The fabric had slipped down with the movement, revealing the sharp lines of the tattoo etched into his wrist—an ace of spades, the bold A sitting neatly above the spade, stacked together like a secret meant only for him.

Your breath softened as your fingers instinctively reached for it, tracing the lines with featherlight care.

His skin was warm beneath your touch, the contrast of soft against inked permanence making your heart thrum.

“I really like this,” you hummed, still brushing your fingertip against the design.

Ni-ki’s lips curved into a small, gentle smile as he shifted his arm even closer, letting you explore the tattoo like it was yours to trace.

His gaze softened, lingering on the way you looked so focused even through your drowsiness.

“I know,” he murmured with a quiet chuckle, the sound barely breaking the stillness of the room. “You’ve told me that a hundred times before.”

You grinned, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his hoodie as you inched closer to his chest.

“Well… it just shows you’re such an ace in dancing,” you teased, tapping the spade once with your finger before dragging it lightly down his wrist.

“An ace, huh?” he whispered, leaning down just enough for his breath to tickle the shell of your ear. “Then what does that make you?”

You blinked up at him through heavy lashes, lips curving. “The lucky one who gets to keep you.”

His laugh came out low. Even in the dim light spilling in from the streetlamp outside, you could see the faintest pink tint dusting his cheeks.

You couldn’t resist leaning up a little, pressing the softest kiss to that warmth, your lips brushing against his skin.

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly before you settled back down, cheek to his chest, your ear catching the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I love you, Iki,” you whispered, the words carrying that hazy sincerity only the quietest hours of the night could hold. “Good night.”

For a moment, silence blanketed the room again, broken only by the faint hum of the heater and your breaths syncing together.

Then Ni-ki lowered his head, his lips brushing your hairline as he pressed a tender kiss there.

“I love you too, (Y/N),” he whispered, the sound so soft it almost blended with the darkness around you. “Good night.”

You smiled against his chest, your hand tightening around his hoodie as he pulled you even closer, as if he wanted to mold you into his very being.

The warmth of his body, the comfort of his scent, and the safety of his arms all tangled together, wrapping you in something far deeper than words.

It was barely seven in the morning when you found yourself perched on the leather couch in Ni-ki’s room, legs curled up as you leaned closer to the small mirror propped against the black wooden coffee table.

The faint light spilling through the blinds made the gloss on your lips gleam as you carefully swiped another layer on, pressing them together before giving yourself a proud little nod.

Even at this hour, you had to admit—you didn’t look half bad.

The door swung open with a loud creak, nearly startling you. Ni-ki barged in, hair still messy from sleep, a sleeveless shirt clinging to his frame.

A shit-eating grin stretched across his face, and before you could ask what he was up to, Jungwon’s voice carried through the now closed door.

“Nishimura, I swear—stop hiding (Y/N)! I need her help with the agenda!”

You shook your head with a small laugh, setting your gloss aside as you stood. He was practically glowing with mischief, shoulders bouncing with stifled laughter at his leader’s frustration.

You crossed the room, smoothing your pants down as you reached him, fingers hooking onto the hem of his sleeveless shirt.

“Stop chasing Jungwon around,” you scolded, clicking your tongue as you tugged him closer. “And get changed.”

Ni-ki pouted instantly, eyes widening as if he could charm you into letting him off. “But—”

You gave him a look, the one that always made him cave.

He sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”

You grinned victoriously, retreating to the edge of the bed while he rifled through his still-open suitcase. He grabbed a gray hoodie, tugging his sleeveless shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion.

You hadn’t meant to stare—really, you hadn’t.

But despite growing up alongside him, despite being there from the very beginning, your eyes couldn’t help trailing over the lean lines of his frame.

He wasn’t the same boy you’d met during debut; time and relentless training had carved him into something sharper, stronger.

Every muscle, every dip of his skin seemed highlighted by the ink that stretched over his ribs, black against pale skin, impossible not to notice.

You were so caught up in the sight that you nearly missed his voice.

“Baby, are you bringing any of the plushies I gave you?” His tone was casual, distracted as he tugged the hoodie halfway on, still facing away from you.

When no answer came, he frowned, brows pulling together. “…Baby?”

He turned, hoodie dangling in his hands, only to catch you frozen, eyes locked on him. The corner of his mouth twitched upward as realization struck.

You blinked rapidly, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Huh?”

Ni-ki’s smirk only widened, boyish but dangerous, like he’d caught you red-handed.

He removed his hoodie from his hands, not bothering to slip it on properly—just tossing it lazily over one shoulder like some careless model. One hand shoved deep into the pocket of his sweats as he strolled toward you, his voice low and amused.

“Were you staring?”

Your throat bobbed, panic blooming as you cleared it and quickly tore your eyes away.

“I—oh, um, yeah… I need to pack my stuff too, sorry.”

You turned in a rush, making a beeline for your open suitcase near the curtains. The neat rows of folded clothes suddenly looked like the most interesting thing in the world.

Fingers fumbled with the zipper, the excuse flimsy even to your own ears, but it was the only escape you had.

Behind you, you could feel his gaze—heavy, knowing. His smirk lingered in the silence, stretching out just enough to make you burn.

“Don’t forget your makeup bag, baby.”

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath, spinning around as the memory hit you. Of course—you’d left it on the coffee table.

Ni-ki still shirtless, the hoodie hanging off his broad shoulder, holding the sleek black leather pouch. The Chrome Hearts one he’d gifted you a few months back. Your stomach dipped.

You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched into a guilty smile, recalling how you once ranted about your Prada one being too small for your growing collection—most of which he’d impulsively bought for you.

Ten lip glosses in one week, handed to you like candy, because “they reminded me of you.” Overboard, yes. But undeniably him.

The pouch gleamed under the dim morning light, supple leather shifting softly in his hand as he took his time walking closer, closing the distance inch by inch.

“Here.” His voice was gentle now, almost careful, as he held it out.

You swallowed and took it, nodding faintly, your eyes glued stubbornly to the floor as if it might swallow you whole.

But Ni-ki only chuckled.

“Hey.” His tone dropped to something softer, teasing laced with warmth.

He stepped closer, his fingers brushing yours again as he casually took the pouch from your hands and set it aside on the bed.

Then, without hesitation, his arms slipped around your waist, pulling you against him.

“What’s this, huh?” he murmured, tilting his head down so his breath tickled your temple. “Caught you staring and now you’re getting all shy on me?”

Your breath hitched, cheeks flaming as your palms landed flat on his chest, solid and warm. “I wasn’t—!”

He laughed quietly, the sound rich and unhurried, his lips curving against your hair. “Mmhm, you were.”

One of his hands slid up your back, holding you flush against him, while the other stayed at your waist like he had no intention of letting go.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, voice playfully conspiratorial as he leaned close enough for you to feel his smirk against your ear. “I like when you stare.”

Your knees nearly buckled at the words, your heart racing so hard you swore he could feel it.

You sighed shakily, burying your face into Ni-ki’s bare chest, the warmth of his skin calming you even as your cheeks burned.

“Not fair, Riki,” you mumbled against him, voice muffled.

He laughed lowly, arms tightening around your waist until you felt completely enveloped. “Nothing’s fair, baby.”

Groaning, you shoved lightly at his chest, slipping out of his grasp just enough to stand on your toes. Despite the stretch, he still had to dip down a little for you to reach.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek—quick—and leaned back with a grin when the glossy red print of your lipstick shone against his skin.

You hummed in appreciation of your own handiwork, smirking up at him while his brows lifted knowingly.

“Pack up, blondie,” you teased, tone playful as you poked at his chest. “I need to help Jungwon with the schedule for the London tour next week.”

He sighed, dragging it out dramatically, before finally nodding. “How many heels are you bringing for that?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “At least three.”

He nodded as if he were making mental notes, already dragging one of your empty suitcases toward him. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he reached down and picked up one of your heels from the floor, spinning it lightly in his hand.

“Oh,” you added with a smug little smirk, pointing at his cheek as you reached for the door. “And you might wanna clean that up.”

Before he could reply, you slipped out the door, shutting it quickly behind you.

For a moment, Ni-ki just sat there, blinking.

Then, curiosity getting the best of him, he fished his phone out of his pocket and flipped open the camera app. His reflection filled the screen, and sure enough, the bold print of your lipstick stood out proudly against his pale skin.

He chuckled to himself, scrunching his nose at the sight.

“Very cheeky, (Y/N),” he muttered, shaking his head, though the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him.

He stared at the mark for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. Then, with a sudden smirk, he closed the camera app and pulled up his chats.

Scrolling quickly, he landed on a familiar name—his tattoo artist.

ni-ki [7:15 AM]: yo, are you awake?

It took barely a few seconds before the typing bubbles popped up.

ink man [7:15 AM]: What’s up man?

Ni-ki’s grin widened.

ni-ki [7:15 AM]: i need a rush piece. can you do it tomorrow?

ink man [7:15 AM]: Yeah sure, just drop by. Send me the inspo.

Ni-ki wasted no time, snapping a quick photo of his cheek, the kiss mark bold and clear, before sending it.

The response came almost instantly.

ink man [7:16 AM]: Did (Y/N) give you that? That’s sick, man.

Ni-ki bit back a laugh, thumbs flying across the keyboard.

ni-ki [7:16 AM]: obviously. need it somewhere hidden though.

ink man [7:16 AM]: I got you, man.

He was about to type out a reply when your voice carried faintly from down the hallway.

“Riki! Come here, quick meeting!”

He swiped the chat away immediately, only sending a quick thumbs-up emoji before shoving his phone back in his pocket.

Standing, he tugged his hoodie properly over his head at last, combing his fingers through his hair as he padded over to the door.

“Coming!”

The moment he pushed the door open, the noise of the dorm rushed in. His members were scattered across the floor of the living room, papers, pens, and laptops everywhere.

Their manager, Yuki, sat cross-legged, pinching the bridge of his nose as though dealing with children instead of grown idols.

“This kid—really—you only listen to (Y/N),” Yuki muttered, gesturing toward Ni-ki with exasperation.

Ni-ki blinked, tilting his head innocently, blonde strands swaying slightly in his face without their usual gel. He moved toward the empty spot beside you, dropping onto the floor easily.

“What do you mean?”

Heeseung shot him a look, unimpressed. “We’ve been calling your name for the last two minutes.”

Ni-ki’s lips curled into a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck. “Oops.”

You only rolled your eyes, nudging him with your knee. “Focus, Riki.”

Ni-ki smirked to himself, but obediently leaned closer, pulling the schedule papers toward him as if he hadn’t just planned something wildly impulsive behind everyone’s back.

It had been a few days since Ni-ki sent that impulsive text to his tattoo artist, and for some reason, he’d been acting off.

Nothing big, nothing dramatic—but just enough for you to notice.

It was early, the dorm alive with a quiet kind of chaos. Members darted between their rooms with bags slung over their shoulders, voices muffled but firm as reminders echoed down the hall.

“London. Early. Start packing. Don’t forget your passports.”

You hummed to yourself, standing in front of the full-length mirror on Ni-ki’s closet door. The curlers had done their job—your hair fell in soft waves that framed your face perfectly.

You set the curler down carefully, running your fingers through to fluff the strands, nodding in satisfaction.

The door creaked open, and Ni-ki walked in with a handful of papers, his brow furrowed, lips pursed.

He looked like a grown man carrying the weight of the world—except he was still barefoot, hair messy, and his hoodie looked two sizes too big.

“Is our schedule really this packed?” he groaned, holding the papers up like they were some cursed prophecy.

You glanced at the page, recognizing both your name and Yuki’s scribbled at the bottom—signatures confirming the tour agenda you both spent hours organizing.

Smiling apologetically, you slipped the papers from his hands and set them on the bedside table before reaching up to wrap your arms around him.

“Come here, you big baby.”

Almost instantly, his arms wrapped back around you—but something about the way his hand darted down to move yours from his lower waist up to his middle didn’t go unnoticed.

You frowned for a split second, but let it slide, hugging him tighter.

His chin rested easily on top of your head, and for a moment, it felt like the stress of schedules, suitcases, and planes melted away.

Still, you winced, your neck straining at the angle. “Riki… are you forgetting you’re literally a whole foot and some inches taller than me?”

He chuckled quietly but didn’t let go.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his voice dropping lower as though whispering a secret only for you.

“When this world tour’s over, we’re going on vacation. Just the two of us.”

Your chest warmed, lips tugging up into a smile. “Let’s go back to Japan. I miss our families.”

Ni-ki’s face lit up at the suggestion, eyes glinting. “Mhmm. I miss Bisco.”

You burst into laughter at the mention of his dog. “Really? Not even your sisters?”

His nose scrunched adorably, making you grin harder.

“Hey—you can’t blame me. Those two won’t give me a break.” He shuddered dramatically, and you smacked his arm lightly.

Rolling your eyes with affection, you bent to grab the papers again. But as you shifted your weight, your other hand instinctively went low for balance.

Ni-ki moved faster than you expected, grabbing your wrist mid-motion, keeping your touch far from his side as he steadied you with his other arm.

You blinked up at him, brows furrowing. “Riki… are you okay?”

He forced a smile, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Yeah, just—really bad muscle ache on my side. From practice.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. “You should get that checked—”

“Nah, I’m good.” He waved you off quickly with his free hand, a little too quickly.

You gave him a look—the one you always did when you could tell he wasn’t being fully honest.

He exhaled in defeat, muttering under his breath, “Women…”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “What was that?”

He plastered on a sheepish smile, leaning down until his nose brushed yours. “Nothing, baby. I love you so much.”

Your irritation cracked under the weight of his grin, and when his lips pressed against yours, soft and slow, you couldn’t help but smile back into the kiss.

When he pulled away, you tapped his chest, nodding toward the half-open suitcase by the bed.

“You ready?”

His gaze flicked toward the empty luggage and he grimaced.

“…No.”

You smacked his chest lightly again, rolling your eyes. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.”

The stadium was quiet compared to what it would be tomorrow—no fans, no flashing lights, just the faint hum of equipment and the echo of the boys’ voices bouncing off the walls as they rehearsed Sweet Venom for what felt like the hundredth time.

You sat slouched in one of the VIP front row seats, clipboard balanced on your lap, pen tapping against the paper.

Your eyes drifted from the detailed setlist you’d been rereading for the past ten minutes to the stage, where Ni-ki was moving with muscle memory, his every step sharp despite how visibly drained he looked.

A low sigh left your lips just as the seat beside you shifted.

“You alright, kiddo?”

You turned your head to see Yuki settling down beside you, one brow raised, his ever-present lanyard bouncing against his chest.

“Why?” you asked automatically, blinking at him before your eyes flicked back to the stage.

Ni-ki had just brushed his damp bangs out of his eyes, sweat clinging to his skin under the harsh stage lights. Your chest tugged a little, but you quickly looked back down at your clipboard.

Yuki chuckled, shaking his head. “Because you’ve done more than enough for the team tonight. You look ready to collapse yourself.”

A smile pulled at your lips despite the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders. “You know… I should thank you for still letting me in the makeup team.”

That got a laugh out of him. He leaned back in the seat, arms crossed as his eyes followed the boys on stage.

“Yeah, but you spend more time with the stage team than your own crew these days.”

Your grin only widened. “Still. Really, thank you, Yuki. I owe you a lot.”

He turned to look at you, and for a second his expression softened, almost fatherly.

“You don’t owe me anything, (Y/N). If anything, I owe you. The higher-ups love you. Say you act like a mother to the boys.”

You scrunched your nose at that, shaking your head in disbelief. “I’m literally the same age as Riki.”

That made Yuki burst out laughing, his voice echoing louder than the boys’ background vocals.

“Maybe so, but at least they listen to you. Who would’ve thought the youngest member’s girlfriend could make the rest of them actually shake?”

This time, it was you laughing, biting your lip as you tried to keep quiet. “That’s a little too extreme, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” Yuki admitted, lips quirking.

He glanced at the stage where Ni-ki was spinning into place before his eyes flicked back to you, his voice gentler now. “Still, thank you. For being with them when I can’t. For being with him when I can’t.”

You followed his gaze toward Ni-ki, then looked back at Yuki with a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “Young love really does wonders, huh?”

Yuki’s smile deepened. “Mhmm. Childhood friends to lovers—you two are the definition of it. Suck it up.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks and you swatted at him with your clipboard, but he just stood, ruffling your hair before you could dodge.

“I’m telling you, you are,” he said with a grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Anyway, I need to head backstage. Check on the equipment.”

“What’s next after this?” you asked, flipping your clipboard around and scanning the highlighted notes.

“Dunno. You tell me.”

You traced a line down the list before finding your answer. “One more run of ‘No Doubt’ and they’re done for the night.”

He nodded in satisfaction. “Well, knock yourself out. But not too much, alright? You’re practically like a daughter to me.”

You raised a brow at him, unimpressed. “You mean you just need me for crowd control tomorrow.”

Yuki’s grin widened as he pointed at you like you’d caught him. “Yes.”

Rolling your eyes, you waved him off. “Yes, yes, I get it. Goodbye, Yuki.”

“Bye, (Y/N),” he called as he walked away, laughing at the exasperation in your voice.

You couldn’t help but smile a little, your gaze automatically lifting to the stage just as the final notes of ‘Sweet Venom’ echoed out across the empty stadium.

The boys were panting, sweat-soaked, and drained—but still moving with precision. As the music faded, you noticed Ni-ki moving fast, skipping steps as he jogged down the side stairs.

The others caught his eagerness, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

Sunghoon leaned lazily into his mic, his lips curling into a smirk. “Such a baby.”

Ni-ki paused mid-step and whipped around to glare at the older, eyes narrowed, shoulders rising with every breath.

Sunghoon immediately lifted his hands in mock defeat, lips twitching in amusement. “Okay, okay.”

Still glaring, Ni-ki turned back and broke into a jog again—straight toward you.

You hurriedly dropped your clipboard onto the empty chair beside you and spread your arms open just as he practically launched himself at you.

“Oof, Riki—” you muttered, stumbling back a little under his weight. “You’re heavy!”

He only slumped further against you, unbothered, as if proving a point.

Your arms circled around him instinctively, and you rubbed your hands up and down his damp back, smiling when you caught the camera in the corner filming the two of you.

“You good?” you murmured softly.

He nodded against your neck, voice muffled. “I missed you.”

A laugh bubbled out of you as you stroked the back of his hair. “I’ve been sitting here for the past three hours.”

“Still,” he grumbled, refusing to move.

You sighed, tugging gently at his shirt. “Come on, you need to finish. You still have one more song to go over.”

“Don’t wanna,” he mumbled stubbornly, his arms tightening around you like a child.

You giggled, shaking your head at him, when suddenly a buzz from your pocket pulled your attention away. Patting his back, you coaxed, “Let go, Riki.”

He reluctantly pulled back, lips in a pout, before flopping onto the chair next to you like he owned the place.

You fished out your phone and saw Yuki’s name flash on the screen, a new message. Smiling, you set your phone on your lap and looked at Ni-ki, his hand still wrapped around the mic he’d been holding all evening.

“May I?” you asked, pointing at it.

He immediately let go and handed it over, eyes still sulking but lips twitching like he wanted to smile.

You stood, cleared your throat, and brought the mic up. “Everybody,”

The staff froze in place, turning toward you, and the boys on stage all blinked and shuffled closer, curiosity painted on their tired faces. Even the tech crew looked up from their equipment.

Flipping your phone around, you read aloud, trying to keep your tone professional: “According to Yuki, we can all leave after the boys get enough rest—staff included—once we finish one more stage check.”

The collective sigh of relief was instant. Shoulders relaxed, heads nodded, a few quiet “thank gods” echoing through the space. But you weren’t done.

A smile tugged at your lips as you scrolled to the next part of his message.

“Also,” you added, clearing your throat dramatically. “Yuki says—and I quote—‘I’ve heard No Doubt way too many times tonight. Have a good rest, everyone.’”

The staff erupted with laughter, some even shouting “Thank you, Yuki!” despite him being backstage.

Jungwon immediately punched the air and collapsed dramatically onto the stage floor. Jake doubled over, laughing, while Sunghoon leaned against him, groaning from exhaustion.

“Finally,” you muttered under your breath, lowering the mic and letting the boys and crew revel in the good news.

You turned back to Ni-ki, only to catch him wincing slightly as his hand pressed against his side. Your smile dropped into a frown.

“Haven’t I told you to get that checked?” you asked quietly.

He glanced at you sheepishly, caught, before giving you a small nod. “Yeah, you did.”

“And?” you pressed, already crossing your arms.

He grinned, victorious like a child who finally did his homework. “I did.”

Suspicious, you raised a brow and snatched your clipboard from the chair, holding it like a weapon. “And what’s the verdict?”

“Really bad muscle strain,” he admitted, tone casual, though you didn’t miss the slight tension in his voice.

You grimaced. “Riki…”

Standing at the same time you did, he swung an arm casually around your shoulders, tugging you close as if nothing was wrong.

“Are you sure you don’t have to go to a hospital?” you asked, brows furrowed as you let him guide you toward the side exit.

“Baby, you’re overthinking it.” He waved his free hand dismissively.

You shot him a sharp look, making him laugh. “What was that look for?”

“I’m serious!” you scolded, narrowing your eyes. “You push yourself too hard.”

He leaned down, pinching your cheek with his free hand. “Riki, I swear—”

“I know, I know,” he cut in quickly, grin soft but teasing as he let your cheek go. “So… thank you.”

You exhaled, torn between smacking him and hugging him tighter, your lips twitching despite yourself.

Behind you, the rest of the boys were filing down from the stage, loud as ever.

“I want chicken,” Jake groaned, stretching his arms overhead.

“I want pizza,” Sunoo countered instantly.

“No, chicken!”

“Well, I want pizza!”

“Both,” Jay sighed in defeat, dragging a hand down his face. “We’ll just get both.”

Ni-ki chuckled, glancing over his shoulder. “I want sushi.”

Then he looked back at you, eyes gleaming as he pulled you closer against his side, whispering just for you, “And plus, I’m not dying. It’s just a strain.”

Your chest softened, but you still sighed, leaning into him. “I know… but I worry about you.”

His lips curved upward, his voice low and teasing but warm. “I know.”

Things only got weirder with the way Ni-ki was acting that night. The two of you shuffled across your shared hotel room, walking through the mess of used plates and scattered cups that littered the carpet.

You sighed, tossing another paper cup into the trash bag as you muttered, “I feel like I’m a mother of seven.”

Ni-ki laughed, balancing two greasy chicken boxes in one hand. “Saying that at nineteen is wild.”

You shot him a flat look, but the corner of your mouth tugged up anyway.

When you walked past him to grab the stack of napkins someone left crumpled on the table, he caught your wrist and tugged you into his chest, his chin dipping to rest on top of your head.

“Tired?” he asked, voice low, soft.

You nodded against him, muffled. “So much. I don’t know how you guys manage to do all that singing and dancing for hours.”

His grin widened, and he pressed a lazy kiss into your hair. “Don’t bring yourself down like that. You do so much for us.”

You looked up at him then, smiling gently before you pressed a kiss against his jaw. “Well, I’m going to take a shower. Tell Jungwon I’ll help him with the morning schedule later, okay?”

He hummed, nodding, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead like he couldn’t help himself.

You were already walking toward the bathroom when you called back, teasing, “Are you gonna join me?”

Ni-ki chuckled under his breath, pulling his hoodie over his head and tossing it onto the loveseat. Clad now only in a white shirt, he shook his head with a sheepish smile. “Sorry, baby. I can’t.”

You frowned, hand already on the sliding door. “Are you sure?”

His smile tilted guilty. “Heeseung needs help with something. But I swear I’ll make it up to you next week.”

You blinked. “Next week?”

“Mmhm,” he confirmed, grin boyish but nervous.

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Okay, Nishimura. I’ll hold you to that.” And with that, you slid the bathroom door open and disappeared inside.

The second the door shut, Ni-ki let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. His hand lifted, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it up.

The dim light washed over his skin, tracing down the sharp lines of his abdomen until it caught on the angry red ink just beside his V-line—an outline of lips. Your lips.

His own lips tugged upward despite himself, tracing the tender skin gently with his fingers before pulling the shirt back down.

“Since when do I ever refuse a shower invite?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself as he flopped onto the bed.

Reaching for his phone, he tapped Heeseung’s name. The older picked up within two rings.

“What did you do this time?” Heeseung’s voice was immediately suspicious, already teasing.

“What the hell do you mean ‘this time’?” Ni-ki huffed, shifting the phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Oh, I don’t know—did (Y/N) make you sleep on the hotel couch again?”

Ni-ki groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “That was one time!”

Heeseung’s laugh echoed faintly through the line. “Yeah, when you lost her Dior lipstick during filming. I still remember that meltdown.”

“I bought her five more to make up for it, didn’t I?” Ni-ki retorted, flopping onto his back and fixing his gaze on the ceiling.

“Mmhm,” Heeseung drawled, the sound of rustling and then a ramen lid peeling back audible through the speaker. “Okay, loverboy. Why are you calling me? We’re literally two floors apart.”

Ni-ki bit his lip, hesitating. “…How do I tell (Y/N) I have a new tattoo?”

There was a pause. Then Heeseung’s voice rose in pitch. “When the fuck did you get a new tattoo?”

“A few days ago,” Ni-ki admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

Heeseung made a low hum. “So why don’t you tell her? You’ve never had a problem before.”

“Because…” Ni-ki sighed, sitting up to ruffle his hair. “It’s about her.”

That earned a snicker. “What, did you get her face inked on your back or something?”

“No!” Ni-ki snapped, then exhaled. His voice softened. “I got her kiss mark… right below my abdomen. A womb tattoo.”

There was silence—then Heeseung burst out laughing, nearly choking on his ramen. “Oh my god. You are so down bad.”

Ni-ki rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched with a proud grin.

“Well, I grew up with her. We went to the same school, she flew to South Korea with me during I-LAND, she never broke up with me even when things got insane. I asked her to be my girlfriend when we debuted, and we somehow kept it under wraps until last year. So yes, I am down bad. Thank you very much.”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Heeseung muttered between slurps of noodles. “You’ve got a future wife, damn.”

The grin stretched wider across Ni-ki’s face at that.

“So what are you scared of?” Heeseung pressed.

Ni-ki leaned back against the headboard, his hand unconsciously brushing against his side where the tattoo lay hidden. “She might have my head for getting one without her consent.”

Heeseung chuckled. “That, I can’t help with. But…” His tone shifted mischievous. “I do have an idea.”

Ni-ki groaned immediately, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling. “This is not a good start. A ‘Heeseung idea’ usually means problems.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

Ni-ki let out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand over his face. “…Go on.”

The crowd for soundcheck was as loud as it could get, the screams ricocheting off the stadium walls like thunder.

You stood beside Yuki just below the stage, hands crossed on your chest, eyes darting across the moving lights and the boys bounding from one end of the stage to the other as they sang ‘Go Big or Go Home.’

They were grinning wide, waving, showing off for the hundred cameras capturing their every move.

“Are we absolutely sure there’s no misplaced—” you gestured vaguely at the stage, “—lights, cables, or anything for them to trip over? You know, a falling spotlight waiting to kill somebody?”

Yuki barely blinked, arms crossed as he tracked the members’ blocking. “No. I triple-checked with the technical team last night. Everything’s secure.”

You nodded slowly, shifting your weight onto your other foot. The moment you did, Yuki’s eyes flicked down, catching the shine of your 4-inch platform boots. His grimace said enough.

“Are you sure you’re going to survive the whole night in those?” he asked dryly.

You glanced down at your shoes, rocking them side to side with a sheepish grin. “Yes… why?”

Yuki gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you. Two hours into our wedding and my wife nearly threw her heels at me because her feet were hurting.”

You laughed at the image, tipping your head toward him. “Oh, I will tell her that. I miss her.”

“Mmhm, sure. She misses you too,” Yuki replied, lips quirking.

You turned your head then, scanning the pit just behind you—and nearly snorted out loud. A crowd of ENGENEs were pressed up against the barrier, their phones all pointed directly at you, not the stage.

Some were giggling, others waving their banners, and a few even mouthed “(Y/N), look here!”

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.

Thanking Heeseung and Jake in your head for every English lesson they drilled into you, you called out, voice raised just enough:

“Why are you guys filming me? The boys are right there!” You pointed up at the stage, where Sunghoon was in the middle of his part, waving at the crowd.

The fans screamed even louder, and one particularly bold voice near the front shrieked, “We love you more, (Y/N)!”

You laughed, hand flying to cover your mouth before lowering it again, your smile wide. Turning back to Yuki, your eyes silently asked the question—‘Can I?’

Yuki raised a brow but eventually sighed, shaking his head in fond defeat. “Go ahead,” he said, a small smile tugging his lips.

That was all the permission you needed. You turned back around and walked closer to the barrier, the cheers rising with every step.

Immediately, the bodyguards stationed nearby moved like shadows, one of them already lifting his hand to step with you.

You quickly raised your own hand, halting them. “No need,” you said firmly, turning your head just enough to meet their eyes.

“But Ms. (Y/N)—” one of them started, tone cautious.

But you were quicker. “I trust them enough, okay?”

The bodyguard hesitated, but backed off with a reluctant nod, his gaze sweeping over the fans just in case.

You reached the barrier now, folding your arms loosely on top of it as fans nearly exploded into screams and chants.

Someone held up a poster with your name scribbled in glitter letters, another waved a plushie of a baby chick, and you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.

“You guys are too much,” you teased, your grin widening as you pointed up at the stage. “Jake is right there!”

Sure enough, Jake was only a few feet away, mid-song, tugging playfully at Jungwon’s sleeve.

When he noticed you pointing at him, he waved dramatically, sending the fans into another fit of screams. You turned back to the barrier with a laugh.

“And you’re filming me, really?” you asked, mock incredulity painting your tone.

In response, a fan lifted their phone, the screen showing a paused frame from an EN-O’CLOCK episode—where the staff had accidentally left in a close-up of you making the ugliest face mid-laugh.

You burst into laughter, clapping a hand over your mouth.

“Oh, come on!” you groaned, still laughing.

“But you’re so pretty!” the fan shouted back, and the crowd around her echoed in agreement.

You felt your cheeks heat, ducking your head before lifting it again with a soft, “Thank you.”

Another voice piped up eagerly, “(Y/N)! Share your makeup secrets!”

You gasped playfully. “My makeup secrets? Okay, one day I’ll crash one of Ni-ki’s lives, alright?”

The cheers were deafening, and you couldn’t help but shake your head with a smile.

Even after all these years, using your boyfriend’s stage name in front of others still felt strange on your tongue. To you, he was just Riki.

“But,” you continued, tapping your lips, “right now I’m using Dior.”

Gasps, screams, and waving lightsticks followed instantly.

“The lipstick or the gloss?!” someone shouted.

You grinned, holding a finger up as if about to make a huge reveal. “Both.”

That got the loudest cheer yet, and you laughed, covering your ears dramatically as if they were too loud. Fans kept their phones up, catching every second, some yelling your name, others just screaming out of sheer excitement.

“How are you and Ni-ki?” a fan suddenly shouted above the noise.

You blinked but smiled warmly, leaning closer so they could hear you. “We’re very happy. Thank you.”

The crowd smiled. Some squealed, others cooed, a few even fanned their faces as if they couldn’t handle it.

The moment felt lighter now, so you started posing for their cameras—peace signs, exaggerated winks, blowing kisses that made the whole section of fans go feral.

You laughed as one screamed, “(Y/N), we’re only here for you!”

“Don’t say that!” you scolded playfully, pointing toward the stage.

But then another voice rang out, bolder, cheekier: “Does Ni-ki have a new tattoo?”

Your laughter faltered just slightly, though your smile didn’t drop. Shaking your head, you answered honestly, “That’s not my story to tell.”

The fans collectively pouted, some even whining, but you noticed most of them nodding in understanding.

Before you could add anything else, a voice boomed through the mic above you.

“Hey!”

Your head snapped up to see Jay walking toward your side of the stage, mic in hand, his expression halfway between amusement and mock-accusation. “(Y/N), are you stealing our fans?”

The crowd erupted again, and you shook your head furiously, laughing. “No!”

Jake quickly joined him, dragging Ni-ki along by the wrist. Jake’s grin was mischievous, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers. “Engenes, what is this?”

Behind you, the pit exploded into chants: “We love (Y/N)!”

You laughed, hiding your face in your hands. Jake bent over laughing too, but it was Ni-ki who took a step forward, pulling his mic to his lips.

“That’s my girl,” he said smoothly, in perfect English.

You froze, eyes widening, before your face flushed pink all the way to your ears. The crowd screamed so loud, every single phone now pointed at Ni-ki—or at you, who was covering your face in disbelief.

And of course, one brave fan screamed back, “She’s my girl, not yours!”

The boys on stage lost it. Jake keeled over laughing, Jay’s jaw dropped in fake scandal, and Ni-ki leaned forward, brow furrowed as he replied into the mic, “What? No.”

That only made the fans scream louder.

You couldn’t stop laughing, shaking your head as you raised your hands like you were calling a ceasefire.

“Okay, okay—let’s all calm down!” you said, gesturing toward the boys on stage, then to the staff behind you.

The crew by the wings gave you nods, already signaling to the sound team to get ready for the next track.

Ni-ki still had a mischievous grin tugging at his lips, Jake was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, and Jay was muttering something about “unbelievable betrayal.”

The concert had ended in fireworks, confetti, but now the halls of the hotel were hushed, lined with tired staff and members already retreating to their rooms.

You and Ni-ki lingered behind, waving the others off with soft goodbyes.

His hand rested at the small of your back protectively, while his other arm carried your discarded boots—the heels dangling by their straps as you padded along in just your socks, exhaustion written in every step.

Swiping the keycard, you pushed the door open with a sigh that was almost dramatic.

“My feet are so tired, Iki…” you mumbled, leaning heavier into him.

The way his lips curved at the nickname made your chest warm, but he only shook his head in fond amusement as he nudged you inside. Setting your heels down neatly by the door, he closed it behind you.

“Only your feet, really?” he teased, his tone light but his eyes soft.

You nodded solemnly, flopping against his side as he guided you deeper into the room. “I could still run a mile, I swear. But my feet? They’re killing me.”

He chuckled, leaning down just enough to brush his lips against your cheek before steering you toward the bed. “You’re stubborn,” he muttered, easing you down onto the mattress.

Kneeling in front of you, he gently tugged at your ankles, placing your socked feet in his lap before working his thumbs into the sore arches.

The sound that left you was an unfiltered sigh of relief. “That feels so good…”

“I told you to wear your more comfortable ones,” Ni-ki hummed knowingly, his long fingers tracing slow, careful circles into your skin. “But did you listen? No.”

Your nose scrunched up, the tiniest pout forming as you leaned back against your palms. “Okay, now you sound like Yuki.”

That made him laugh, a soft, boyish sound that filled the quiet room. He let go of your feet eventually, sliding up onto the bed beside you instead.

Without a word, he reached for the zipper of your cropped jacket, shrugging it off your shoulders with an ease that made your heart squeeze.

“Thank you, Iki,” you whispered, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Anytime, baby. I got you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into your temple.

You lingered there a moment, letting the quiet sink in—the dim hotel lights, the muffled sounds of the city outside, the way his warmth was already seeping into you.

Finally, you tilted your face up to him with a tiny smile. “Well… I don’t know about you, but I need to take a shower. I’ll be back, okay?”

Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss against his lips, the kind that was meant to be quick—but his hands were quicker, sliding instinctively around your waist to hold you in place.

You couldn’t help but smile against his mouth, your palm flattening over his chest. “Iki… I feel so icky. Like, actually.”

Pulling back just slightly, he gave you that smug little grin of his. “Nice wordplay.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you stood up, tugging off your socks and tossing them aside with a sigh of relief.

Grabbing your phone from the nightstand, you were already scrolling to your shower playlist when you glanced back at him.

“Feel free to join me, okay?” you teased lightly, raising a brow.

His answer was a simple hum, his gaze following you as he leaned back on his palms. “Mhmm. Go ahead.”

You caught the way his eyes lingered as you padded toward the bathroom, and even after you closed the door, you could still feel his grin hanging in the air.

Humming softly, you continued scrolling through your shower playlist, the familiar beat of your favorite song spilling faintly from the phone speakers.

But instead of hitting play, your thumb slid to another app out of habit—Twitter.

The screen lit up instantly, a flood of notifications stacking on top of each other. Mentions. Retweets. Tags. All saying the same thing:

“Ni-ki’s tattoo!”

“Womb kiss mark tattoo??”

“Has (Y/N) saw it?”

Your brows furrowed. “Huh?” you mumbled, adjusting your grip on the phone. “Must be his ace of spades on his wrist again…”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, scrolling faster. “Or maybe his rib tattoo? Or… maybe the fans just want him to get a new one.”

But then one post caught your eye. A shaky, zoomed-in video from earlier tonight.

You tapped it.

The clip was grainy, but clear enough: Ni-ki’s hoodie riding up during soundcheck, the hem flashing just enough skin for a split second. The caption screamed in all caps:

“NI-KI’S WOMB TATTOO IS A KISS MARK?”

Your breath stilled, the faintest gasp escaping before you even realized. The red outline was unmistakable—lips, right below his abdomen, just at the sharp dip of his v-line.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, heart thumping against your ribs. “It’s real.”

Your shower playlist forgotten, you shoved the phone aside and bolted out of the bathroom, bare feet smacking against the carpet despite the ache in them.

“Riki!”

He was just tugging his hoodie over his head, hair mussed, tank top clinging to him in the dim hotel lighting. He startled at the urgency in your voice, spinning around.

“Baby, what—?”

“Let me see.” Your words came out sharp, desperate, as you crossed the room in quick strides.

His brows pulled together. “See what?”

“The tattoo.”

For a split second, he froze. And then—he winced, almost guiltily. “…What tattoo?”

Your jaw dropped. “Don’t play with me right now, Nishimura Riki. Let me see.”

The sound of his full name in your tone must’ve cracked something in him, because he sighed, defeated. Tossing his hoodie carelessly to the floor, he grabbed the hem of his tank top, pulling it over his head in one swift motion.

Your eyes flickered over his bare chest, the sculpted lines of his shoulders, but you didn’t have time for that distraction.

His hand went to his waistband, tugging the elastic of his joggers down just slightly—enough to reveal it.

The semi-fresh tattoo sat stark against his pale skin, the red ink almost glowing in the lamplight. The outline of lips was sharp and bold, delicate in its detailing but impossible to mistake.

It curved right at the dip below his abdomen, dangerously intimate, the placement both daring and tender. The skin around it was still slightly raised, faintly irritated, but the design itself looked striking, almost beautiful.

You couldn’t stop the way your lips parted, breath catching.

Slowly, almost reverently, you raised your hand, hovering just above it. You traced the air around the mark, careful not to touch the healing skin, your fingertips trembling.

“Riki…” Your voice cracked slightly, your brows furrowing. “Are you… cheating on me?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, barely a whisper, but the weight of them hung between you like lead.

His head snapped up instantly, eyes wide. “Baby—what? No!” His voice was firm, urgent.

He reached for your wrist gently, “That’s—” He stopped, swallowing hard, his chest rising and falling. Then, quieter, he said, “That’s yours.”

You blinked, confusion flickering across your face as your lips parted, waiting.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself, then nodded toward the tattoo, his voice raw. “Your lips. Always yours.”

You furrowed your brows, confusion tightening your face. “What? You didn’t even ask me for any references this past week…”

Your voice trailed off as your mind replayed the countless times he had bugged you before about his other tattoos—showing you sketches, asking which angle looked better, begging for your approval.

But this one? Nothing.

Ni-ki exhaled, his big hands slipping from yours as he sat back on the edge of the bed. His fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, wordless but insistent. An invitation.

You swallowed, then obeyed, stepping forward and settling across his lap, straddling him carefully.

Your arms looped around his bare shoulders, instinctively avoiding the fresh ink just below his abdomen. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

His gaze softened, though his tone carried a heavy seriousness. “You need to promise me something first.”

Your brows knitted. “What?”

“That you’ll never, ever think I could cheat on you. Ever.” His words were firm, unwavering, the kind that left no room for doubt.

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Okay…”

“Good girl,” he said, his chest rising against yours with relief. “Because I’d rather kill myself than do that.”

Your palm shot up to swat at his chest, a sharp “Riki!” escaping your lips.

He chuckled, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, but his eyes stayed earnest. “I’m serious, baby. I really just can’t. And I never will, okay? So don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”

His lips brushed your cheek in a soft kiss before he tugged you closer, his chin grazing your temple. The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten.

“I got it almost three to four days ago,” he admitted quietly.

Your head tilted at that, confusion mixing with something else. “But… you never asked me to come with you.”

His mouth curved into a softer smile.

He leaned forward just enough to press a kiss to the tip of your nose, his voice lowering into something gentle. “Because I wanted it to be a surprise, silly.”

He sighed, shaking his head with a hint of playful frustration. “But the fans got to you first, huh?”

You nodded slowly, pouting. “Yeah… I saw it on Twitter.”

He let out a small laugh, ruffling his hair with one hand before wrapping it back around your waist. “Well. There goes my plan.”

You huffed, narrowing your eyes at him. “But whose kiss mark is that, really?”

Ni-ki laughed outright this time, his gaze flicking downward to the fresh ink. Your own eyes followed instinctively, catching on the way the tattoo curved dangerously close to his v-line.

One of his hands stayed firm on your waist, but the other tilted your chin up until your eyes locked with his.

His voice dropped, steady but soft. “I told you. That’s yours.”

You blinked at him, furrows deepening, and he leaned closer, almost conspiratorial. “Remember when you kissed me a few days ago before we left Korea?”

Your lips parted, a faint memory resurfacing—your lipstick, smudged on his cheek after a kiss. You nodded slowly. “Yeah…”

His grin turned sly, almost boyish, but his eyes burned with intent. “You laughed because your lipstick stayed behind. But I loved how it looked. So I took a photo… and sent it to my artist.”

Your mouth fell open incredulously. “And you couldn’t just let me kiss a napkin or something? So you’d have a proper stencil?”

He laughed again, tugging you in until your noses nearly brushed. “I told you, it was supposed to be a surprise. I thought you’d hate me after using you like that.”

You huffed, your chest tightening with warmth, then peppered kisses across his face—his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—each one soft but urgent.

“Iki, that’s the hottest tattoo I’ve ever seen.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling, brushing his thumb across your waist. “You said that about my rib tattoo.”

You pulled back just enough to press a quick peck to his lips, your smile curving against his mouth. “Well, this tops it off. And it’s even better that it came from me.”

His laugh rumbled low in his chest, and before you could take another breath, Ni-ki’s arm tightened around your waist, the other sliding up behind your head.

He tugged you flush against him, tilting your face just so, lips colliding with yours again—harder this time, hungrier.

Your fingers instinctively found the back of his neck, threading through his hair, tugging lightly at the soft strands as the kiss deepened.

He groaned into your mouth, a sound that sent heat rushing straight to your stomach. His bare chest pressed against you, firm and warm, and you melted further into him.

The kiss broke only for a second, both of you panting, lips still brushing as you whispered, “Your blonde hair is starting to grow on me…”

Ni-ki smirked, his breath fanning across your lips as he murmured, “I told you before, didn’t I?”

Then, before you could reply, he caught your mouth again, harder this time, the hand on your hip gripping and pulling you impossibly closer.

A gasp slipped from you, muffled into his mouth, as you felt him rub against you, hips pressing forward with a teasing grind. The movement dragged a needy little moan from your throat, which only seemed to spur him on.

You tilted your head, letting him nip at your lower lip, tugging it gently before his tongue slid against the seam of your mouth, asking for more.

Without hesitation, you parted your lips, letting him in, and the kiss turned messy—tongues tangling, breathless whines spilling as his hand slid lower on your hip, guiding you right where he wanted you.

The friction between you made your head spin, your nails grazing along his nape as you clung to him.

Ni-ki groaned again, hips rolling against yours in a slow grind that had your knees going weak.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth, his voice low and rough, “you drive me insane.”

Your fingers tugged on his hair, earning a low groan from him that vibrated right into your mouth.

Ni-ki’s hand on your hip guided you down against him, grinding you into the hard planes of his bare chest and the growing heat between his legs.

The sound that left your throat was muffled against his lips, a needy whimper that only spurred him on.

“Fuck—” he breathed against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours for a second before he kissed you again, rougher this time.

His other arm slid lower, cupping the back of your thigh to pull you even tighter to him. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your head tilted back slightly, giving him more access as his lips trailed down your jaw, hot and wet against your skin until they reached the curve of your neck.

His teeth grazed your pulse point, biting just enough to make you gasp, your hips instinctively rolling against him.

“Riki—” you moaned, your voice shaky, broken by the friction that only grew more intense with every movement.

He chuckled against your skin, lips curling into a smirk before sucking lightly at the spot he’d just bitten. “I love it when you say my name like that.”

His breath was hot, his voice dark and low. “Say it again.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body rocking in sync with the way he guided your hips, grinding harder, deeper, until your head was spinning.

His mouth found yours again, swallowing every moan as his thumb traced circles into your waist, slow and deliberate.

The kiss broke just long enough for you to pant against his lips, your words barely a whisper.

“Riki, please…”

He chuckled low, the sound vibrating against your throat as his mouth dipped down.

“So needy…” he mumbled into your skin, the words melting into a groan as his teeth sank lightly into the side of your neck.

You gasped, fingers instinctively fisting his hair as his other hand gathered your dress higher and higher, the material bunching at your waist.

His palm slid beneath it, warm against your stomach, fingertips tracing the faint lines and curves there as if he were memorizing them.

Your breath hitched when his hand moved higher, cupping your breast over the thin lace of your bra. The gentle pressure made your back arch, your chest pressing into his palm, silently begging for more.

“Riki—” Your voice cracked halfway, turning into a soft whimper as his skilled fingers found the clasp behind you, undoing it with practiced ease.

The bra slackened and fell away, caught in the fabric of your dress, and his lips returned to your throat, painting trails of kisses and open-mouthed bites across your collarbone.

Each mark stung, then throbbed, leaving warmth that made you grin helplessly against him.

That grin made him groan, the sound raw, rumbling from his chest as if your reaction drove him insane.

Without warning, he stood, his arms locked around your waist, lifting you with an effortless strength that made you squeak in surprise.

“Riki!” you gasped, arms clutching his shoulders, legs curling around him instinctively.

“Relax,” he smirked against your ear, carrying you as though you weighed nothing, before lowering you onto the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath you, and before you could catch your breath, he was hovering above, his body caging yours in completely.

His lips were everywhere—your throat, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder—leaving a constellation of bruised, red marks in his wake.

Each press, each bite, drew moans you couldn’t hold back no matter how hard you tried.

“Sound so sweet,” he muttered against your skin, his voice husky, “all of this just for me.”

Your reply melted into a moan as his hands slid back to the hem of your bunched-up dress. He paused, dark eyes flicking to yours, and you already knew what he wanted.

Wordlessly, you reached down, helping tug the fabric up and over your head, your bra slipping off with it.

The cool air met your bare skin, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of his gaze—hungry, reverent.

“Fuck…” he breathed, his tone so raw it made your stomach flip.

His hand came up, tracing the curve of your chest before cupping it fully, his thumb brushing across your sensitive nipple.

You arched into his touch, a desperate sound breaking from your throat. “Riki—”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low and rough as he leaned down to capture your lips again.

His fingers toyed with your nipples, alternating between sharp pinches and soft circles that had you gasping into his mouth.

His kisses trailed lower, warm and wet, until his lips wrapped around one peak, tongue flicking while his hand teased the other.

Your whimpers spilled freely, echoing against his skin as he marked his way down, sucking hickeys into the softness of your chest.

He pulled away just briefly, smirking at the sight of the blooming bruises scattered across your skin.

“Perfect,” he muttered, admiring his work as his fingers gave another squeeze, sending you squirming. “All mine.”

Heat surged through you when his hands slid lower, careful but deliberate, brushing down until he hooked his fingers under the lacy material of your underwear. He tugged gently, grinning when your thighs tensed.

“Wearing the pair I bought you?” His tone was mocking, dripping with satisfaction. “Really, baby? Just tell me you need me.”

The embarrassment hit you all at once—cheeks burning, chest heaving—and your hands flew up to cover your face. “Riki…” you whined, muffled behind your palms.

He clicked his tongue in disapproval, leaning forward until his forehead rested against yours. “Don’t give me that shy bullshit,” he said, voice sharper this time.

His thumb dragged across your lower lip until you had no choice but to peek at him through your lashes. “I want to see you.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you lowered your hands. His eyes darkened instantly, a satisfied hum leaving his throat as he slipped the lace completely off you, tossing it aside carelessly.

The air was thick with tension as he settled between your legs, spreading you with a hunger that had you panting.

He pressed a single kiss to your inner thigh before giving your core a slow, teasing lick that sent shivers all the way up your spine.

“Riki—” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair. “No teasing.”

He pulled back just enough to grin up at you, mouth glistening. “You don’t call the shots, sweetheart.”

His thumb swiped over your slick folds, deliberately slow, as his lips brushed the inside of your thigh again. “But since you asked so pretty…”

Ni-ki didn’t give you a chance to whine before his mouth was back on you, tongue dragging up your slit in one long stroke that made your back arch.

He hooked his arms under your thighs and tugged them higher, resting them snug over his shoulders so he could bury himself even deeper.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you echoed in the quiet room, his tongue teasing your clit with feather-light flicks before dipping lower, pushing inside your entrance with playful thrusts.

The sensation made your finger instinctively bury themselves in his hair, pulling at the blonde strands until he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“Ni-ki—” your voice cracked into a whimper, your hips twitching, desperate for more friction.

You tried to buck up against his mouth, chasing his tongue, but his grip on your thighs was firm, pinning you down with ease.

He pulled back just slightly, lips glistening as his dark eyes met yours from between your legs.

“Mhmm, too eager,” he murmured, the corners of his mouth curling as he brought two fingers up, rubbing lazily over your folds. “Need to prep you, baby.”

You pouted, breath shaky. “But—”

“I know,” he cut in, kissing the inside of your thigh again, his voice calm but laced with amusement.

“You’ve taken me too many times to count, huh?” His fingers pressed teasing circles around your entrance without slipping in.

Your lips parted, frustration bubbling up. “Yeah, so—”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head like you were being stubborn on purpose. “The last time I skipped prep, you couldn’t stop complaining about how sore you were. Remember that?”

Before you could spit out another retort, he pushed one finger in, slow and deliberate, watching the way your face twister in relief.

He smirked knowingly, “See? Feels better when I take my time.”

Your breath hitched, your nails scratching at his scalp. “Feels… f-feels good either way,” you mumbled, already melting under his touch.

“Mhmm, maybe,” he said, curling his finger inside you before adding a second. His tongue flicked at your clit again, making you squeak.

“But I like it when you fall apart for me,” Ni-ki murmured against you, voice low, warm breath fanning your skin as his fingers began to pump in and out at a steady rhythm.

Your back arched instantly, your hands clutching at the sheets. “F-feels so nice, Iki…” you moaned, the nickname slipping out in a broken whisper.

He smirked up at you—sharp, proud. “There it is again.” His tone was almost mocking, but the way his fingers twisted deeper inside you made it clear he was eating it up.

“You weren’t even trying to hold back that time.”

You shook your head, whining as his thumb flicked your clit in time with his strokes. “N-not my fault—”

“So sensitive,” he teased, dragging his fingers out slowly just to thrust them back harder, making you gasp.

“Love your fingers so much,” you whimpered, squeezing your thighs together around his head.

“I know.” His answer was cocky but the curl of his fingers inside you was devastating, brushing against the exact spot that made your vision blur.

He pushed them deeper, stretching you further as he tilted his wrist. “You love how long they are, huh?”

Your moan cracked, the sound tumbling out shamelessly. He chuckled under his breath, the vibration against your clit making you spasm.

His pace quickened, slick sounds filling the room, his knuckles nudging against you as he drove his fingers in deep.

You tried to close your thighs tighter, overwhelmed, but his free hand pressed firmly against the inside of your thigh, keeping you spread for him.

He only growled low at the resistance, biting at the soft flesh of your thigh just to remind you who was in control.

“You’re already close,” he said knowingly, his lips brushing your skin as his tongue flicked over your clit again, slower now, dragging out your desperation.

“Yes,” you breathed, almost too quiet to hear, your chest rising and falling with sharp gasps. “So close, Iki—”

“I know you are,” he hummed, curling his fingers once, twice, perfectly timed with the way his tongue circled you.

His pace built higher, sharper, the rhythm relentless. “Cum for me, baby.”

That snapped through your body—your hips jolted, thighs trembling as your climax hit hard, spilling out of you in shuddering waves.

Ni-ki didn’t slow, licking you through it, swallowing every sound you made like it was his favorite song.

“Good girl,” he said softly when your body finally sagged against the bed, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

His chin was glistening, fingers still buried inside you as he gave one last curl just to make you twitch. “So messy for me already… and I haven’t even started.”

You whined at the overstimulation, trying to shift your hips away, but Ni-ki caught your thighs with his other hand. His gaze burned as he slowly withdrew his fingers, coated with your slick, and lifted them to your lips.

“Don’t waste it,” he murmured.

You whined at the overstimulation, trying to shift your hips away, but Ni-ki caught your thighs with his other hand, holding you steady.

His gaze burned as he slowly withdrew his fingers, glistening with your slick.He raised them to his lips.

His tongue flicked out first, tasting you with a low hum of satisfaction before he drew his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean one by one.

The sound of it sent heat rushing to your cheeks. His eyes never left yours as he savored it, thumb dragging across his bottom lip as if he couldn’t get enough.

“Sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, “So sweet… I could live off this.”

The hand on your thigh stroked lazily, his thumb drawing circles as if to soothe.

He straightened slowly, towering over you now, the corner of his mouth lifting in that teasing, dangerous grin of his.

“Too tired, baby?” he whispered, voice rough, as though the words were meant only for your ears.

You shook your head quickly, breathless but desperate. “No,” you panted, tugging gently at his arm as if he might actually leave you there.

“I just need… to breathe. Just a second.”

Something in his expression softened at that—his grin easing into the faintest, fond smile. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another, feather-light.

Soon, he was dotting kisses across your face—your temple, the bridge of your nose, your jaw—each press lingering just a little longer, just enough to make your chest flutter.

“Riki,” you whispered, voice soft but laced with something deeper.

He hummed in response, not stopping his trail of affection, until you looped your arms around his neck and tugged him flush against your bare body.

His chuckle rumbled warmly between you, low and amused. “Yes, baby?”

“Lay down for me.”

That made him pause, his brow raising as his lips quirked. “Are you sure?”

You nodded eagerly, sealing your answer with a few quick kisses of your own, peppering his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, even the tip of his nose.

This time, it was him who froze, smiling as though he was soaking in every ounce of your affection.

“I need to make you feel good too,” you murmured with a small pout, your bottom lip jutting out.

Ni-ki laughed, shaking his head. “Baby, you’re saying that while looking like an angry bunny. That doesn’t make you look very—”

You gasped, cutting him off with wide eyes. “You don’t think I look seductive?”

He smirked at your dramatics, leaning closer. “Depends.”

“Really, Riki?” you pulled him even closer by the neck, pressing your forehead against his. “After making me cum, you’re saying that?”

He chuckled again, his breath warm against your lips. “Baby, I’m just teasing. You know I find you very seductive.”

Your protest melted into a soft sigh when he dipped down to kiss along your collarbone, leaving heat in his wake.

Fingers threaded through the strands of his soft blonde hair that had fallen into his face, brushing them back tenderly.

“Come on,” you whispered, your thumb brushing his temple. “I wanna make you feel good too.”

Ni-ki hummed in approval, pressing one last kiss against your skin before pulling away. “Okay, okay,” he murmured, sitting back carefully against the headboard.

You slid off the sheets, standing for a moment just to catch your breath. His eyes immediately swept over you, lingering on the marks he’d already left. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“Stop acting like you weren’t the cause of these,” you teased, gesturing to the constellation of hickeys scattered across your thighs.

His chuckle was low, unbothered, almost proud. “Can’t help it if you look better with my marks.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Fixing yourself with just enough confidence, you moved between his spread legs, kneeling onto the mattress.

Slowly, you lowered yourself even more, cheeks flushing lightly under the heavy stare of your boyfriend—but you didn’t shy away.

Instead, your fingers tapped gently against the front of his gray sweatpants, voice quiet. “Can you… um, remove these, please? Iki?”

He didn’t say a word—just gave a small nod before lifting his hips. In one smooth motion, he shoved the sweats down, discarding them carelessly to the side of the bed, leaving him in nothing but black boxers that clung to his frame.

You stayed settled between his legs, eyes flickering down before they caught on the fresh ink etched into his skin.

You pulled up just enough to press a gentle kiss to his lips, lingering before you pulled away. Not far, though—just enough that your noses still touched, your breath mingling with his.

“Does it still hurt?” you asked softly.

Ni-ki shook his head faintly, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. “No… only when I move too much during practice or performances.”

You nodded, eyes warm as you tilted your head and pulled him into another kiss. Your palms pressed to the solid expanse of his bare chest, sliding upward as his arms wound tighter around your waist, pulling you flush to him.

His tongue slid past your lips with ease, swirling against yours in lazy, intoxicating strokes that made your head spin.

A small moan escaped your throat, muffled against his mouth. You pulled away only when breath forced you to, panting softly as you let your lips trail downward—kisses dotting his chin, then the column of his throat.

Ni-ki groaned low as you bit into his neck, the sound rough and unrestrained, his head tilting back automatically to give you more access.

“Fuck, that feels nice,” he mumbled, his voice dropping, thick with pleasure.

Grinning against his skin, you continued your work, tongue soothing over each sharp bite before marking him again, your lips dragging down to his collarbone.

The bloom of bruises followed wherever your mouth traveled, each one deliberate, each one a brand of your own.

You didn’t stop there—your mouth moved down, slow and teasing, pressing open-mouthed kisses across the planes of his chest, down the ridges of his toned stomach, until you reached the waistband of his boxers.

“Baby,” he rasped, voice almost warning, though his fingers inched down toward your hair, threading through it lightly.

You hummed softly, a low sound vibrating in your throat as you let him gather your hair into his hand, careful to keep it from falling into your face.

Your lips trailed lower, peppering kisses and sharp little bites along his v-line. The way his muscles flexed under your mouth made you grin against his skin.

“Baby…” Ni-ki groaned again, but it came out rougher this time, more like a plea than a warning.

You blinked up at him, wide eyes slightly glossy from the intimacy and the lingering buzz of your own pleasure, making his jaw tighten.

He hissed softly through his teeth, visibly restraining himself as he let you do what you wanted, his knuckles whitening where they clutched at your hair.

Your lips found the skin near his new tattoo, the small red marks you left near it earlier now blooming darker.

Each kiss, each bruise you pressed there only seemed to make the ink stand out more—your work contrasting beautifully against the art etched into him.

Ni-ki had to physically stop himself from flipping you onto your back and burying himself in you right then.

His abdomen tensed beneath your kisses, a frustrated groan catching in his throat as you pulled away, fingertips skimming lightly over the sensitive skin around his tattoo instead.

“You love me that much, huh?” you whispered, teasing, your nails tracing his skin delicately.

He smirked down at you, but there was heat simmering in his gaze. “Only if you knew, (Y/N).”

The rare sound of your name falling from his lips made your stomach flip. He almost never said it unless he was serious—or getting impatient.

That alone made you smile, biting your lip before lowering your hand. Your palm pressed against the hard outline in his boxers.

His hips jerked just slightly at the touch, a low groan vibrating in his chest as his hold on your hair tightened—not painfully, but enough to remind you just how close to his breaking point he was.

You licked your lips at the darkened patch of fabric where his precum had seeped through, your mouth practically watering at the sight.

With careful slowness, you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down. He lifted his hips obligingly, helping you peel them off and discard them carelessly to the side.

Your eyes widened at the sight of him—hard, flushed, the tip red and leaking.

Your hand instinctively wrapped around his base, the heat of him burning against your palm as you gave an experimental squeeze.

“Fuck,” Ni-ki muttered under his breath, his eyes locked on you as if the act of watching you alone was satisfaction enough.

You dipped your head, giving a kitten lick to the bead of precum gathered at the tip.

His head tipped back with a hiss, his adam’s apple bobbing as he groaned, the sound guttural.

Not breaking eye contact, you slowly wrapped your lips around the swollen head, hollowing your cheeks just enough to make him twitch in your grip.

“Good girl,” he praised, voice low and rough, making your thighs squeeze together at the sound.

A muffled moan slipped from you around him, the vibration making him buck his hips lightly into your mouth. His breath hitched, the hand in your hair tightening as his knuckles brushed your scalp.

“Just like that,” Ni-ki groaned, chest rising and falling faster as he tried to control himself, his gaze burning holes into you.

“Fuck, you look so pretty with your mouth on me…”

Your head traveled lower, lips stretching slowly as you took more of him in, careful not to let your teeth graze his sensitive skin.

The weight of him sat heavy on your tongue, making your mouth water as you wrapped your hand around the base, stroking the parts you couldn’t reach.

Your tongue worked messy circles around his shaft, and the salty taste of precum only urged you on.

“Baby…” he breathed, voice strained. His hand tightened in your hair, gathering it into a messy ponytail that kept your face clear so he could watch every second.

The sight alone had his jaw clenching. “You’re doing so good for me. So, so good.”

His praise sent a spark of heat right down your spine. You bobbed your head faster, letting him brush against the back of your throat. The sensation made you moan around him, the vibration traveling up his length.

He chuckled breathlessly, the sound broken. “Don’t force yourself, baby. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

But you only moaned again in response, the sound so needy it pulled another groan from him.

Your hand tightened its grip, pumping him in rhythm with your mouth. He hissed sharply, his hips twitching.

“Fuck—” he cursed under his breath as his other hand drifted down, tapping your cheek lightly in a way that made you shiver. “Look at you. Taking me so well.”

His control faltered when you swirled your tongue around the head again, his hips pressing forward just enough to nudge deeper.

Not enough to choke you, but enough to make your throat ache deliciously. The feeling of him stretching your mouth, filling every bit of it, had you whimpering.

“God, I need to cum in you,” Ni-ki rasped, voice breaking low and rough.

That had you pulling off him with a wet pop, licking your lips to catch the slick that trailed down your chin.

Your eyes flicked up to him, pupils blown wide, and you whispered, “Then do it.”

He didn’t give you a chance to tease him further. His big hands gripped your waist and in one smooth motion flipped you onto your back.

You squeaked out his name, “Riki!”, but it came out more like a whine than a protest.

He only hummed, low and firm. “I know.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as he hovered over you, the switch in his demeanor dizzying. Just seconds ago he was groaning under your touch, and now he had you caged beneath his body like he hadn’t been falling apart at all.

His forearm pressed into the mattress beside your head as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss so soft it almost didn’t match the urgency radiating off him.

His other hand laced with yours, fingers intertwining as he pressed your arm down beside your head.

With his free hand, he guided himself against your entrance, rubbing teasingly along your folds. The heavy drag of his cock against your clit made you whimper.

“Stop teasing, I need you,” you begged, hips twitching toward him.

He clicked his tongue, amused. “So impatient…”

But he gave in anyway, pressing forward slowly. The stretch burned in the best way, your walls straining to take him.

No matter how many times, he was always too much—too long, too thick, splitting you open inch by inch.

Your breath caught, a whimper escaping before you could swallow it down. He immediately brought his thumb to your clit, rubbing gentle circles to ease the sting, his lips brushing your temple.

“Relax for me, baby,” Ni-ki murmured, voice softer than before. His kisses moved down to your lips, pressing one after another, distracting you from the ache.

“Breathe. I’ve got you.”

By the time he bottomed out, your back arched and a moan spilled from your mouth right into his. He swallowed it eagerly, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough.

He stilled, chest rising and falling fast, letting you adjust. His hand slowly untangled from yours, brushing over your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“Tell me when to move, okay?” he murmured, gaze locked on your face.

You nodded, still shaky, trying to breathe through the stretch. The fullness had your body buzzing, your walls fluttering helplessly around him.

He kissed your cheek, then the corner of your lips, whispering, “Take your time, baby.”

A few breaths later, you whispered, “You can move.”

His eyes searched yours, worried even in his desperation. “Are you sure?”

You nodded again, pressing a kiss to his jaw, your voice trembling. “Yes.”

Relief washed over his features as he laced your fingers together again, squeezing gently before pulling his hips back slowly, then pushing back in.

The drag made you whine instantly, your thighs tightening around his waist.

Ni-ki kissed you again, this time rougher, swallowing your moans. His tongue tangled with yours, wet and hot, until you were gasping into his mouth.

When you pulled back just enough to breathe, you whimpered, “F-faster, please…”

He didn’t hesitate. His thrusts picked up pace, sharper, more deliberate. Your hands clutched at his back, nails dragging down his skin as your head tipped back against the pillows.

“Feel so good,” you gasped, voice breaking into moans.

He groaned low in his throat, pressing his forehead against yours. “Like that?”

You could only nod, words lost as he angled his hips just a fraction deeper. The new angle had you squeaking, eyes going wide.

“There it is,” Ni-ki rasped, his pace steady as his cock drove into that spot again and again.

Your eyes rolled back, the world around you blurring. “Oh my god—Riki—”

“That’s it,” he grunted, his grip on your hand tightening.

His other hand slid down to your waist, pinning you in place as he fucked into you harder, faster, hitting that spot over and over until you were crying out with every thrust.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised through ragged breaths, his voice breaking from how tightly you clenched around him.

“Taking me so well. So perfect.”

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mingling with your broken moans. He reached down suddenly, thumb circling your clit in quick, tight motions.

The added stimulation had you writhing under him, back arching as your thighs trembled.

“‘M close,” you gasped, your body twitching with every roll of his hips.

“Not yet,” he growled softly, rubbing faster, relentless. “Hold it for me, baby. Just a little more.”

You whined, eyes glossing over with tears from the sheer intensity.

He leaned down, kissing them away one by one. “So pretty when you cry for me.”

Your walls clenched around him tighter and tighter until he hissed. “Together, baby. With me.”

You nodded weakly, moaning his name. “Riki, please—”

Both his hands went to your waist, holding you flush against him as his thrusts grew harsher, his groans spilling hot against your neck.

“Cum for me.”

The command tipped you over, your body convulsing as you clenched around him. Your nails raked down his back, scratching red marks as you cried out his name.

He groaned, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, hot and heavy, filling you with thick ropes of cum.

“Fuck—” his voice broke as he buried himself to the hilt, holding you tight through his release.

He pressed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing the tender skin as bruises bloomed in his wake. You panted beneath him, eyes half-lidded, trembling from the aftershocks.

When he finally lifted his head, sweaty bangs falling into his eyes, you reached up weakly, fingers brushing them away.

His gaze softened, lips curving into the faintest smile before he kissed you—deep, consuming, like he wanted to melt into you completely.

He kept fucking you through the tail end of your highs, slow now, drawing out every last shiver until you whimpered from sensitivity.

Only then did he pull out with a hiss, his cock glistening, the sight alone making your cheeks burn.

Carefully, he lowered himself over you, chest pressing against yours, his weight comforting as he buried his face in your neck. His arms wrapped around you, keeping you caged under him as if letting go wasn’t an option.

When he finally looked up at you, his eyes were soft—so different from the intense, heavy gaze he’d given you earlier. They were glossy now, gentle, almost boyish.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, voice low but steady.

You smiled, heart swelling, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Riki. More than you know.”

His lips curved into a tender smile as he pressed a quick peck where your kiss had landed. “How did I get so lucky?”

You scrunched your nose at him playfully. “Well… considering you pulled my hair during elementary school just to say you liked me…”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, shaking his head. “Mhmm. Wouldn’t have you right here now if I didn’t, huh?”

You laughed softly, letting him slowly guide you up until you were sitting. He slipped off the bed, then leaned back down, his large hand reaching for yours.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he said gently.

Before you could protest, he scooped you up into his arms with ease, carrying you toward the bathroom.

The door slid open with a soft sound, and he set you carefully on the edge of the tub before moving to turn the heater on.

The steady rush of water filled the space as he reached for bath oils and a handful of bath bombs, the lavender scent quickly filling the room until your shoulders slumped in relief.

He dipped his hand into the water to test it, then looked back at you with a teasing little smile. “Come on, baby. I know you love your water scalding.”

You huffed, patting his chest lightly. “And you say it like I’m dramatic.”

His chuckle was soft as he helped you step in. The warmth of the water licked at your skin, relaxing your sore muscles instantly.

You sank in with a content sigh as he slid in behind you, his long arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you back against his chest.

“Now this,” you murmured, closing your eyes as you leaned your head on his shoulder. “This is nice.”

Ni-ki hummed, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I love you. I really do.”

You tilted your face up to press a kiss against his jaw, smiling faintly. “How many times are you going to say ‘I love you’ tonight?”

He grinned, leaning down so his lips brushed your temple. “Not just tonight. I’d say it every day—even if one day you ended up hating me.”

Your eyes snapped open as you grimaced, turning in his arms to frown at him. “Riki, you know that would never happen.”

He only shrugged, reaching over to grab the shampoo bottle from the little shelf. “Just making sure.”

You only shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips as you leaned further into him, cheek brushing against his damp chest.

The soft quiet wrapped around you both, broken only by the faint drip of water against porcelain and the gentle rustle of his fingers twisting through your hair.

Everybody’s spirits were high—it was only a few hours before the first night of the show.

The boys, fresh from their showers at the hotel, were now gathered comfortably in the backstage dressing rooms.

The air was thick with the faint scent of hairspray, hair products, and the lingering trail of expensive perfume spritzed by staff.

Chatter and laughter filled the space, the kind of buzzing energy that always came before a performance.

You, however, were standing directly behind Ni-ki, flushed to your ears as you stared at the sheer amount of bruises along his neck and collarbone, clear as day under the harsh vanity lights.

They stood out even more against the plain white button-up shirt the stylists had given them to wear for the meantime.

Ni-ki clearly wasn’t ashamed—he grinned like a cat, leaning back in the chair with his long legs stretched out casually. He caught your wide-eyed stare through the mirror and raised his brows smugly.

“Looks nice,” he mused, running a hand through his freshly dried blonde hair, his smirk deepening. “Should I… point to them when I sing my part in XO?”

“Riki!” you swatted at his shoulder in mortification, earning a bark of laughter from him.

From a few seats away, Sunoo—currently getting his hair styled—caught the commotion. His sharp eyes flickered to Ni-ki’s exposed neck, his lips twitching before he spoke up.

“Nice job, (Y/N),” Sunoo teased, a knowing smile tugging on his lips. “At least we know the makeup artists are doing their job later.”

The room erupted in small snickers, and the two women standing beside you—the makeup artist and hairstylist assigned to Ni-ki—exchanged amused glances.

The makeup artist shook her head with a grin, reaching for her concealer.

“That’s true,” she chimed in, her tone dripping with playful mischief.

The hairstylist nodded eagerly in agreement, her voice sly as she leaned closer, nudging your arm with her elbow. “It’s always the innocent-looking girlfriends…”

Heat flooded your face instantly. You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “Please, stop…” you muttered, voice small.

Ni-ki’s laugh rumbled out, boyish and teasing, as the stylist next tohim snorted under her breath.

“Ah, come on, don’t hide,” he teased, reaching behind him to pry your hands away from your face. He caught them easily, his long fingers wrapping around your wrists as he held your palms gently against his.

His eyes met yours through the mirror, playful but firm. “Come on, be proud of it. You’re an artist—like your boyfriend.”

Your ears burned hotter at his words.

The stylist chuckled, shaking her head as she dabbed primer along Ni-ki’s jawline. “He’s right, you know. Young love—it’s really sweet to watch.”

Ni-ki squeezed your hand, grinning wide. “See? Even she agrees with me.”

You groaned again, face warming more, making both Ni-ki and the stylist laugh together. The sound was light, easy, filling the room like sunlight.

Just then, a voice called from the doorframe. “(Y/N).”

You glanced back, spotting Yuki leaning against the door with a clipboard tucked under his arm. He arched a brow. “Can I steal you for a minute?”

You looked down at Ni-ki, who gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go. His grin softened into something gentler as he murmured, “Go, baby.”

The stylist hummed, not missing a beat as she brushed along Ni-ki’s cheekbones. “Ah, young love,” she repeated, voice fond.

You laughed, nudging her lightly. “Come on, you’re only twenty-seven.”

She huffed, though her lips twitched. “My husband finds joy in annoying me every day, so watching you two makes me soft, alright? Don’t ruin this for me.”

Ni-ki leaned back, smirking, catching your reflection in the mirror. “I mean, I find joy in annoying (Y/N) too. So maybe it’s fate.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, but before you could retort, you noticed the camera crew had slid in beside you, catching the whole interaction.

With a sigh, you turned toward the lens, eyes narrowing as you pointed accusingly at Ni-ki. “Engenes, are you seeing this? Do you see how Nishimura Riki treats his girlfriend?”

Ni-ki barked out a laugh, tilting his head toward the camera. “Engenes in relationships, back me up, yeah?”

The stylist, trying her best to keep her brush steady, muttered, “Stop moving, Ni-ki—” only for you to lean down suddenly, pressing a bright, glossy kiss to his cheek.

The smudge of red lipstick stood out against his skin, and Ni-ki erupted into louder, boyish laughter, smacking his thigh in amusement.

The stylist sighed, tossing you a half-hearted glare as she reached for a makeup wipe. “(Y/N)… what am I going to do with you?”

You blinked innocently, batting your lashes. “Be glad you think we’re cute?”

She huffed again, though you caught the faintest smile tugging at her lips.

Meanwhile, Ni-ki sat up straighter in his chair, sweeping his bangs aside with a flourish as if he were showing off a medal.

He pointed proudly at the lipstick mark. “(Y/N) has an attachment to our Romance: Untold album, as you can see.”

You couldn’t help but grin, leaning down to press a softer kiss to the crown of his head. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

He tilted his head back against the chair, gazing up at you with an easy smile. “Mhmm. Go, Yuki needs you.”

You gave his cheek a light pat. “Stop moving, you big baby.”

Ni-ki only shook his head, laughing as he looked back at himself in the mirror.

Leaving him behind, you crossed the room to Yuki, who was waiting with his clipboard. “Took you long enough, kid,” he muttered, handing it over.

You grinned. “Really, old man?”

He rolled his eyes, folding his arms. “Yeah, yeah. We need you by the tech booth—the staff wants your opinion on the stage lighting later.”

He paused, giving you a look. “Also… because you speak English better than me.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “There it is.”

“Come on, time’s ticking.” He turned, walking ahead.

Before following, you glanced back toward the dressing room. Through the vanity mirror, you caught Ni-ki already watching you, his eyes soft and unguarded as he mouthed, ‘I love you.’

Your chest tightened, warmth blooming all over. You mouthed back, ‘I love you too.’

Ni-ki raised a closed fist, like he was sending you luck from across the room. You nodded, lips curving into a smile before finally turning to follow Yuki out.

As you trailed behind him, clipboard clutched against your chest, you couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that slipped past your lips.

You shook your head at yourself, muttering under your breath, “I really need to thank that fan who managed to see his tattoo…”

Yuki glanced sideways, brow arched. “What was that?”

You blinked, caught, and quickly waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing, nothing. Just… a thought.”

He hummed, clearly unconvinced but too busy skimming through the papers in his hand to pry.

Still, your thoughts lingered on Ni-ki—the way he’d smiled at you through the mirror, the lipstick mark still smeared proudly on his cheek, the way his fist had lifted in silent encouragement.

It tugged at something warm inside you, a feeling that refused to fade no matter how far down the hallway you went.

Because if it weren’t for that fan’s sharp eyes catching the ink on his skin, maybe you wouldn’t be here now, walking away from him only to feel his love following you like a shadow—loud, boyish, and impossibly bright.

⤷ permanent taglist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie @yjmylove @in-somnias-world @cripplinghooman @yeossified @ateez-atiny380 @chemiru @eleftheriance @deluluscenarios @simp4simlee @baedreamverse @lala-loopsydoll @elairah @my-neurodivergent-world

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[liuhsng]

⤷ permanent taglist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie @yjmylove @in-somnias-world @cripplinghooman @yeossified @ateez-atiny380 @chemiru @eleftheriance @deluluscenarios @simp4simlee @baedreamverse @lala-loopsydoll @elairah @my-neurodivergent-world @jakeyismine @laylasbunbunny @zealouscookierebeltrash @riddlerloveb0t @angelhyuka @saraabbas @candidupped @rikisblog @vanillakirstein @heekeufrvr @starberryhorse @multistanerrrrr

[liuhsng]

i may or may not be into epic: the musical these days… and i may or may not have a very rough draft inspired by the lyrics of “would you fall in love with me again?”, and it may or may not be an emperor!heeseung x empress!reader fic with an arranged marriage trope…

the taglist is open for anyone who wants to be tagged for this piece or join my permanent taglist, which can be found here 🤍

[liuhsng]

i don’t even think i’m the right person to bring this up, but in a way i feel like i have to, especially since i received a similar message today, despite being a writer on this platform for the past 4–5 years.

the enhablr writing community has been in shambles lately—ever since be:lift screwed engenes over and started coming across as more money-driven than ever. on top of that, a lot of my author mutuals, including me, have been getting accused of using ai.

let me make this clear: being articulate and knowing what you’re doing is an actual skill. just because someone is good at writing doesn’t mean they’re using ai. repetition of certain words isn’t ai, using em dashes isn’t ai, and being able to write detailed or longer narrations definitely isn’t ai either. these are all natural parts of developing a writing style.

and can i just emphasize that just because a fanfic is similar to another, or a writing style feels familiar, doesn’t automatically mean it’s ai either—writers are often inspired by the same themes, tropes, and influences, and overlap is bound to happen.

and trust me, i know how it feels to get accused or flagged by ai checkers. as a university student, i’ve been working on a research project for the past year, putting in real time and effort, and despite everything being handwritten, it still gets detected as ai just because of how much work and structure i put into it.

i’ve seen so many enhablr writers leave for the same reasons—false ai accusations, harassment, even death threats. and for something as simple as being ot7 since march 10. we all have freedom of speech and the right to express ourselves, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to be cruel or hateful, whether toward writers or readers.

i also want to say this on a personal level: i’m a fanfic writer, and again—i’m also a university student involved in an organization focused on external affairs and journalism. writing is something i’ve worked hard on, so being accused of using ai is genuinely hurtful since i’ve been in the enhablr community for a long time already.

i just hope this serves as a reminder that whether a message is anonymous or not, there are real people on the other side of the screen. words carry weight, and the way we treat each other in the internet matters more than some people seem to realize.

and to my fellow writer mutuals, and to readers who want to take the same path: never let people look down on you just because you know what you’re doing. growth and skill are part of life, and they deserve to be respected, not questioned. i hope you always remember that there are people here who support you, and i hope we can continue to be that support for each other.

[liuhsng]

i feel like i js unlocked a whole new level of niche omg... wdym one of my fave enhablr authors is ALSO FILO????? 🥹💞 ILYYY MABUHAY PILIPINAS RRAHHHHHH

HELLOOOO WHAT DO YOU MEANNN i’m one of your fave enhablr authors that actually means so much to me omg 😞

and yes—UY PHILIPPINES !! finding filo moots/readers here hits different talaga HAHAHAHA

mwa mwa mwa ilyyy, thank you for this, you just made my whole day fr

[liuhsng]

how do i explain that i wanna be active and be friends with my readers and fellow writers (esp. my fellow filo tumblr users) but i’m too awkward to yap 😓 i promise i don’t bite pls come talk to me first 😓😓😓

[liuhsng]

───༉‧₊˚. frat house president!jungwon who never loses

⤷ very self-indulgent headcanons about fratboy!jungwon

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — jungwon x fem!reader ⤷ word count — 6.9k ⤷ enhypen permanent taglist — open !

⤷ warning/s — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), college au, frat!enhypen, fratboy!jungwon, college!jungwon, college!enhypen, business major!jungwon, rich!jungwon, rich kid!jungwon, popular!jungwon, heir!jungwon, jungwon is very down bad, fashion major!reader, sunoo is a good wingman, sunoo is reader’s cousin, mentions of alcohol, underage drinking, smoking (implied), illegal street racing, physical fights, jealousy/possessiveness, fluff

⤷ a/n — as a heeseung stan, i have very mixed feelings about everything happening right now, but i firmly believe he’ll be back—#hopemaxxing !! anyways hi my loves ! i’m finally back for a bit since university is giving me time to breathe again, so here i am. i’m planning to continue the ‘xo, with you’ series if my schedule allows it, and as always, i hope you enjoy !! 🤍

fratboy!jungwon who only attended decelis university to please his father, who wanted him to do something with his life and be a ‘normal young adult’ for once—unbeknownst to them, jungwon had already been living that life back in high school, just in his own way; the kind where silence in a mansion meant freedom, where long business trips meant no supervision.

fratboy!jungwon who turned their empty home into something loud, alive—throwing parties that stretched until sunrise, music echoing through halls that were never meant to hold that kind of mess, jungwon always somewhere in the middle of it, not drunk, not out of control, just watching—because even then, he liked being the one in control.

fratboy!jungwon who took business management as his major just to inherit the family fortune and to please his older sister, who didn’t want to be the next family head—unlike him, who basked in the idea of it, the power, the name, the way people would look at him differently; he still remembers the way she fixed his collar one morning, sighing softly, “you’re the only one who actually wants this,” and jungwon only smiled, because wanting it meant winning it.

fratboy!jungwon who the moment he stepped foot onto campus, heads turned almost instantly, the low hum of his sports car engine dying down as he parked in a free spot right beside a row of flimsy bikes he had to fight the urge to laugh at, twirling his keys lazily around his fingers before tossing them into the glovebox without a second thought—if it got stolen, he could just buy a new one anyway; the door shut softly, but the attention around him wasn’t, whispers already starting before he even took a step.

fratboy!jungwon who didn’t care for the murmurs around him as he walked through the gates like he owned the place, despite it being welcome week for freshmen—which included him.

his hand tucked into his pocket, phone pressed to his ear as he casually spoke to lee heeseung, or what he liked to call his senior, already in his third year.

“don’t make me wait,” heeseung muttered. earning a quiet laugh from the other end.

and it wasn’t just anyone—it was the same heeseung who taught him the basics of throwing a damn good party behind their parents’ backs, the same heeseung who came from a family just as prominent as his.

fratboy!jungwon who only dressed in designer clothing thanks to his older sister, who refused to let him be seen any other way, her words still lingering in his head—“you are not going to be an embarrassment to me, jungwon, and if you do, at least look half-decent”—so he shows up to classes decked out effortlessly, expensive fabrics sitting on him like second skin, not because he really cared, but because reputation did.

fratboy!jungwon who before even becoming a fratboy had every fraternity fighting to have him in their house, for the sake of keeping up a good image or simply for having yang jungwon under their name—for both his status and his looks; he hears the whispers, the offers, the subtle attempts to impress him, but he never answers right away, just watching, amused, like it was all a game he already knew he’d win.

fratboy!jungwon who only nodded and flashed his signature dimpled smirk as heeseung stood next to him, proudly bragging that he was already part of house dark blood—and as corny as the name sounded, jungwon couldn’t deny it was filled with people like him, rich, connected, and familiar, faces he’d seen long before university, so choosing them wasn’t even a question.

fratboy!jungwon who became the president of the house in the blink of an eye despite being a freshman, all because of a bet that may or may not have involved illegal street racing with the former president—who, in his own stupidity, agreed to it while half out of his mind, laughing like it was a joke, only for jungwon to win within minutes.

fratboy!jungwon who stepped out of his car with a wide smirk, leaning against the hood as cheers erupted around him, the night loud and electric, the former president handing him the house keys in quiet shame while sunghoon and the others rushed toward him with wide grins, calling him insane—but jungwon only tilted his head slightly, like it was expected.

fratboy!jungwon who despite all the attention on him and his frat brothers, his eyes still found you across the street, like everything else blurred out the second you stepped into his line of sight—you, in a body-hugging silky black dress paired with heels that clicked softly against the pavement, your shorter stature only making the look more striking, a black leather jacket thrown over your shoulders.

and for a brief moment, jungwon glanced down at himself—black zip-up pulled halfway down, revealing a tank top underneath, baggy jeans layered with chains—and clicked his tongue under his breath, silently cursing himself, “should’ve dressed better”.

fratboy!jungwon who was pulled back into reality by a rough pat on his back from kim sunoo, one of the sophomores he quickly got along with, the older already grinning as he looked at him, “you did good,” sunoo said, voice light and teasing. “why are you so spaced out?”

jungwon didn’t answer right away but sunoo followed his line of sight anyway—and the moment he saw you, a quiet laugh slipped out of him, shoulders shaking slightly as he nudged jungwon’s side. “didn’t know you were into the soft types.”

that was enough to snap jungwon out of it. his head turned sharply, brows furrowing as he looked at him, “you know her?” he muttered, tone low, almost disbelieving.

sunoo only nodded, smile turning knowing as he replied, “yeah, she’s my cousin—(y/n),” letting your name sit for a second—just to make it worse, before adding, “do you want her number?”

fratboy!jungwon who thanks to his pride and ego only shook his head at the idea of needing anything, letting out a quiet scoff as if the entire situation was almost insulting.

“what?” he muttered, tone laced with effortless arrogance. “don’t you trust me?”

a pause, then a faint tilt of his head as if the answer was obvious.

“you’re literally talking to the new president of house dark blood,” just as jay suddenly appeared beside him, dramatically throwing an arm out as if presenting a show, “looks like we got a new frat president—everyone, yang jungwon!”

and just like that, the crowd erupted, cheers and hollers bouncing off the night air as all eyes snapped back to him, but fratboy!jungwon only smiled—slow, smug, controlled—already used to this kind of attention, his gaze briefly dropping to the can of red bull in jay’s hand before he exhaled quietly through his nose, yeah… first thing he’s doing is limiting the energy drink stock back at the house.

fratboy!jungwon who met your eyes again like it was inevitable, like no matter how loud the world got around him, it always circled back to you—sending a flirty smirk your way that wasn’t subtle in the slightest, watching as you blinked once, then twice, clearly caught off guard, the tips of your ears turning red, a soft blush spreading across your cheeks that only made his smirk widen.

and fratboy!jungwon couldn’t help but tilt his head slightly in curiosity because you didn’t fit here, not at all—you looked like the type who preferred quiet mornings, polished nails, soft conversations, the kind who’d rather sit in the passenger seat and be taken care of than stand in the middle of something as loud and reckless as illegal street racing—and yet here you were, standing under dim lights and roaring engines was enough to confuse him.

fratboy!jungwon who felt that same smirk get wiped off his face almost instantly the moment the former president—the same one he beat just minutes ago—started walking toward you, his jaw tightening as his expression darkened, eyes narrowing just slightly.

and jake—one of the third-years jungwon got along with let out a low whistle beside him, the sound cutting subtly through the noise. he exchanged a knowing look with sunoo before muttering under his breath,

“yikes… there he goes again.”

jungwon’s brows furrowed immediately as he glanced at you.

“what do you mean?

jake only shrugged, nudging sunoo lightly like he was passing the responsibility off. “you wanna take this one or—”

sunoo rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed by the drama, before looking back at jungwon again.

when he spoke again, his voice dropped—just enough to make it feel more serious. “the president—well, former—likes her.”

a small pause.

“and he’s not really the type to take no for an answer… no matter how many times (y/n) rejects him.”

and something about that didn’t sit right with jungwon at all, his eyes flickering back to you, watching the interaction too closely, jaw set as a quiet, almost dangerous thought settled in his head—because you weren’t just some girl anymore, not when you were sunoo’s cousin, not when luck had already placed you right in front of him—and jungwon, for all his control, had never been the type to let something he wanted slip away.

fratboy!jungwon who made it his mission to bother sunoo the moment every painfully boring frat meeting ended—especially when all they did was talk about something as simple as throwing a party to celebrate him.

so now he’s trailing right behind sunoo in the late afternoon, just outside the house, hands tucked in his pockets as he circles him like he’s got something to say (he does), and sunoo doesn’t even look annoyed, just mildly entertained, like he’s dealing with a kid who wants candy.

except this kid could buy the entire store without blinking.

jungwon walks beside him casually before dropping it out of nowhere, voice low, almost too casual, “so… how’s (y/n)?”

and that alone is enough to make sunoo laugh, shaking his head as they step out into the driveway where his car is parked right next to jungwon’s, glancing at him with a teasing smile, “what happened to ‘hi sunoo’ or ‘good afternoon sunoo’?”

fratboy!jungwon who isn’t exactly known for patience, only shrugging slightly as if that counts as a greeting, “good afternoon, sunoo… so, how’s (y/n)?”

sunoo lets out a quiet hum at that, already slipping into his car. he presses a button, and the roof slowly slides back, letting the late afternoon sunlight pour in.

only then does he glance back at jungwon, clearly amused. “you gonna keep asking questions, or are you gonna get in your car and follow me?”

and honestly, jungwon isn’t that hard to convince, huffing softly under his breath as he turns, slipping into his own car and pulling the door shut in one smooth motion, hand immediately reaching for the glove box before starting the engine, eyes flicking toward sunoo just in time to see him pulling out first and heading toward the main road of campus—and jungwon follows without hesitation.

fratboy!jungwon who isn’t someone easily surprised—but he definitely was the moment he and sunoo pulled up and parked in front of a boutique he immediately deemed too girly, too pink, too… not him.

he steps out of his car with a slight raise of his brow as he glanced at the storefront, recognizing the area easily—lined with designer shops he was familiar with—but this one? yeah, he’s never had a reason to step inside somewhere that looked like it catered to silk dresses and soft ribbons when all he ever needed were tailored pants and new silver chains.

jungwon only looks at sunoo like he’s about to question his life choices, but the older only nudges his head forward, silently telling him to follow.

and jungwon can only mutter a quiet, “oh, for fuck’s sake,” under his breath before pushing the door open, the soft chime of the bell greeting them as they step inside.

fratboy!jungwon who isn’t entirely surprised when his eyes land on you almost immediately—standing near a rack, carefully picking between two dresses hung in front of you, your fingers lightly brushing over the fabric like you were trying to decide which one spoke to you more, another pile of clothes stacked messily beside a chair already overflowing with options—and it’s such a contrast to everything he’s used to that he just… watches for a second.

sunoo doesn’t hesitate though, already striding in with a bright, “(y/n)!” that makes you turn quickly, your expression softening into a small smile the moment you recognize him.

and then shifting into confusion when your gaze flickers to jungwon standing beside him—but before you can even ask, sunoo is already speaking again, clearing his throat,

“i brought jungwon with me, hope you don’t mind—and don’t worry, my sister already knows,”

you offer a small, polite smile in response, and jungwon catches it instantly, something about it making him straighten just slightly. his eyes flicker briefly to a sign nearby that reads ‘kim’s atelier,’ the name settling in his mind before his attention drifts right back to you.

only for sunoo to suddenly mutter something about needing to check on his sister, already backing away toward another part of the boutique, leaving the two of you standing there in a quiet that feels a little too intentional.

fratboy!jungwon who doesn’t hesitate in approaching you, but still keeps a respectable distance, like he knows better than to crowd you too fast, flashing that signature dimpled smile as his hands slip into the pockets of his trousers, sleeves of his black button-up slightly rolled, exposing toned arms that flex subtly with every movement.

he tilts his head, voice light, almost amused, “typical sunoo,”

and the soft giggle that slips past your lips right after is enough to make something in his chest loosen, a quiet relief settling in as you shake your head slightly, “i know… don’t think too much about it, he’s always been weird like that.”

jungwon only hums in agreement, eyes flickering briefly—noticing the way you’re dressed, the soft fabrics, the shorter skirt, the pile of clothes beside you that all follow the same theme—and he takes note of it, stores it somewhere in his head.

fratboy!jungwon who suddenly finds himself silently thanking his older sister for every forced shopping trip she dragged him to. his gaze drops to the dresses in your hands, tilting his head slightly before speaking without hesitation, “either would look good on you.”

his tone carried a kind of confidence that doesn’t sound like a guess, and it shows in the way your cheeks warm almost instantly, but he doesn’t stop there.

he steps just a little closer—still careful—eyes scanning the fabrics as he adds, “the one on the right brings out your eyes… but the other one’s different—the ruffles at the hem make it softer, more delicate… or, at least, that’s what my sister says.”

he finishes with a small shrug, like he’s brushing it off, but the quick look of admiration on your face doesn’t go unnoticed.

and internally, jungwon is thanking every possible god for that one piece of information he bothered to remember. he lets out a quiet breath, slipping back into something smoother, more practiced, as he pulls one hand out of his pocket and offers it to you, “yang jungwon.”

and the moment you place yours in his, softly replying, “kim (y/n),” he doesn’t hesitate—lifting your hand just slightly, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles, slow enough to mean something, just enough to make your breath hitch and your cheeks flush deeper.

and jungwon only chuckles under his breath, still holding your hand—longer than necessary, longer than polite—because it’s soft, because it’s warm, and because he doesn’t see a reason to let go just yet.

fratboy!jungwon who lets you drag him through hallways after class, even if it’s only been a few weeks, even if people are already staring—because there he is, yang jungwon, walking around campus in all black, plain sweater, baggy pants, silver rings catching the light… holding a very obviously pink tote bag covered in bows that sticks out like a sore thumb.

yet he doesn’t complain.

he just adjusts his grip slightly as you hum beside him, glancing at your phone before looking back up with a small frown, “have you eaten lunch yet?”

jungwon only shakes his head, dark bangs falling over his eyes as he answers easily, “no… but i could eat. do you want to?”

before he can even say anything else, you’re already stepping closer, gently nudging him to the side to avoid the crowd before reaching up without hesitation to fix his hair, fingers brushing against his forehead as you smooth the strands down.

for a second, jungwon goes still—not because he’s surprised, but because he can smell your perfume, soft vanilla lingering too close, settling somewhere in his mind as something he needs to remember, something that already feels familiar in a way he can’t explain.

fratboy!jungwon who starts picking you up after every class like it’s become part of his routine, going out of his way to drive toward your building even after long frat meetings, barely sparing a glance at anyone as he mutters quick goodbyes, already halfway out the door.

heeseung just huffs behind him, shaking his head, “he’s down bad that fast?”

jay only laughs, leaning back in his seat, “hey, at least he’s useful—those donation drive ideas? we already have three lined up and the event isn’t even for weeks.”

and jungwon doesn’t even hear them anymore, too busy tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he pulls up outside your building, eyes scanning the entrance like he’s waiting for something important.

fratboy!jungwon who finds himself willingly subjected to your projects—of course you were a fashion major, and somehow, despite the very real mannequin standing untouched in the corner of your dorm, he ends up being your personal one.

he stands still as you adjust fabrics against him, pinning here and there with careful precision, your fingers brushing his arms, his shoulders, his chest—and jungwon, who usually hates being told what to do, just… lets you.

even humming softly under his breath without realizing it, something he never does, no matter how content he is, but there’s something about you, about the way you focus, brows slightly furrowed, lips parted in concentration, that makes him stay still longer than necessary, enjoying it more than he should.

fratboy!jungwon who leans casually against your door once you’re both done, hands resting loosely on your hips as you fix the tie hanging crooked around his neck, fingers brushing against the fabric, adjusting it with small, precise movements while he watches you from above, amused.

you hum teasingly, “remind me why you’re dressed like a business student again?” even though he’s only in a white button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show his arms, a plain black tie clipped neatly with a small prada pin—and he chuckles under his breath, watching your brows furrow in concentration as you try to fix it properly, finding it a little too amusing how you barely reach his adam’s apple, when you’re not in heels.

tilting his head slightly, he feigns a pout, “baby, i am a business major—you wound me.”

you let out a quiet laugh, pressing your palms lightly against his chest as you smooth the fabric one last time. “all done.”

jungwon just looks at you for a second too long, something soft and obvious in his eyes, a lovesick expression he doesn’t even try to hide as he murmurs, “thank you, baby.”

only for you to hum back casually, “yeah, you’re welcome—now go, you’re gonna be late for your photoshoot,”

fratboy!jungwon who immediately lets that pout return, deeper this time, brows knitting together slightly as he leans closer, “don’t tell me you’re getting tired of me already?”

you roll your eyes, slipping away from him to grab his bag and keys from your bed before placing them into his hands. he sighs dramatically, shaking his head, “can’t believe my own girl is kicking me out of her room.”

even though you aren’t his—not yet—but you don’t argue.

you just roll your eyes again before stepping closer, rising onto your toes, hands resting on his broad shoulders for balance as you press a soft kiss to his cheek, quick but enough to leave him completely still for a second.

his breath catches somewhere in his chest as he blinks down at you, caught off guard in a way that almost never happens—until you pull back, smiling like it was nothing, “now go on, that fraternity photoshoot won’t wait, jungwon,”

when he finally turns to leave, he doesn’t even bother wiping off the very obvious pink gloss you left on his cheek, walking out like that on purpose, smugly claiming it as his—and with the way his grin slowly spreads after that—yeah, there’s no way he was saying no to you now.

fratboy!jungwon who finds himself in a situation he never thought he’d be in—grumbling under his breath as he waits outside his older sister’s building, leaning against the side of his car while the engine hums low, the sound filling the silence.

students pass by and sneak glances at him, and despite the rumors about them not getting along—because of their differences, because she’s already a senior about to graduate while he’s just a freshman—he still came.

he watches her approach from a distance, arms crossed as she stops in front of him, raising a brow, “what are you doing here, jungwon?”

for a second, he almost backs out, almost brushes it off like it was nothing—but he sighs instead, muttering something under his breath, only for her to frown, “speak up, i can’t hear you with all that muttering,”

jungwon finally lifts his head, jaw tight, ears and cheeks faintly flushed against his usual composed expression as he blurts out, “how do i ask a girl out?”

it sounds wrong coming from him—yang jungwon, who’s never had to ask for anything twice, who’s never needed help with something like this—and yet here he is, standing in front of the one person he swore he wouldn’t go to.

fratboy!jungwon who can’t help the small smile that slips onto his face when he takes you out to eat somewhere near campus, sitting across from you as you lean forward without hesitation to try the ramen he ordered, only to immediately stick your tongue out, wincing at the burn as your eyes water.

before you can even say anything, he’s already reaching for the nearest cup, sliding it toward you, “careful,” he mutters.

you take it with teary eyes, and for a second, he just watches you—he had to look away for a second, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his composure—because you look cute, and he’s not used to thinking like that, not used to wanting to say it out loud, so he keeps it to himself, settling for a quiet huff instead.

fratboy!jungwon who surprisingly doesn’t mind you dragging him around malls, even if he used to hate long walks and anything remotely tiring that didn’t involve working out, illegal street racing, or picking fights with people he thought were too full of themselves—now he just follows a step behind you without complaint.

fratboy!jungwon who now finds himself sitting patiently on benches or outside fitting rooms, phone in hand as he takes pictures of you spinning around in skimpy skirts and body-hugging dresses, different colors, different styles, capturing every little turn and smile like it’s important, nodding in approval each time like your opinion somehow depends on his, like he’s already decided everything looks good on you anyway.

fratboy!jungwon who never saw the need to spend his money on anything he considered useless—outside of his own parties, frat events, occasional charity drives (not just for image, he tells himself), and new cars—to him, money was a tool. something to maintain status, control, reputation; never something to waste on small, meaningless things—that’s just how he was raised.

fratboy!jungwon who somehow throws that standard out the window when it comes to you. now he’s the one paying for your overly sweet matcha drinks and tiny cakes without a second thought, covering every shopping spree you drag him into, even offering to pay for your nail appointments like it’s nothing—and the moment you show him a pretty pink set with black details, shyly mentioning you wanted to incorporate him into it, something in him just… settles, a quiet satisfaction he doesn’t question, because at this point it’s obvious—yang jungwon isn’t just spending money anymore, he’s investing in you, and he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

fratboy!jungwon who finds himself thinking about you in the middle of football games—something that should be impossible given how loud everything gets, how focused he’s supposed to be—but somehow you still slip into his mind, even when he only joined because heeseung and ni-ki dragged him into it, ending up as a winger like it was nothing, sprinting down the field with sharp precision, breath steady, eyes locked in—yet there’s a moment, just before he makes a play, where he mutters under his breath, almost instinctively, “i’ll win this for you.”

even if you aren’t there—busy with your projects or somewhere on campus catching up with sunoo, and it’s ridiculous, really, how much it drives him—but he doesn’t question it.

fratboy!jungwon who is still the same cocky, egotistical yang family heir everyone knows—the same freshman who somehow became the president of house dark blood because of some illegal street racing bet, the same guy who scoffs at the idea of effort when his money already gets him everything, the same one who doesn’t hesitate to throw a punch just to blow off steam—but there’s something slightly different now, something people notice even if they can’t fully place it, because rumors spread fast in decelis.

fratboy!jungwon who has whispers following him in halls about how yang jungwon has a thing now—a fling? a girlfriend? no one really knows, and jungwon doesn’t bother correcting them, because to him, labels don’t matter, not when you’re already his anyways. the way his arm naturally wraps around your waist when you walk together after class, the way he guides you into the frat house without a second thought, ignoring the stares, the whispers, like none of it matters as long as you’re beside him.

fratboy!jungwon who gets into fights on purpose whenever someone looks at you the wrong way, or when someone else stares a second too long, jaw tightening just enough before he moves without thinking, because control has always been his thing—but when it comes to you, it slips just slightly.

he smirks to himself when he feels the jealous stares around him when you’re together, like he knows exactly what he has, and he doesn’t hesitate to get his knuckles bloodied just because someone got a little too comfortable talking to you while he was gone for a minute.

“watch (y/n) for me, yeah?” he mutters to heeseung before lunging forward, thankful—if anything—that he decided to wear plenty of silver rings that day.

heeseung only sighs, shaking his head, though the amused, almost proud grin he exchanges with jake doesn’t go unnoticed, muttering under his breath, “kids these days.”

as fratboy!jungwon walks back like nothing happened, barely even bothered—and what makes him smile more, what really gets to him, is that you don’t look at him any differently, don’t question it, don’t scold him—the first thing you do is reach for his hand, brows soft with concern as you ask, “do you need a band-aid?” and just like that, all the tension in him melts.

fratboy!jungwon who doesn’t even give you the chance to refuse his invitations to their frat parties—the same parties he meticulously plans during meetings with his frat brothers, already thinking three steps ahead—including you, already coordinating your matching outfits in his head as he casually explains it to you like it’s already decided.

“we should go with red and black this time,” he says, voice thoughtful as his fingers lace with yours.

“i got you this wine red lace dress a few days ago, remember?” he trails off slightly, more to himself now than to you—“maybe i could wear a red leather jacket…”

then he glances back at you, eyes soft but expectant, “what do you think, baby?”

you only shake your head, feigning annoyance as you drag him toward his car, “what makes you think i’m even going?” but jungwon’s quick—always quick—gently pulling you back, hands settling around your waist as he leans down just slightly, a smirk playing on his lips.

“because i told sunoo to cancel his plans with you on friday so both of you could come,” pausing just long enough before adding with a quiet scoff, “he’s an annoying little shit anyway, he keeps stealing you from me.”

fratboy!jungwon who always has an arm around you as he leads you through the chaos of his own party, guiding you toward a quieter corner like he’s done this a hundred times before. the frat house already packed inside and out, people crowding near the pool—something jay very clearly warned against unless they wanted to deal with him later, because he refused to call the housekeepers just to clean up someone’s mess.

the flashing strobe lights replace the main ones, casting everything in neon hues that make the whole place feel more like a club than a frat house, music loud enough to shake the walls as you laugh beside him, watching sunoo try—and fail—to snatch his beer bottle back from sunghoon, who only does it to mess with him.

jungwon takes a slow sip of his whiskey before raising his voice over the music, “can you two at least break that outside? i don’t need broken bottles on my damn floor.”

that only earns a wider grin from sunghoon as sunoo curses loudly, already chasing after him, “oh, for fuck’s sake, jungwon!”

jungwon just laughs, looking back down at you with the same amused smile. even with your heels giving you height, he still leans closer when you mutter, “you’re such a menace.”

he doesn’t deny it—just dips down slightly to press a soft kiss to your lips, the faint taste of whiskey lingering—pulling back with a small grin as he murmurs, “you love me for it”

you hadn’t exactly planned on finishing the bottle, but with the looming threat of exams finally behind you and no morning lectures to sober up for, the champagne went down a little too easy. now, you were far gone—hazy, heavy-lidded, and prone to dissolving into giggles at things that weren't even funny.

the sound bubbled past your lips again when fratboy!jungwon backed you against his bedroom door, his mouth crashing onto yours with a desperate kind of hunger.

he didn’t seem to mind the way your gloss smeared across his cheek or the corner of his lips; he was too busy pinning you there, one arm braced firmly against the wood while his other hand wandered dangerously low, bunching the fabric of your dress to pull you flush against him.

away from the muffled bass of the party downstairs, the room felt stiflingly hot. you felt the cool friction of his red leather jacket under your palms as his lips trailed down your jawline, eventually settling against the sensitive skin of your throat.

he was alternating between soft, bruising sucks and sharp nips that made your eyes roll back to the back of your head. your head fell back, fingers clutching the leather of his shoulders for some kind of leverage, and you swallowed back a whine that caught in your chest.

jungwon pulled back just an inch, his breath hot against your skin as he let out a low, rough grunt of disapproval. he tilted his head, eyes dark and focused entirely on you, “don’t quiet down now,” he murmured, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “i wanna hear that pretty voice of yours, baby.”

you didn’t know how it got to this point, but all you could remember were articles of your clothing being thrown haphazardly onto the carpeted floor, your heels somewhere in the dimly lit room. your dress was bunched down at your waist as the soft, expensive sheets of fratboy!jungwon’s bed overtook your senses.

the room felt like it was spinning, the distant thump of bass from the party downstairs vibrating through the walls, but it all faded into nothing compared to the raw, pounding rhythm of jungwon’s hips slamming against yours.

his cock stretched you wide, dragging along every sensitive ridge inside your clenching pussy with each brutal thrust, the wet sounds of skin slapping skin echoing louder than the music. you could feel every inch of him—thick, veined, pulsing with heat—as he buried himself to the hilt, his balls smacking against your ass with a lewd, rhythmic tap that made your toes curl.

“fuck, look at you,” jungwon growled low in his throat, his voice rough and breathless as he pulled back just enough to watch your face contort in ecstasy. his dark eyes locked onto yours, pupils blown wide with lust, sweat dripping from his brow onto your flushed skin.

he shifted his weight, one hand pinning your thigh harder against your chest to keep you folded beneath him, exposing you completely.

the new angle let him grind deeper, his tip nudging that sweet spot inside you that sent sparks exploding behind your eyelids. “taking my cock so well, like you were made for it. those pretty nails scratching me up—yeah, just like that, baby. mark me. show everyone downstairs who owns this pussy now.”

your breath hitched, a desperate whine spilling from your lips as his words sank in, fueling the fire coiling tight in your belly. the pain from your nails raking down his flexed biceps mixed with the overwhelming pleasure, making your walls flutter around him, sucking him in greedier with every plunge.

“j-jungwon… oh god, it's too much,” you gasped, your voice breaking into a sob as tears of pure bliss welled up in your eyes. but even as you said it, your hips bucked up to meet his, chasing the friction, the fullness that had you teetering on the edge.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest as it pressed against your heaving breasts, his thumb circling your nipple roughly before pinching it hard enough to make you yelp.

“too much? nah, you can take it. i paid for those nails just so you could dig ‘em into me while i fuck you senseless.” leaning down, he nipped at your earlobe, hot breath fanning over your neck littered with his possessive bites. “tell me how it feels, baby. tell me how my cock’s ruining this tight little pussy.”

the demand sent a fresh wave of heat rushing through you, your body arching off the sheets as he snapped his hips forward again, harder, faster, the carpet muffling the creak of the bedframe. “it—ah! it feels so good, won… so deep,” you stammered, your words tumbling out in a rush between moans.

your hands clutched at his shoulders now, nails biting into the muscle there, leaving crescent-shaped indents that made him hiss in approval. the expensive sheets twisted beneath you, damp with sweat, clinging to your skin as the cool air of the room contrasted sharply with the scorching heat where your bodies connected.

jungwon’s pace didn’t let up—if anything, it quickened, his grunts growing more animalistic as he chased his own release, but he was relentless in drawing yours out first. “that’s it, scream for me. let the whole fucking frat hear how i’m splitting you open.”

he captured your mouth again, the kiss messy and devouring, teeth clashing as his tongue mimicked the thrust of his cock. saliva trailed from the corner of your lips when he pulled away, only to spit inside, watching with a smug grin as you swallowed eagerly, your throat working visibly.

“good fucking girl,” he praised, voice dripping with condescension that only made you clench tighter around him. his free hand slid down your body, fingers finding your clit swollen and slick, rubbing firm circles that had your vision blurring.

the dual assault—his cock pounding relentlessly, hitting that spot over and over, and his skilled fingers working you—pushed you closer, the pressure building like a storm about to break. “cum for me, baby. soak my dick. i wanna feel you gush all over me while i breed this pussy.”

you were lost, utterly consumed, your whimpers turning into full-throated cries as the orgasm crashed over you. your walls spasmed wildly around his thrusting cock, milking him as waves of pleasure ripped through you, your body trembling violently beneath his.

“jungwon! fuck, yes—i’m cumming!” the words tore from your throat, raw and desperate, as you scratched fresh lines down his back, the pain spurring him on.

he groaned deeply, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as his thrusts grew erratic, hips stuttering. “shit, that’s it… so tight, baby. gonna fill you up—mark you from the inside.”

with a final, powerful thrust, he came, hot spurts of cum flooding your pussy, coating your walls as he rode out his release, grinding deep to push every drop inside. his body shuddered against yours, breaths ragged, but even in the aftershocks, his grip on you didn’t loosen—he held you close, possessive, as if he never planned to let go.

fratboy!jungwon who leans his forehead against yours after tiring you out, breath still uneven but softer now. he presses slow, lingering kisses across your cheeks just to hear those quiet giggles spill out of you. your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs brushing lightly over his skin, but jungwon is quicker.

one of his hands slides over yours, turning it gently so he can press a soft kiss against your palm, holding it there for a second longer than needed while maintaining the softest eye contact he can manage—something uncharacteristically gentle in his gaze.

you smile at him, brushing his hair away from his eyes, and he just melts into it, leaning in again to press a soft peck against your lips, barely there—but it’s followed by a quiet, almost mumbled: “i love you,”

fratboy!jungwon carefully excuses himself afterward, making sure you’re settled properly on his bed first. he pulls the covers over you for a moment before disappearing into the bathroom. when he comes back out, he’s in nothing but his boxers, a few damp towels in hand. he kneels beside you again, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead before he starts cleaning you up. his movements are slow, careful.

soft apologies escape under his breath every time you so much as wince. “i’m sorry, baby… just a little more, okay?” his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, almost worried as he glances up at you, “i didn’t hurt you too much, did i?”

you have to reassure him, soft words, small kisses pressed against his jaw, fingers brushing his hair back as he focuses on taking care of you.

fratboy!jungwon who dresses you just as carefully afterward, letting out a small sigh of relief when he realizes your dress isn’t ruined, no stains, no damage—but the marks he left? yeah, he’s definitely proud of those, the faint smirk tugging at his lips as his eyes linger a little too long on your neck and chest, earning an exasperated eye roll from you as he casually drapes his red leather jacket over your shoulders so it matches your outfit, leaving himself in his black button-down, unbuttoned far too low—but he doesn’t care, not when your lipstick marks are still visible across his skin, something he has absolutely no intention of wiping off, at least not until the party’s over.

fratboy!jungwon who sits with you on his lap by the pool, holding you just enough to keep you comfortable, one hand resting lazily on your thigh while the other grips a bottle of beer, both of you illuminated by the soft glow of pool lights and the fairy lights you practically begged him to put up earlier, the atmosphere calmer out here compared to the chaos inside as you chat with sunoo lounging nearby.

while jungwon half-listens, half-argues with heeseung about something as stupid as ramen preferences, the conversation getting mildly heated until heeseung eventually sighs and excuses himself to grab more drinks from inside—and that’s when jungwon’s attention shifts, eyes flickering toward the open back door across the pool, landing on a face he immediately recognizes.

fratboy!jungwon who smirks—slow, wide, completely egoistic—the moment he sees him. the same guy he beat to become president of the frat. the same guy who lost everything that night because he was too cocky, too careless. and now… the same guy who thinks jungwon ‘stole’ you from him, even if you never once acknowledged him the way he wanted you to.

and the look on his face now? pure, burning anger, eyes dragging over you sitting comfortably on jungwon’s lap, over the jacket around your shoulders, over the lipstick stains spread across jungwon’s chest.

jungwon just drinks it in, unbothered, amused even, taking a slow sip of his beer without breaking eye contact before casually lifting his hand to flip him off—subtle but intentional.

he leans down to press a soft kiss to your head like nothing happened, when you glance up at him, clueless, he only murmurs lowly, “keep talking to sunoo, baby.”

his voice is calm—but his eyes were sharp, victorious—because in the end, it’s always the same with yang jungwon: he gets what he wants, and he never loses.

⤷ permanent taglist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie @yjmylove @in-somnias-world @cripplinghooman @yeossified @ateez-atiny380 @chemiru @eleftheriance @deluluscenarios @simp4simlee @baedreamverse @lala-loopsydoll @elairah @my-neurodivergent-world @jakeyismine @laylasbunbunny @zealouscookierebeltrash @beaepa @jazz7gnab @all4moi @riddlerloveb0t @angelhyuka @saraabbas @candidupped @rikisblog @vanillakirstein @heekeufrvr

© 2026 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[liuhsng]

who is liuhsng supposed to be without heeseung?

that question has been sitting in the back of my mind all day, and i keep coming back to it no matter how hard i try to focus on anything else.

because the truth is, a huge part of my identity as a writer was built around him. around enhypen. around the stories and worlds that came from loving them so deeply.

i started writing because of enhypen. i started this entire journey because i loved them with my whole heart and wanted to create something inspired by the comfort and inspiration they gave me. every fic, every storyline, every universe i built on this blog traces back to that beginning.

so now i can’t help but ask myself—who am i supposed to be as a writer without the very person who became the center of so much of my work?

for years, my “brand” on tumblr has been being a heeseung-biased fic writer. that’s how people found me, how my readers connected with my stories, how this small corner of the internet became a place where my writing could grow. so much of my confidence in writing came from that—from knowing that the inspiration behind it meant something real to me.

heeseung wasn’t just some bias that appeared in my stories. he was the reason i gained the courage to start writing them in the first place. in many ways, he was the spark of me—the spark that helped me discover my voice, my creativity, and the version of myself that wasn’t afraid to share stories with the world.

i know my writing exists beyond one person. i know the creativity, the ideas, and the passion are still mine. but it would be dishonest to pretend that he wasn’t the spark that started all of this.

so who exactly is liuhsng supposed to be when the very person who inspired this entire journey suddenly feels like he’s being erased from the story that started it all?

that’s a question i can’t even answer, despite being liuhsng myself.

⤷ ENGENEs, the petition for heeseung has already reached 1 million signatures—but don’t stop until we get him back. enhypen will always be seven. sign the petition here.

[liuhsng]

hi my loves,

i know i’ve been gone for a while, and i’m really sorry about that. the past few months have honestly been a lot for me. health issues came first, and on top of that university has been absolutely beating my ass in the most unforgiving way possible.

but right now, i genuinely cannot stay quiet.

i’ve seen everything that’s been happening regarding heeseung, and whether this decision came directly from belift or whether heeseung himself had a hand in it, the reasoning simply does not connect or make sense with everything we have seen these past few weeks.

heeseung has been visibly happy during recent promotions. he has been excited, talking about wanting to spend more time with engenes, looking forward to what comes next. nothing about his recent appearances suggested someone preparing to step away from the group or the stage he worked so hard to stand on.

i have been an engene since their i-land days. i remember voting with every email account i owned just to support heeseung because even back then his passion was undeniable. the way he spoke about becoming an idol, the way he carried himself through the show, and the love he clearly had for performing made me want to see him succeed. watching him debut and grow alongside the members of enhypen was something i will always cherish.

and as a heeseung stan, i have watched him grow into someone incredibly talented and deeply passionate about what he does. over the years we’ve seen how hard he works, how much he pours into his performances, his music, and the people around him. seeing that kind of dedication is something you don’t just walk away from as a fan. i will not give up on heeseung, and i will never even consider losing him without a fight.

heeseung is not just “a member.” he is the oldest. he is the one the others lean on when things get heavy. he is someone jungwon has openly gone to for guidance and comfort. he is the voice that carries so many of their songs and the one that stabilizes the group when things become overwhelming. enhypen shines because all seven of them shine together.

i will never forget that moment in i-land when the seven of them were in the kitchen together before the final lineup was even announced. at the time it felt like coincidence, but looking back it truly felt like fate. those seven standing there together before anyone even knew what the final group would be moments like that are why so many of us believe so strongly in this group as seven.

which is exactly why this sudden situation feels confusing and concerning. heeseung has had no scandals, no controversies, nothing that would logically lead to such an abrupt decision. and with an upcoming performance in australia this week, the timing only raises more questions. something about the situation simply does not feel right, and as someone who has supported him and this group for years, i cannot pretend otherwise.

i want to be clear about something though: this is not about spreading hate, panic, or attacking anyone. i am saying this because i care deeply about heeseung, about enhypen, and about the community that has supported them since the beginning.

as writers, fans, and supporters, we also carry responsibility in how we speak about situations like this. but caring about professionalism does not mean staying silent when something feels wrong.

heeseung has been someone i’ve looked up to for years. his dedication, humility, and love for music have inspired countless people, including me. and i know i am not the only engene who feels this way. we are not ready to give him up, and honestly, i don’t think we ever will be.

because enhypen has always been seven.

and enhypen will never truly feel complete without lee heeseung.

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ in lilac and gold ( lhs ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — heeseung x fem!reader ⤷ word count — 21.2k ⤷ based on this request by @heesbbygurl ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — i had so much fun writing this—truly. this honestly might be one of my favorite pieces yet. also, please don’t mind the enhypen masterlist, it’s still under editing and a little messy 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), reincarnation au, royal au, prince!heeseung, princess!reader, modern!heeseung, modern!reader, past lives, heavy emotional themes, mentions of childbirth, faint references to past death, soulmate trope, red string trope, fluff, angst, destiny/universe themes, mentions of pain (labor), crying, protective!heeseung, foul language, mentions of historical war/politics, romantic tension, fate-written love, farmer george reference, happy ending, breeding kink, marking, biting, light possessiveness, overstimulation, praise kink, slight size kink

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as the crown prince of a powerful kingdom, lee heeseung was raised to rule—with sharp instincts, a loyal heart, and a crown that never sat too heavily on his head. he was born for diplomacy, bred for war, and destined for a throne. but the only thing he truly lived for was you. his wife, his queen, the only soul who could quiet the chaos inside him. you loved each other until your final breath. and somehow, even after that. or, where two strangers meet under the eyes of their past selves, and something the universe once forgot finally begins again.

The sun poured golden ribbons over the stone path, warm and gentle as it kissed the castle grounds. Somewhere beyond the hedges, the faint splash of the courtyard fountain echoed—a lullaby of water meeting water, rhythmic and calming.

You sat nestled within the pale embrace of a gazebo, its wooden frame delicately laced with ivy and blooming wisteria, soft petals swaying with every tender breeze.

The book in your hands was worn in the corners but loved—its parchment pages aged, the ink slightly faded yet still carrying the weight of every word.

A sigh left your lips, soft and drawn out.

“'And in silence, he longed for what he dared not touch,'” you read aloud, your voice barely rising above the wind. “What a tragic sort of devotion…”

Your fingers tightened around the spine.

The garden stretched out before you, a sea of color—roses, tulips, peonies, and little blue forget-me-nots nestled near the base of every trimmed bush. Everything was alive, and yet it all stood still, like the entire world paused to listen.

Footsteps padded softly across the gravel behind you.

“Milady,” came the quiet voice of one of the castle maids, her head bowed low as she placed a fresh tray of refreshments upon the small table beside you. Crystal glasses caught the light, and the silver tray gleamed beneath the sun.

You offered a gentle smile. “Thank you.”

She returned it, modest and fleeting, before stepping back. “Shall I leave the strawberries as well?”

“Yes, please,” you replied, adjusting the folds of your gown with one hand.

The silk skirt pooled around you in waves, layered with pale pastels, laced edges, and gold-stitched bows that shimmered every time you moved. A corset hugged your waist, cinched just enough to be proper, but not unbearable—a compromise between elegance and comfort.

She bowed again. “Call if you need anything, my lady.”

“I always do,” you murmured, your gaze falling back to the book.

You turned the page delicately, brushing your fingertips against the words as though they were fragile glass.

And then, quietly to yourself, “How strange it must be, to long for someone in secret… and be loved loudly by someone else entirely.”

You were just about to turn the page—fingertip sliding gently under the parchment—when you heard it.

Footsteps.

Your gaze lifted from the book and drifted to the right, toward one of the many winding paths that led into the garden. Sunlight spilled across the white cobblestone in slanted rays, dancing between the petals and ivy.

Prince Heeseung.

Your breath caught for only a second—but your smile came instantly, unbidden, as if your heart had recognized him long before your eyes did.

He looked like he belonged in the very pages of your book—dressed in a tailored white coat lined with gold filigree that caught the sun at every turn.

The fabric shimmered faintly with each step he took, the polished black boots beneath his dark trousers clicking softly against the stones. His hands were careful, cradling a fresh bouquet of lilacs—your favorite, which he never once forgot.

The lilacs were nearly the same shade as the ribbon in your hair.

His dark hair was brushed back in soft waves, a few strands falling loosely near his brow. And those eyes—those warm, honey-brown eyes—found yours with ease, with something gentle tucked inside their gaze.

“Princess,” he greeted with a smile that turned your knees to air. His voice, low and warm, always had a way of curling around your name like a promise.

You sat up straighter, your hands folding over your lap as you tilted your head at him, playful. “You walk like a man with secrets.”

“I walk like a man bringing flowers to the only one who makes the garden look dull,” he said, grinning as he reached the steps of the gazebo.

“Oh, how terribly dramatic of you.”

Heeseung chuckled, holding out the bouquet. “And yet it made you smile.”

You accepted the lilacs carefully, the scent washing over you like a memory. “You know, the florists will start suspecting you’re courting someone.”

“I am courting someone,” he replied easily, eyes never leaving yours.

Your cheeks warmed under the weight of his gaze.

“Lucky her,” you said softly, brushing your thumb over one of the petals.

Heeseung stepped closer, just enough to lower himself onto the bench beside you—his posture relaxed, his shoulder brushing yours faintly. His arm rested casually behind you on the seat, not quite touching, but close enough to feel.

“Lucky me,” he corrected, leaning in the slightest bit as his voice dipped lower. “For having a princess who reads poetry and meets me in gardens.”

You laughed under your breath, looking down at the bouquet once more. “You always say the right things.”

Heeseung tilted his head, expression soft. “Only when I’m around you.”

You gave him another smile, one that crinkled your eyes and pulled at the corners of your lips. Then, with a careful hand, you set the bouquet beside the refreshments—delicate lilacs now resting in the sun’s golden glow, nestled beside chilled lemonade and a dish of strawberries.

“Come closer,” you said gently, patting the spot beside you with a slight tilt of your head.

And he did.

Heeseung obeyed with that boyish grin tugging at his lips, sinking into the bench with ease until his shoulder brushed yours—warm, familiar. The closeness was effortless, the kind that came with hours and weeks and years of knowing. Of loving.

He turned slightly, eyes gleaming as if simply sitting beside you made the world right again.

“How was practice?” you asked, reaching instinctively for his hand, your thumb brushing lightly over his knuckles.

He let out a dramatic sigh, one that rattled from the very depths of his chest before he leaned in further—head finding its way to the crook of your neck, nose brushing the soft skin there as he inhaled.

“Exhausting,” he murmured, voice muffled by your skin. “Sunghoon almost ripped my sleeve off.”

Your brows raised, amused. “Did he now?”

“All because I told him he ought to start thinking about finding a lady of his own. He’s only two years younger than me, but you'd think I told him to marry a goat the way he reacted.”

You stifled a laugh.

“And Jongseong?” you asked, already guessing.

“Backed me up, of course,” Heeseung grinned into your neck. “He even dragged Jungwon into it—said the two of them were becoming old maids with swords.”

You gasped playfully. “Cruel!”

Heeseung laughed, his breath tickling your skin. “Cruel but not wrong. So naturally, the younger ones decided the only reasonable response was chasing us through the courtyard with their blades drawn like little terrors.”

You blinked. “With actual swords?”

“Oh yes,” he said, sounding far too amused. “They meant business. The knights on patrol just stood there, watching. I think one of them placed a bet.”

You giggled, running a hand through his soft hair as he leaned further into you, completely unbothered by decorum or the passing time. Your fingers threaded through the dark locks gently, combing through with care as if he were the most precious thing in the garden—and he was.

Heeseung hummed under your touch, arms moving around your waist as he drew you closer until there was no space left between you.

“You spoil me,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

“And you let me,” you replied with a teasing smile, brushing your fingers along his temple.

“That’s because I’d gladly die in your hands,” he muttered sleepily. “Even if your hands are… very soft. And smell like roses.”

You laughed again, delighted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected, holding you tighter.

And then—without warning—he leaned in and began pressing warm, slow kisses against the slope of your neck. One. Then another. His lips trailing softly just below your jaw, then lower, brushing against the skin just above your collarbone—barely hidden by the delicate neckline of your gown.

“Your dress is unfair,” he whispered between kisses, voice low and teasing. “Makes it impossible to behave.”

You let out a breathy giggle, hand curling into the fabric of his sleeve. “You’re impossible, Heeseung.”

“Mm, say it again.”

“You’re impossible?”

“No. My name. I like it when you say it like that.”

You cooed gently, tilting your head as he angled for your lips. His gaze dipped to your mouth, and his hand moved up the side of your back, eyes half-lidded and completely enamored.

And just as your lips were about to meet—

“Heeseung hyung!”

The prince froze mid-movement, groaning against your skin like a man personally betrayed by the gods.

Another voice followed, louder and more frantic.

“Hyung? We’ve been looking for you for ages!”

From beyond the tall rose bushes near the edge of the gazebo, two familiar figures stumbled into view—Sunoo and Riki, each looking like scolded puppies who’d wandered too far from their leash.

“Unbelievable,” Heeseung muttered under his breath, finally lifting his head with the most exasperated expression. “What could possibly be so urgent?”

Sunoo offered you a sheepish smile as he waved. “Good afternoon, Princess. Sorry to interrupt.”

Riki, meanwhile, had already sauntered over and shamelessly plucked a macaron off the silver tray in front of you, examining it like he’d just discovered a new species. “Pink. My favorite.”

Heeseung narrowed his eyes. “Riki.”

“I figured if I’m going to interrupt, I may as well get a snack.”

Sunoo sighed and folded his arms. “Hyung, the head of the knight guard—Hwan—has been looking for you. Something about finalizing next week’s banquet security plans?”

At that, Heeseung visibly deflated, letting out a second, louder groan before dramatically resting his chin on top of your head like a sulking child. “I’m not going.”

You stifled a laugh, reaching up to play with the ends of his hair. “You do know you’re the crown prince, yes?”

“I do,” he mumbled. “And yet I feel incredibly underappreciated.”

Riki snorted as he took another bite of the macaron, his voice muffled by sugar. “Relax, brother. Princess (Y/N)’s not going anywhere.”

Heeseung gave a noise of agreement and nuzzled further into your hair, arms still locked firmly around your waist. “Exactly. This is clearly a case of poor timing and disrespect toward royal romantic affairs.”

Sunoo rolled his eyes. “You say that as if your ‘romantic affair’ isn’t sprawled across a public gazebo.”

“Then they should build us a private one.”

You laughed again, threading your fingers through his hair as he melted into you like a spoiled cat. Riki and Sunoo exchanged one last glance before Riki shrugged and grabbed a second dessert.

“We’ll tell Hwan you’re ‘in conference.’”

“And tell him to come back never,” Heeseung added, voice muffled into your hair.

You sighed through a soft laugh, tapping his arms gently where they were stubbornly wrapped around your waist. “My Prince,” you said with mock sternness. “If you don’t get going, Hwan will double your training hours. Maybe even triple.”

He let out a groan—not very prince-like—as he nuzzled into you one last time. “Cruel. You wound me, my love.”

“You’ll survive,” you hummed, gently nudging him away. He reluctantly loosened his grip, though he still hadn’t made any effort to actually stand.

You smiled fondly. “Come on. The earlier you finish your duties, the earlier you can be with me again.”

That made him perk up, his eyes suddenly lighting like sun-touched gold. “Now that is motivation.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your cheek—warm, lingering, a promise tucked into it.

“Ugh,” Sunoo groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “Do you have to kiss every five seconds?”

“Some of us are still single,” Riki added, arms crossed with an exaggerated pout.

You grinned. “Well, maybe if you two stopped terrorizing every debutante at every ball…”

Heeseung snorted, standing at last with a stretch before he placed one last, feather-light kiss to the top of your head. “Ignore them, princess. They’re simply jealous.”

You brushed your hands gently along the front of your gown, preparing to stand as well. “I must get going back inside,” you murmured, glancing toward the palace doors. “The sun is starting to turn hotter, and I might melt before you return.”

Heeseung stepped beside you immediately, his hand finding the small of your back with natural ease. “Then I’ll escort you,” he said. “It’s on the way to the courtyard anyway.”

He looked to Sunoo expectantly. “That alright?”

Sunoo gave a small, understanding nod. “Of course. We’ll catch up with the captain while you two take your sweet time.”

As you moved forward, the heavy layers of your gown shifted around your legs, the delicate fabric and gold embroidery trailing slightly behind you. You let out a tiny sigh, brushing your skirt to the side.

“These gowns were not made for walking,” you muttered.

“They were made for floating, though,” Heeseung teased, offering his arm with a grin. “And I’m honored to be walking beside the most beautiful one to ever wear them.”

You flushed as you took his arm, allowing him to guide you gently toward the entrance of the palace. Behind you, Riki mock-gagged and grabbed another macaron while Sunoo simply shook his head, already anticipating a very dramatic retelling of this moment at dinner.

“I’m serious,” you added playfully over your shoulder, glancing at Heeseung. “Hwan is already so tired of your antics. Please, spare the poor man.”

That made the prince laugh—a sound so full and bright that it echoed against the walls of the palace garden like music. “Alright, alright,” he said, pulling you just a little closer. “For your sake, I’ll behave. But only slightly.”

The afternoon breeze was kind to your skin—neither too warm nor biting. It danced through the open corridor, carrying the scent of roses and distant sunlight as you strolled leisurely, your gown trailing behind like golden water. The lace fluttered slightly with each step, your slippers tapping gently against the polished stone floor.

Your two handmaidens flanked you, both young, bright-eyed, and as full of energy as always. The three of you had long abandoned any sense of formality as laughter echoed softly down the hall.

“White and gold,” you said confidently, letting your fingers trace the embroidered detailing of your sleeve. “No combination has ever looked better.”

They both gasped as if you had uttered gospel.

“I told her the same thing!” one of them chirped. “Gold goes with everything. It brings out the elegance in the plainest of things.”

“And it’s so regal,” the other sighed dreamily. “Like something only worn by goddesses and queens.”

You laughed, soft and genuine, as you reached the spiral stairs that led to the tower balcony. The stone was cool beneath your fingertips as you climbed, sunlight spilling in through narrow windows that cast slanted beams along the walls.

Stepping out onto the balcony, the three of you were greeted by the view of the castle’s courtyard below—alive with the clang of swords, thuds of boots, and echoes of distant chatter.

“There they go again,” your handmaiden giggled, pointing toward the princes at the far end of the yard.

You followed her gaze and stifled a laugh of your own as you caught sight of Jungwon’s sword accidentally hitting Riki with the hilt—straight to the side.

Riki let out a loud yelp, and without missing a beat, launched himself at the cat-like prince, chasing him in furious circles around the yard as their sparring partners stood stunned.

“They’re going to fall face-first into the fountain one of these days,” you muttered, watching as the younger princes dashed around wildly.

Your eyes scanned across the yard—rows of knights moving in formation, sparring amongst themselves, or preparing equipment—until they landed on a more composed sight. Prince Heeseung.

He stood slightly away from the others, deep in conversation with the ever-serious Captain Hwan. Between them lay a large scroll, its corners pinned with small weights, possibly a map of the castle grounds.

You could just barely make out their gestures—Heeseung pointing toward a marked area while Hwan nodded sharply. Likely preparations for next week’s banquet, you thought.

“The crown prince looks far too serious today,” one of the girls murmured, following your gaze.

“He always does when Hwan’s involved,” the other added, then nudged your arm with a sly smile. “Now those knights over there, though…”

You turned your head just as she gestured to the opposite end of the courtyard, where Prince Jaeyun and Prince Jongseong—both shirt-sleeved and flushed from training—were surrounded by a group of younger knights. Their laughter echoed faintly, the two clearly in the middle of friendly teasing.

“They’re the heart-stoppers of the guard,” she sighed dramatically. “Imagine catching one of those eyes from below the helmet.”

You chuckled, resting your arms on the balcony railing. “They’re charming,” you admitted. “But Prince Heeseung has my heart.”

Both girls turned to you with the same dreamy expression.

“As he should,” one said, smiling. “You’re both lucky.”

“Betrothed and still looking at you like he’s thirteen again, sneaking out of language lessons to see you in the garden,” the other added with a fond laugh.

You let out a soft breath of laughter, the memory settling sweetly in your chest. “He still acts like it,” you mused. “He gifted me lilacs this morning and almost forgot he had training until Sunoo dragged him out.”

They both laughed at that, clearly endeared.

“And every time he kisses you in public, Prince Riki looks like he’s about to hurl,” your handmaiden added through a grin.

You covered your mouth to stifle the sudden laughter, nodding in agreement.

“Honestly,” you sighed, “I should start rewarding the poor prince for tolerating all our affections.”

“You already do, Your Highness,” one handmaiden said with a wink, leaning her elbows on the stone railing.

The other smiled softly, her voice quieter now, a sincerity woven into her words. “You were the sister figure they always needed, you know.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in tone.

“They’re adored by everyone,” she continued, eyes trailing down to the chaos of the courtyard. “The Queen loves her sons dearly—but with the business of the court, the councils, the expectations—well… they needed someone to be there. And you were.”

“She’s right,” the first agreed. “From the moment you met them… they looked up to you. Just as much as they look up to Prince Heeseung.”

The wind blew gently again, carrying with it the laughter of the younger princes and the faint scent of lavender from the courtyard gardens.

Your gaze softened as it drifted across the yard—Riki now wrestling Jungwon to the ground playfully while Jaeyun scolded them half-heartedly in between sword swings.

They had always looked at you that way, hadn’t they? As if your presence gave them peace in ways no royal decree or bloodline ever could. They weren’t just princes to you. They were yours. In some small, cherished way—they had become the brothers you never had.

You sighed through a smile, delicately pushing your hair back over your shoulder, careful not to disturb the lilac bow resting perfectly near your crown.

“Enough with this sentimental talk,” you murmured, though your voice was thick with affection. “You’re going to make me cry.”

Both handmaidens giggled, nudging each other playfully.

“I’d offer my handkerchief, but it’s silk and I don’t want to ruin it,” one teased.

“Such loyalty,” you quipped, laughing along, your heart lighter now.

Your gaze floated back to the courtyard, naturally—always—seeking him.

Heeseung was still beside Hwan, nodding along to something the knight was pointing to on the map. His arms were folded behind his back, posture noble and every bit the Crown Prince. But then—almost as if the gods whispered your name into his ear—he looked up.

Right at you.

The seriousness faded instantly. His brows softened. His lips curved into a grin brighter than any sunbeam could ever hope to rival.

You giggled quietly, your hand raising in a gentle wave toward him. Heeseung returned the gesture with no hesitation, his smile only growing wider as he waved back, completely unbothered by Hwan’s sharp sigh beside him.

Below, the courtyard erupted.

“OI—LOOK AT THAT! THE PRINCE IS SMILING!”

“You sure that’s our Crown Prince?!”

More teasing hollers rang out as knights and princes alike noticed the sudden softness in their usually stoic eldest. And then—

“Noona! Hi!” Jungwon shouted from where he was pinned by Riki, waving his arm wildly while the younger prince sat on his back like a triumphant puppy.

You covered your mouth, trying—and failing—to hold in the laughter that spilled from your chest.

Then Jongseong’s voice echoed from below, loud and teasing. “Come down here! It’s hot up there, you know!”

He wasn’t wrong. In the few minutes you'd lingered at the stone balcony, the once-soft breeze had given way to a harsher warmth. The sun bore down with more intent now, and you found yourself squinting slightly under its golden glare.

You nodded in agreement and stepped away from the railing, your handmaidens trailing just behind, still giggling about the interaction like it had been the most charming thing they’d seen all day. You couldn’t blame them—it really was.

As you descended the winding steps and approached the edge of the courtyard, the sight that greeted you was one of casual chaos—Jungwon brushing dust from his tunic.

Riki now tugging at Sunghoon’s sleeve as the elder prince tried to ignore him with utmost patience while seated on one of the carved stone benches. Knights moved in rhythm nearby, sparring or catching their breath, the clang of steel and soft thuds of boots filling the air.

Your handmaidens, ever the schemers, gave you one last nudge forward.

“Go on,” one whispered with a grin.

“Oh, don’t give us that look, Your Highness,” the other added when you turned to glare, all faux-offended elegance. “You’re the one engaged to him.”

Before you could retort, they laughed and slipped away—heading straight toward a few young knights polishing their swords under a shaded tree, whispering and giggling like it was a market square and not royal training grounds.

You sighed with fond exasperation, shaking your head. “Unbelievable.”

But your thoughts were quickly interrupted by a familiar warmth at your back.

A hand gently found your lower spine, fingers curling just slightly—a touch meant only for you. You looked up to see Heeseung already beside you, as if drawn by instinct.

“Princess,” he murmured softly, before pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. His voice was low, threaded with affection and familiarity.

You smiled at him, heart fluttering despite how often he did that—how natural it had become. “Your brothers are creating chaos.”

Heeseung chuckled, eyes lifting briefly toward the mess of limbs and swords still clashing nearby. “If they come back with their tunics torn again, I’m blaming Jongseong.”

“I heard that!” Jongseong called from somewhere near the fencing rack, earning another soft laugh from you.

The two of you began walking toward the area Heeseung had been previously, where a large table had been set under a temporary canopy.

Scrolls and maps lay sprawled across it, Hwan stood nearby, his posture straight and composed as always, though his expression warmed when he saw you.

“Princess (Y/N),” Hwan greeted with a small nod, voice crisp.

“Sir Hwan,” you replied, offering a gentle smile as your eyes flicked toward the detailed floor plan spread out before you.

Ink lined the parchment in precise, looping script—notes and arrows detailing various parts of the castle, side entrances, garden paths, and service tunnels. Red wax marked certain points, perhaps the ones in need of reinforcement.

The upcoming banquet was to host royals from three nearby kingdoms—it was no surprise security had become the highest concern.

Heeseung stepped beside you again, eyes flicking toward the plan. “We’re adjusting the placements for the northern watchmen,” he explained. “The last storm weakened the stone wall near the greenhouse.”

“I see…” you murmured, leaning in just a bit. “Does that mean the western rose arch will be blocked off?”

Heeseung blinked, a touch surprised. “Yes—how did you know that?”

You smiled faintly. “I remember which part of the garden floods first. We used to race through there, remember? When we were younger?”

Heeseung chuckled. “You always cheated. You’d pretend your skirt got caught, and I’d turn around to help—then you’d sprint past me.”

You tried not to laugh, but failed. “I never cheated.”

Hwan cleared his throat politely, trying not to smile too much. “Well, if we’re done reliving the princess’s war crimes…”

Heeseung chuckled, the sound low and fond as he pressed another kiss to the top of your head—like habit. His hand curled more firmly around your waist as he turned back toward the map, eyes scanning the ink-streaked parchment with renewed focus.

“Minjun,” he called, gesturing to one of the younger knights standing nearby, armor gleaming faintly under the sun.

“Take the final plan to the western and southern wings. Make sure Sir Jiwon and Sir Minho review them thoroughly. And pass it along to the patrols stationed at the back gardens.”

“Yes, Your Highness!” the young knight responded quickly, already moving with purpose.

“And Sir Hwan—” Heeseung added, catching his knight just as he began to turn away, “hold a meeting with the guards tomorrow morning. I want every possible weak point reinforced and every post briefed, understood?”

“Understood, Your Highness.” Hwan bowed at the waist, casting you a brief respectful smile before walking off. His exit left a small bubble of quiet around you and Heeseung amidst the occasional clatter of sparring swords and the buzz of wind.

With the absence of his ever-stoic personal knight, Heeseung turned fully to you.

A grin tugged at his lips, soft and lazy, like he had no interest in returning to the royal rhythm of duty just yet. He looked down at you, eyes twinkling, and then without warning, both hands found your hips—gentle but confident.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard. “Heeseung,” you hissed, eyes flickering to the side where a few knights—not so subtly—pretended to focus on tying bootlaces or checking their gear. “Are you serious? In front of all these young men?”

Heeseung only laughed, head tipping back slightly. The sound was musical and boyish and so unlike the Crown Prince everyone else bowed to.

“They’ve seen worse,” he teased, leaning in a little, nose brushing yours before pulling away just slightly. “Besides, I’m only reminding them what love looks like.”

You gawked at him, flustered and trying not to smile.

Heeseung's grin softened then, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against your hip. “Do you have plans this afternoon, my heart?” he asked, voice low and full of intention. “Because if not, I was going to steal you away.”

You laughed under your breath, warmth bubbling in your chest. “I do, actually. Tea time.”

Heeseung pouted dramatically. “Again?”

“Yes, but this time your mother invited me,” you said with a knowing look. “And apparently, your brother Sunoo begged her to include him. Said he was going insane from training every day, and sparring with Sunghoon is ‘slowly ruining his will to live.’ His words. Not mine.”

That made Heeseung snort. “Poor Sunoo. I warned him—Sunghoon takes no prisoners, not even in practice.”

“He said your brother has no mercy,” you confirmed with a giggle, “and refuses to hold back just because he’s younger.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes, mock-exasperated. “Sunghoon doesn’t even hold back on me.”

You shrugged playfully, “Well, he has your mother’s approval for being ‘disciplined.’”

Heeseung groaned. “Please don’t tell me she said that again.”

“She did,” you replied, smiling wide. “Right after she compared you to a ‘cloud of mischief.’”

Heeseung dragged a hand down his face, clearly wounded. “I’m her firstborn. How is this fair?”

You only leaned in to whisper, “You’re my favorite prince. That’s all that matters.”

Heeseung looked at you like you hung the stars just to light his way.

But a smirk crept up on his face, the type of playful mischief you knew all too well. He leaned in closer, voice low and teasing against your ear, “So you’re saying… you have other favorites?”

You gasped dramatically, eyes widening with faux betrayal. “What? I would never—” you paused for effect, then added with a grin, “But if I did… Jungwon’s a very close second.”

Heeseung clicked his tongue, pretending to pull away. “Unbelievable. Betrayed in daylight. By my own betrothed.”

You laughed, unable to hide your grin as you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’re still number one.”

“I better be,” he murmured, before cupping your cheek gently and stealing a real kiss this time—soft, warm, and full of all the affection he never seemed to run out of. You smiled into it, fingertips brushing the hem of his sleeve as you stayed there for a breath too long.

“I’m honored, noona!”

You both startled at the voice, pulling away just in time to see Jungwon grinning wide, his hands clasped behind his back as he strolled over with a puffed-out chest. He practically radiated smugness.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he added innocently, though his mischievous eyes said otherwise.

You giggled, arms opening instinctively. “Come here, you.”

The second youngest prince leaned in, wrapping you in a brief but warm hug. You ruffled his hair with a sisterly laugh just as Heeseung groaned beside you.

“Oh no. Now we’re hugging him too?”

Before Jungwon could respond, Heeseung reached over and roughly tousled the younger boy’s hair, effectively ruining the neat style Jungwon’s handmaid had worked on earlier that morning.

“Hyung!” Jungwon yelped, swatting at his older brother’s hand with a glare. “Do you mind?!”

Heeseung shrugged with a proud grin, not sorry in the slightest. “Affection builds character.”

“It builds trauma,” Jungwon muttered under his breath, brushing his dark bangs back into place with a scowl.

Still, he didn’t move away right away. He just sighed, casting a sideways look at his brother before straightening his shoulders like he had something important to say. “Come on, hyung. I’m not eleven anymore.”

That made you smile fondly.

“I know,” Heeseung said quietly, voice laced with something softer, something older. “But you’ll always be my annoying little brother.”

Jungwon rolled his eyes, cheeks flushing the tiniest bit before he turned on his heel with a dramatic huff. “Whatever. Just don’t embarrass me again in front of the knights!”

Heeseung smirked as he watched the younger boy storm off.

“No promises,” he said, just loud enough for Jungwon to hear.

“I heard that!”

You and Heeseung laughed, watching the youngest stalk toward the training field like a prince on a mission.

Still smiling, Heeseung turned to you again. “So… Jungwon, huh?”

You looped your arm through his. “He’s charming.”

Heeseung made a dramatic face as he led you away from the courtyard, your steps falling into rhythm with his as you both began walking through one of the many open-air corridors that stretched between the training grounds and the main castle. Sunlight filtered through the tall arches, casting golden lines across the stone floors.

“Charming,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “Unbelievable.”

You rolled your eyes, swatting his arm lightly. “Come on, don’t pout. Doesn’t he like some princess from the neighboring kingdom or something?”

“My love,” he said with a faux-wounded pout, placing a hand over his chest. “You are from the neighboring kingdom.”

You gave him a deadpan look. “The other one, Hee. You know what I mean.”

He chuckled, his shoulder bumping yours as he nodded at a few knights that passed by and bowed to their Crown Prince. “I’m only teasing, my love. You wound me with your accusations.”

“Oh please,” you drawled, pretending to flip your hair. “You’d survive a thousand of my wounds and still crawl back with a bouquet of stolen garden roses.”

“I don’t steal them,” he said defensively, eyes wide. “I borrow them.”

You snorted. “They're still dying in a vase somewhere, my thief.”

“Ah, but they die for love,” he whispered dramatically, and you both burst into quiet laughter, the sound echoing softly against the archways.

As you entered the main castle, the air shifted cooler against your skin. The familiar stretch of marble under your shoes and the pristine white-and-gold corridors felt like coming home.

You leaned into Heeseung naturally, no longer needing to keep up appearances of royalty. Here, you were just his. And he was just yours.

“Did you know,” Heeseung started, voice low and casual, “that one of the kitchen boys swears he saw a raccoon sneak into the pantry last night?”

You blinked. “What?”

“He says it ran off with a wedge of brie. I’m inclined to believe him.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “If it’s the same raccoon that stole my slippers last month, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

Heeseung smirked. “We’ll draft a letter. ‘To His Royal Sneakiness, Lord Raccoon.’”

“‘Please return the slippers. And the cheese.’”

You both snorted again, shoulders brushing, hands nearly touching but not quite. Not until Heeseung gently reached over and linked your pinky with his.

As you approached the end of the hallway, two stationed knights nodded respectfully at Heeseung, who gave a short nod back, the air between you momentarily still.

Then, with a small tug, he guided you down a quieter wing of the castle and opened a pair of familiar ivory doors—the ones adorned with subtle silver embroidery, vines carved into the wood. Your shared bedroom.

It wasn’t common for betrotheds to share a room before marriage. But then again, nothing about you and Heeseung had ever been traditional.

You’d known each other since you were in diapers, practically raised beside him during summer visits and royal meetings. Your parents were longtime allies, your mothers best friends, and your fathers forever trying to outmatch each other in chess.

So when Heeseung looked his parents in the eye and asked, “Why wait?”—with that charming, persuasive voice and soft gaze—they had merely exchanged a look and nodded. And you had moved into the Crown Prince’s wing a week later.

Heeseung stepped aside to let you in first, hand brushing your lower back gently.

“I still can’t believe this room is technically mine too,” you murmured, looking at the familiar blend of warm candles, velvet throws, and the little reading nook by the window he’d helped you decorate himself.

“You say that every time,” he smiled, closing the door behind you.

“And I mean it every time.”

You moved to sit at the edge of the bed as Heeseung discarded his royal sash and coat onto the nearby chaise. He walked over, cupped your cheeks, and leaned down until his forehead pressed against yours.

“My love,” he said softly. “This room was mine. But it’s only ever felt like home when you were in it.”

“And, you’ve been sleeping in the same bed with me since we were fifteen. Why do you always act like you’ve kissed me for the first time?” he murmured, eyes gleaming.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief. “You arrogant—”

Without hesitation, your fingers found his cheek and you pinched—hard.

He hissed. “Ow—! Okay, okay, that’s uncalled for!”

“Shut up, Lee Heeseung,” you grumbled, though the amused twitch in your lips betrayed you.

He laughed, low and full, his hands finding your cheeks once more—but this time, there was no trace of playfulness in the way he tilted your chin upward, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Come here, then,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you.

A proper one.

His mouth moved against yours with practiced ease, tilting just enough to deepen the kiss, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to keep you exactly where he wanted you. You sighed into him, hands curling around his forearms as the warmth between you bloomed fast—like fire catching silk.

He pulled back barely an inch, just enough to catch his breath and your dazed expression. Then, without a single word, he sank onto the bed, tugging you by the waist and pulling you to straddle his lap.

You gasped, landing atop him with a jolt as your palms pressed against his chest.

“Heeseung!” you hissed. “You little—”

He cut you off, arms curling around your waist and dragging you in closer—flush now, no space between your chest and his, your skirts spilling around both of your legs. His lips brushed your ear.

“Finish that sentence, and I’ll make sure you say my name louder next time,” he whispered.

Your breath hitched.

“Heeseung,” you warned, voice trembling from the heat he lit in your stomach.

“Yes, my love?” he said, all mock innocence—his hands not-so-innocently sliding over your waist, fingers curling around the fabric at the dip of your back.

“I have tea with our mothers and Sunoo,” you reminded, heart racing, mind spinning.

He clicked his tongue. “They’ll understand. They adore you. Especially Sunoo—he probably planned this delay.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, resting your forehead on his. “We can’t keep doing this in broad daylight.”

“Then let’s get married already,” he replied instantly, eyes gleaming as his grip on your hips tightened just slightly, anchoring you to him. “That way, I can kiss my wife whenever I damn please.”

You leaned in again, eyes twinkling, catching his lips in a playful kiss that had him chasing after more.

As you pulled back just enough to breathe the words into his mouth, you smiled, “We are at the end of the month, patience, my prince.”

But Heeseung only growled lowly, a sound vibrating in his chest, deep and utterly possessive.

“Not when you sit on me like this,” he muttered—voice thick, the restraint cracking.

He didn’t wait for your teasing reply.

He surged forward, claiming your lips in a kiss that had nothing soft about it this time. It was all heat and desperation—his mouth molding to yours, tongue brushing boldly against the seam of your lips until you gasped and gave in.

You couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped your throat, your fingers digging into the lapels of his shirt, clutching him like he was the only solid thing keeping you grounded.

Your breaths grew louder, shorter—shared between kisses that turned more and more feverish. Heeseung only paused to stare at you, chest rising and falling. His eyes, which held stars just seconds ago, were now blazing with something darker, needier.

And still—still so full of love.

He didn’t say anything as his hands moved behind you, already knowing what to do—his fingers skillfully unlacing the back of your corset. It wasn’t the first time. It was second nature to him by now, and the realization sent a rush of heat all over you. While you would usually fumble with the ties for minutes at a time, he did it in less than ten seconds, eyes never leaving yours.

“Show-off,” you muttered breathlessly, cheeks warm.

“You wouldn’t need help if you didn’t keep choosing the ones with so many damn laces,” he shot back with a smirk, but it faded as quickly as it appeared—his gaze trailing down.

Your hands went to the buttons of his vest with haste, lips brushing against the edge of his jaw as you worked them open. He let you, watching with a hunger that made your fingers tremble slightly.

Once the last button gave, you pushed the garment off, and Heeseung flung it somewhere across the room with zero care.

“Too slow,” he murmured.

You barely got a breath in before he was tugging at your sleeves, your dress slipping down your shoulders in one smooth motion. The soft fabric hung loosely on your arms, exposing the delicate skin of your collarbones, your chest rising and falling rapidly beneath it.

“You’re killing me,” he said quietly, forehead leaning against yours again. “Do you know what you do to me?”

You couldn’t answer. Not when he was looking at you like this.

Not when his mouth kissed every bit of skin the dress dared reveal. From your shoulder to the hollow of your throat. Slow. Devout. Like worship.

“I want you,” he whispered into your skin. “Not just now. Not just like this. I want every part of you, every night, every morning. In this room. In that temple. Before the gods and after them.”

You shivered, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt. “You already have me, Heeseung. You always have.”

A guttural sound tore from his throat as his hand gripped the laces of your dress. “Say it again,” he breathed, lips brushing against your collarbone.

“You have me,” you whispered, heart pounding. “Every piece. Every breath.”

With one swift motion, he loosened the bodice, the fabric sliding off your shoulders and pooling at your waist. He drew back slightly, chest rising and falling, eyes devouring the bare skin now revealed to him. His gaze was starved—like he’d waited centuries to touch you like this.

“Mine,” he groaned, hands trembling slightly as they moved over your ribs, your waist, the dip between your hipbones. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

His mouth followed the path of his hands—slow, deliberate. He kissed down your neck, nipping at the skin just below your jaw until a breathy moan escaped you. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice strained as he left a trail of marks, warm and tinged with devotion. “The gods have nothing on you.”

When his lips reached the softest part of your chest, his hands gripped your hips tightly—almost possessively—pressing his forehead against your sternum for a second like he was trying to calm himself.

Then he looked up at you, pupils blown. “I’ll worship you like this,” he said, voice rough, “until the stars burn out.”

You didn’t get the chance to answer.

He grabbed your thighs, flipped you effortlessly onto your back, and pressed you into the mattress. Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled the rest of your dress off with a low growl, letting it drop to the floor. His body hovered above yours now, heat radiating between you as your bare skin met his.

“You make me lose control,” he said, almost like a confession. “And I don’t want it back.”

His mouth was everywhere—claiming your neck, your shoulders, the curve of your stomach. His name slipped past your lips again and again, soft and helpless, like a prayer and a curse all at once.

He kissed you then—deep, head-spinning, like he wanted to taste your soul. “Let me have you,” he murmured between kisses. “Let me love you the way I was always meant to.”

And when he finally lowered himself between your legs, hands splayed across your hips, tongue tracing fire across your skin, he whispered, “I’ll leave no part untouched.”

His lips grazed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing you inch by inch. His thumbs dragged upward, parting you gently, and when he looked up—eyes dark, hungry, reverent—you nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Stay just like this,” he murmured, voice low, almost trembling. “Let me taste what’s mine.”

And then he buried his face between your thighs.

A gasp tore from your throat as his tongue moved against your core—firm, relentless, like he had something to prove. And maybe he did.

Maybe he was proving that no one else could ever make you feel like this. That no other hands, no other mouth, no other name would ever fall from your lips in this way.

Heeseung groaned against you, the sound vibrating straight through your bones. “You’re everything,” he muttered, voice muffled by your skin. “Sweet. Divine. Addicting.”

Your hips bucked, but his grip only tightened—holding you down, keeping you open. “Don’t run from it,” he said, looking up briefly, mouth glistening. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Then he dove back in—slower this time, more intentional. He licked into you like a man starving, like he wanted to carve his name into you with every flick of his tongue.

Your fingers twisted into his hair, a moan spilling out of you so raw and desperate it made him groan again—deeper this time, as if he felt it.

He sucked gently, then harder, then just right—and your body arched, breath catching as your thighs shook around his head. “That’s it,” he whispered, not letting up. “Come undone for me. I want to feel you lose yourself.”

And when you did—back arched, fingers digging into his scalp, his name a broken chant on your lips—he didn’t stop. Not even then.

Heeseung stayed there, kissing you through it, tongue softening to gentle licks, like he couldn’t bear to let go of the taste of you.

“You taste like heaven,” he said hoarsely, crawling back up your body. “And I’m never going to stop sinning.”

His mouth captured yours in a kiss so deep and possessive, it left you dizzy. His hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed at your waist as he kissed you like he’d never let you go.

When he finally pulled away, your lips were parted, your breaths uneven, your body still aching for more.

You blinked at him, dazed. “I should—shouldn’t I… return the favor?” you managed to breathe, fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw. “It’s only fair.”

But Heeseung only chuckled, low and fond. He clicked his tongue as he cupped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, shaking his head. “Not now, my love,” he said, tone full of mock discipline. “Don’t you have tea with our mothers and poor, bored Sunoo?”

You stared at him, scandalized. “You—!”

Your mouth hung open in shock, lips still tingling from his kisses, body still humming with want, and Heeseung had the audacity to smile—smile—as he kissed you again. Tender, slow, and sweet. But the taste of you still lingered on his lips, and the moment it hit your tongue, your cheeks flushed deep crimson.

He pulled back with a grin, clearly satisfied with your flustered state. “There’s that look I love,” he murmured, his thumb brushing the corner of your kiss-bitten mouth.

You squeaked as he got up, completely unhurried, and bent to retrieve your dress from where it lay pooled on the carpet. He handled it with surprising care, holding it up like it was made of glass, before walking over to grab your corset next—still slightly unlaced from earlier.

He turned to you, holding both items up. “Come now, princess. I may be a selfish man, but I’m not about to be blamed for you being late to tea.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You are absolutely going to be blamed. You undressed me, Heeseung.”

He only smirked as he crossed the room again, kneeling in front of you as he gently helped you slip back into the gown. “And I’ll do it again later,” he whispered, wickedly close to your ear, “but slower.”

You hissed, slapping his shoulder lightly. “You menace.”

Heeseung laughed softly, guiding your arms through the sleeves and then slipping around to lace your corset like it was second nature—deft fingers pulling the strings tight, not too firm, but enough for you to feel properly put together again. His knuckles grazed your back as he worked, and you swore he did it just to rile you up.

“You’ve done this way too many times,” you mumbled, folding your arms as he tied the last ribbon neatly.

“Practice makes perfect,” he replied cheekily, placing a final kiss on your shoulder before straightening up.

Your reflection in the gilded mirror caught your eye—cheeks rosy, lips swollen, hair slightly mussed, but glowing in a way you couldn’t quite hide.

You groaned under your breath.

With a quick sweep, you pulled your hair over one shoulder, trying in vain to cover the fresh marks Heeseung had shamelessly left trailing along your neck and collarbone.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered as you frantically smoothed your sleeves and tried to pat down the mess of curls he’d tangled earlier.

Behind you, Heeseung strolled over, a knowing grin tugging at his lips. “Here,” he said, lifting the delicate golden circlet that had been knocked off and tossed aside somewhere between his kisses and your surrender.

He gently placed it atop your head, careful not to tug or misplace a single strand. Then, with surprising finesse, he combed his fingers through your hair and pulled a few pieces loose to frame your face just right. The strands softened your features, made your flushed cheeks look like a gentle blush rather than a royal scandal.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Forgive me for the mess, my love,” he whispered against your skin, his voice laced with playful guilt.

You puffed out your cheeks, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. “Mess? Heeseung, I look like I just survived a storm.”

You puffed out your cheeks, glaring at his reflection in the mirror. “Mess? Heeseung, I look like I just survived a storm.”

“You look like a woman in love,” he teased, clearly far too pleased with himself. “And slightly ravished, yes, but radiant nonetheless.”

You smacked his arm as he burst into soft laughter.

He reached for his coat from the chaise and slipped it on with practiced ease, but left his royal sash on the side—too formal for a simple walk across the castle, and besides, you both knew he wanted an excuse to not look too princely in front of Sunoo, who would definitely tease him about it.

He offered his hand, and you took it with a begrudging sigh. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you.”

“I’m aware,” he grinned.

With your hand in his, he opened the door and gently tugged you along the corridor, nodding at the knights stationed nearby, who respectfully bowed but absolutely did not miss the light flush on your face or the smug tilt of Heeseung’s smile.

As the two of you walked, fingers still entwined, you couldn’t help but glance sideways at him.

“Should I expect a scolding from your mother for being late?”

Heeseung hummed thoughtfully. “No. But from Sunoo? Absolutely.”

You groaned. “He’s going to smell the perfume and still say, ‘Why do you smell like sex?’”

Heeseung laughed out loud. “Because you do.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You planned this.”

He just gave your hand a little squeeze. “I can’t help it. I like when you leave with part of me on you.”

You choked back a sound—half flustered, half delighted—and smacked his chest again. “You’re awful.”

“And you’re late for tea.”

You rolled your eyes fondly as Heeseung gently tugged you down the main marble steps and out into one of the many open-air gardens nestled in the kingdom’s sprawling palace grounds.

A breeze kissed your cheeks as the scent of lilacs and chamomile floated in the air, winding between columns and trellises of soft wisteria, the sunlight hitting just right

Then the scent grew stronger—steeped lilac tea, freshly poured.

You paused with a soft inhale. “My favorite,” you murmured with a smile.

Heeseung glanced sideways at you, eyes already on your face. “Yeah, I know,” he said simply, like it was obvious—because to him, it was.

You rounded the hedge-lined path and reached the open gazebo area in the heart of the garden. Woven vines framed the white pillars and soft silks blew gently from above, casting dappled shadows on the large round table filled with silver-tiered trays of fruit tarts, scones, sweet breads, and golden jars of jam. The sound of bickering cut through the serene setting.

“No, I’m telling you! Apricot is a universal jam—like, anyone would pick it!”

“Universal doesn’t mean it’s good, Riki! Raspberry is superior, and everyone with a tongue knows that!”

You laughed under your breath at the familiar sight of Sunoo and Riki, seated on opposite ends and leaning toward each other with exaggerated scowls.

Sunoo’s sleeves were dramatically pushed up like he was ready to duel with a spoon, and Riki’s pout was so intense it could’ve curdled milk.

Your smile grew as your eyes landed on the two women seated elegantly between them—your mother, Queen of your homeland, draped in soft burgundy with jewels that shimmered beneath the garden light, and Heeseung’s mother, the Queen of this kingdom, regal in deep navy lined with gold.

They sat side by side, teacups in hand, mid-conversation and sharing a laugh—the kind that spoke of decades of friendship, diplomacy, and sisterhood.

Heeseung slowed beside you, offering a slight bow of his head.

“My queens,” you said softly as you approached, your tone still laced with respect despite the fondness behind your eyes. You followed Heeseung’s lead, dipping your head slightly.

“Oh, please,” your mother groaned playfully. “Do we still have to do this every time?”

The Queen beside her smiled knowingly. “You’re about to be our daughter-in-law, not a courtier.”

“Sit, sit,” your mother added with a wave of her hand.

You and Heeseung chuckled, and he leaned in to kiss the top of your head once more, hands resting on your arms just a moment longer before he let go.

“I’ll leave you in good company,” he said, eyes locking with yours. “Try not to let Sunoo drag you into jam debates.”

Sunoo looked up, eyes wide. “You agree with me, right?” he demanded before Heeseung could even take a step back. “You like raspberry more, right?”

Heeseung only smirked. “I like peace and quiet. Which I clearly won’t get here.”

You snorted behind your hand as Heeseung’s mother laughed, waving her son off. “Go, Heeseung, before Sunoo recruits you into his crusade.”

Heeseung chuckled and gave you a parting wink before disappearing through the garden arch.

You turned back to the table and gracefully took the seat beside your mother, smoothing down your skirts.

Sunoo immediately leaned in and whispered, “Tell me you noticed the lip marks on your neck.”

“Sunoo!” you hissed, glancing at the queens who pretended not to overhear, amused smiles tugging at their lips.

“What?” Riki snorted, sipping his tea far too smugly. “You’re the one who came back glowing like you just won a war.”

You sighed deeply, cheeks already flushing again. “I hate both of you.”

Your mother smiled behind her cup. “Oh, sweetheart… you’re in love. We were all insufferable once too.”

The night of the banquet arrived with stars high and proud in the velvet sky, but even they would dim compared to what awaited within the castle walls.

You stood before the towering gilded mirror in your shared chambers, the scent of roses and lavender oils clinging softly to the air. Your hair was being twisted and pinned into perfection by skilled fingers, each strand smoothed and coiled as your lady-in-waiting delicately fastened glittering earrings to your ears.

Another slid your necklace into place—a heavy yet elegant piece of red garnet and obsidian, catching the flickering glow of the chandelier like drops of fire and shadow.

Your gown was made of the richest velvet in black, kissed with deep red silk layers beneath, cascading like spilled wine around your legs. Embroidered gold vines twirled across the bodice and sleeves, wrapping you in something regal, something worthy of a queen.

A knock at the heavy oak doors pulled everyone’s attention.

“May I?” Heeseung’s voice called from outside, deep and silken, already warm with a smile.

You barely had time to answer before the door cracked open, and there he was—standing in all his glory.

The red and black of his coat matched yours perfectly, the fabric gleaming with intricate golden embroidery and crystal embellishments that sparkled beneath the room’s warm lights.

His broad shoulders carried the weight of a kingdom and yet, the moment his eyes found you—his world narrowed.

He stood there, still, breath caught in his chest.

“…My gods,” he whispered. “You look like you walked out of a dream.”

You gave a soft wave of your hand, a simple motion that dismissed the flurry of handmaidens and attendants. With quiet bows and knowing smiles, they exited swiftly, leaving only the two of you in your glowing, silent world.

Heeseung didn’t wait.

He crossed the room in long, purposeful strides and spun you gently in place, eyes devouring every inch of your form. Your dress flared at your movement, brushing against the polished marble like a whisper.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured, hands settling on your waist as he stopped your twirl. “You look like a flame carved into royalty.”

“And you,” you teased, trailing your fingers down the gleaming lapel of his coat. “Look like temptation in human form.”

Heeseung grinned, gaze dropping to your lips for half a second too long. “Then what happens when royalty meets temptation?”

You raised a brow, smirking as you replied, “A scandal the bards will sing about for centuries.”

Heeseung laughed, rich and deep, before tugging you closer by the waist. “Let them sing, my love. Let them sing.”

His forehead pressed gently to yours. “Tonight, everyone will see what I’ve always known.”

“That I’m yours?” you whispered.

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “That I’m yours.”

He kissed your hand before pulling your arm through his.

“Shall we go make the entire kingdom jealous?”

You grinned, your fingers tightening around his. “Lead the way, my prince.”

With that, Heeseung offered his arm like a true royal consort and guided you out of the warm, perfumed sanctuary of your shared chambers. The heavy double doors closed behind you, and the subtle echo of your steps fell against the polished stone floors.

Two royal knights—adorned in your shared kingdom’s colors of crimson and onyx—followed at a respectful distance, silent and poised.

The corridor was dimly lit by torchlight, flickering shadows casting dancing patterns across the walls. But inside your little bubble, the world felt quieter, warmer. You and Heeseung strolled side by side, caught in easy conversation that dissolved any remaining nerves.

“Do you remember last month’s banquet?” Heeseung asked with a smirk, nudging your side.

“You mean the one where you complained about the wine?” you teased, arching a brow.

He scoffed dramatically. “It wasn’t wine. It was grape juice in disguise.”

You burst into soft laughter. “You pouted about it for a full hour. Told the steward you expected something aged, not squeezed fresh that morning.”

“I’m a prince. I expect stringency in my wine,” he said in a mock-snobby voice, chin tilted upward as you giggled.

But your smile faded slightly as you reached the archway that led to the Great Hall. You could already hear it—the hum of noble chatter, bursts of light laughter, and the elegant trill of string instruments playing from the balcony above. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air.

Your posture straightened instinctively, hands smoothing down the front of your gown. Heeseung noticed.

He slowed his pace, his hand sliding gently around your waist to pull you closer. His lips dipped to your ear, his voice low and soothing.

“There’s nothing to be scared of, my love,” he whispered. “They should be scared of you.”

“You are the future Queen of both kingdoms,” he continued, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, a quiet storm of pride behind his smile. “And you’ve already won their prince.”

Your cheeks warmed, but the nerves began to ease. You exhaled, squeezing his hand in silent gratitude. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Heeseung only grinned, squeezing back once before the chamberlain standing just outside the banquet doors struck his staff once against the marble.

“Presenting,” he boomed, his voice echoing through the high-arched ceilings, “Crown Prince Lee Heeseung of House Lee, and Crown Princess (L/N) (Y/N) of House (L/N).”

At once, the hall stilled. Music faltered. Conversations died mid-sentence. It was like the world hushed—like the wind itself bowed.

All eyes turned.

Every noble, every knight, every courtly guest from both your homeland and Heeseung’s, rose from their seats. Heads lowered in bows and curtsies, hands pressed over hearts in solemn reverence. But more than formality, there was awe—undeniable awe—at the sight of you two.

Your steps were fluid as you and your prince made your way toward the long banquet table seated at the front of the room. Your parents were already seated—your mother glowing in cream and emerald, your father in sleek royal navy. Heeseung’s parents sat beside them, regal and composed, eyes glinting with something between pride and fondness.

The long table had empty seats between the kings and queens—but your eyes caught the familiar shadows of six tall figures standing further back. The other six princes. They stood at the side of the hall, backs straight, hands clasped behind them, watching as the two of you passed.

When you drew near, they bowed in unison with the crowd—a sea of heads dipping low in reverence.

But only they rose slowly, eyes glinting with quiet respect.

Jungwon was the first to lift his head, a smirk tugging at his lips as he mouthed dramatically, “About time.”

You suppressed a laugh.

Heeseung only rolled his eyes subtly and pulled your chair out for you like the proper gentleman he always was. “Your throne, my queen,” he teased softly.

The moment you were both seated, the hall gradually stirred back to life. Conversations resumed, the orchestra picked up its melody again, and the clinking of goblets filled the golden-lit room.

You greeted your parents first—your mother reached over the table to press a kiss to your cheek, her rings cool against your skin. “You both look stunning,” she said, eyes dancing. “But don’t just sit there like old monarchs.”

“Go,” Heeseung’s mother added, smiling behind her teacup. “Socialize. Be young. Dance. Be adored.”

Your father gave a playful huff. “Yes, yes, impress your subjects.”

Heeseung let out a breathy laugh and rose from his seat, pulling your chair out once again as he offered you his hand. “Shall we obey our queens and kings?”

You took it with a grin. “What choice do we have?”

He placed a gentle hand at the small of your back as he led you from the front dais and into the growing crowd. Your gown swished elegantly around your legs as you walked, and the subtle music and chatter wrapped around you like silk.

It didn’t take long to reach the cluster of princes near the long side of the room—familiar faces all dressed in variations of dark velvet, adorned with gold, sapphire, and crimson embellishments. The other royal heirs.

“Look who decided to show up,” Jongseong teased as he raised his glass at your approach, eyes glinting. “And matching too. I should’ve expected the dramatics.”

“You’re just jealous,” Heeseung quipped, “that your partner doesn’t coordinate with you.”

“You don’t have a partner,” Jaeyun pointed out.

“Exactly my point,” Heeseung smirked.

You couldn’t help but laugh, stepping a little closer to the group when—

“Oh my gods!” A familiar voice squealed behind you.

You turned just in time to be pulled into a sudden, elegant hug, delicate perfume surrounding you as Wonyoung grinned from ear to ear.

“It is you,” she beamed. “I told Yujin it was you and she said, ‘No, that can’t be her, she’s probably still getting ready—’”

“That does sound like me,” Yujin said with a giggle as she joined, wrapping her arms around you in a warm embrace. “But seriously, look at you! This dress? That crown? Prince Heeseung’s gonna have a hard time keeping people away tonight.”

“Please, he’s already glaring at everyone who makes eye contact with her,” Wonyoung whispered playfully, tipping her head toward your prince.

You glanced back—Heeseung, very much still engaged in conversation with Sunghoon, had his arm folded as he gave the other prince a look. You couldn’t hear the words, but you definitely saw the eye roll Sunghoon gave in response.

“Still boring as ever,” Woonyoung said under her breath, giving Sunghoon a pointed look.

Heeseung caught the tail end of that and shook his head with a laugh, muttering to Sunghoon, “Don’t mind them, they’ve been like this since we were kids.”

“I do mind, actually,” Sunghoon muttered back dryly, lifting his glass. “I was having a nice quiet moment before the fanclub showed up.”

“Oh, poor baby,” Wonyoung cooed sarcastically.

You giggled as she and Yujin each hooked an arm through yours, pulling you just a little away from the boys and deeper into the social haze of the room.

“You have to tell us everything,” Yujin said, eyes wide with curiosity. “How’s your room? Did the Queen really let you redecorate the west wing? Is it true that Heeseung almost punched a steward for misplacing your earrings last week?”

“Okay, that one was not my fault—” you began.

“Defensive,” Wonyoung grinned. “That means it’s true.”

You let out a snort, eyes trailing briefly to Heeseung just a few feet away, standing tall among his brothers. He caught your gaze with that familiar amused tilt of his head, his lips twitching as if he was holding back a laugh of his own.

“I swear,” Wonyoung continued, drawing your attention back. “Sunghoon nearly pushed me into the fountain last week.”

“What?” you blinked.

“All I said was that he walks like he owns the ground he steps on,” she huffed dramatically, flipping her hair. “Which is true, by the way. And he said, ‘Perhaps you should walk on water next time so I don’t have to see your face.’ Can you believe that?”

You burst into laughter, hand covering your mouth as Yujin gasped beside you. “He did not say that.”

“Oh, he did. Ask him.” Wonyoung nodded toward Sunghoon, who—unaware he was being discussed—was now slowly sipping from his own goblet, side-eyeing the trio of you as if expecting more trouble.

You and the girls dissolved into giggles again, your shoulders bumping lightly as the night continued to swell with warmth and music. Soon enough, more familiar faces began approaching, drawn to the lively cluster you had unintentionally created.

A group of princesses from neighboring kingdoms swept in, silk gowns gliding across the marble floor, their hair braided in intricate gold-threaded patterns, each one offering hugs and kisses on the cheek in greeting.

“Princess (Y/N), it’s been too long.”

“You look divine tonight, truly.”

“We heard about your new position—Crown Princess now, huh?”

You smiled graciously, cheeks warming under the compliments as you exchanged hugs and pleasantries, your fingers brushing over glittering sleeves and layered skirts. The perfume of lilac and fresh berries mixed with the sound of laughter and violins in the air.

Then, Yujin reappeared with a golden goblet, holding it out to you with a grin.

You eyed it skeptically. “You know I have the alcohol tolerance of a dying rabbit, right?”

“It’s not wine, your highness,” she sing-songed, lifting her chin. “It’s grape juice. I promise. I even tasted it.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “Yujin, last time you said that I ended up singing to a ficus tree.”

“That ficus was deeply moved,” Wonyoung said solemnly, hand over her chest. “You had it in tears.”

You rolled your eyes but took the goblet anyway, the cool metal glinting in the light. You took a sip—sweet, chilled grape juice, just as she’d said.

“…Okay, fine,” you mumbled. “You’re forgiven.”

Yujin smiled smugly. “As I always am.”

The chatter around you buzzed softly—princesses and lords weaving in and out of conversations, the noble youth of kingdoms mingling under chandeliers and candlelight.

You glanced once more toward Heeseung, only to find he was already watching you. Elbow leaned against a polished oak table, golden goblet in hand, the lamplight tracing the sharp line of his jaw. His head tilted in quiet admiration, lips slightly curled upward like he couldn’t help himself.

You gave him a soft smile, one only he could read through the crowd, and mouthed, “I’m okay.”

His grin deepened just slightly before he dipped his head in a subtle nod, his attention returning to the conversation he was having with someone you recognized instantly—Prince Taehyun of the Southern Kingdom, poised and calm as always, expression unreadable even while sipping wine.

“Did you hear,” Yujin leaned in close to whisper behind her goblet, her voice conspiratorial, “Prince Beomgyu’s got it bad for Taehyun’s older sister?”

Your brows shot up. “Seriously?”

“Oh, deadly serious. And Taehyun doesn’t approve—” she paused, nose wrinkling, “—or disapprove. Which, honestly, makes it worse.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “Of course he doesn’t. He’s too diplomatic to give a straight answer.”

Wonyoung perked up beside you, eyes wide. “Wait, wait. Isn’t she the one who wore that gold corset at the Summer Moon banquet last year?”

“The very one,” Yujin confirmed, nodding. “And Beomgyu’s been in love ever since. I’m telling you, it’s been a mess.”

You nearly choked on your sip of juice, laughing. “Oh gods—do you remember the night Beomgyu told me about it?”

Yujin blinked, then her mouth split into a knowing grin. “The drunken night in Dalanor’s banquet hall?”

You nodded, eyes sparkling at the memory. “He had one too many glasses of wine and started ranting about how Taehyun keeps throwing him into a spiral.”

Wonyoung leaned in eagerly. “What did he say?”

“He was so drunk, he grabbed Heeseung’s shoulder like he was the last sane man in the world,” you said through a giggle, “and went, ‘Your Highness, is it yes or no? Does he want me to marry her or does he want to stab me in my sleep?’”

Yujin laughed, nearly spilling her drink. “I remember Heeseung’s face! He just laughed and poured him another drink.”

You grinned. “And Beomgyu started sobbing into his goblet about how Taehyun winked at him when he mentioned the wedding idea. A wink. What does a wink even mean?”

“It means,” Wonyoung drawled dramatically, “welcome to royal romance hell.”

The three of you burst into laughter again, the sound bubbling up and mixing with the music in the air. You glanced back over toward Heeseung just in time to see him casually glance your way once more—his gaze lingering for a beat longer than it needed to, as if your laugh pulled his focus no matter where he stood.

Then he turned back to Taehyun, the two princes deep in what looked like a heated discussion about wine—or possibly the definition of flirting—while the night carried on around you.

You fidgeted with your fingers, gloved hands resting delicately over the fabric pooled at your lap. The royal carriage swayed gently with each turn, the soft creak of gilded wheels and distant sounds of celebration muffled behind velvet-lined walls.

Your white wedding gown—stitched with fine silver thread and delicate pearls—billowed across the floor like a river of moonlight. It was heavy, grand, and far too large for the carriage… but you didn’t mind.

Matching jewelry adorned your ears, neck, and wrists—heirloom pieces passed down through generations, each gemstone kissed by history and polished for this day.

Your veil shimmered like frost under the faint sunlight peeking through the curtained window, yet none of it glittered as brightly as your nerves.

Across from you, your mother and father sat side by side, their fingers loosely intertwined as they watched you with a softness that only parents could carry.

Your mother smiled first, the kind that carried decades of wisdom behind it. “Your hands always fidget when you’re nervous,” she said, gently reaching over to fix a strand of hair that had slipped from your veil.

“But you don’t need to be. You’re marrying for love—not alliance, not duty. That alone makes your union more powerful than any treaty signed before it.”

You blinked, lips parting in a slow smile. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so,” she replied, squeezing your hand. “I’ve seen the way Heeseung looks at you. Like the stars themselves would bow if you asked them to. That kind of devotion cannot be taught—it’s rare, and it’s real.”

You felt your throat tighten just a little.

Then your father let out a quiet sigh, the sound a little too heavy to hide. His eyes stayed on you, warm and just slightly glassy. “I told myself I’d be ready for this,” he said. “But nothing could prepare me to see my little girl in a wedding gown.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out half choked. “You’re going to make me cry.”

He reached for your hand, squeezing it between his own. “You’ll always be my little girl. Even when you're crowned queen. Even when you have children of your own. That will never change.”

You nodded slowly, breathing through the swell in your chest. “Thank you, Father. Thank you both.”

The carriage began to slow, the golden wheels rolling over polished stone as the sound of bells rang out in the distance.

Your breath hitched. You could hear the faint murmur of voices outside, the gathered crowd, the music… and just beyond it all, the sacred temple—its white marble steps lined with petals, towering pillars wrapped in garlands of lilacs and white roses, the banner of your kingdom billowing gently in the breeze beside Heeseung’s.

A high priest awaited at the top of the stairs, hands folded in reverence. The temple doors stood open, glowing with sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. It looked like a dream carved into reality.

The door to the carriage opened with a creak.

Your father stepped out first, extending his hand to help you. You took a deep breath as your gloved fingers slid into his, and your feet touched the polished stone ground. The hem of your gown brushed the flower-strewn path as you stood tall, eyes lifting toward the temple ahead.

“Ready?” your father asked, voice low beside you.

You nodded, slowly, then turned to look back one last time at the carriage—at the road that brought you here—and finally, forward again. “Yes. I’m ready.”

Your mother let out the smallest breath of a smile, a hand delicately pressing over her heart as she watched you with glassy eyes. One of the royal knights approached her with a polite bow, then gently extended his arm.

She took it with practiced grace, allowing herself to be escorted to her place at the front row of the temple—where the sacred lights from the stained-glass windows painted the marble floors in hues of gold and violet.

You stood at the start of the long aisle, the flower-strewn carpet lined with lanterns and pale petals. The air inside the temple was reverent, heavy with the scent of lilac and rosewater, lit only by candlelight and divine sunbeams that poured through the windows like blessings themselves.

And at the end of it all—standing before the altar beneath arching stone and blooming ivy—was Heeseung.

His white ceremonial suit shimmered under the temple lights, the gold embroidery gleaming with each breath he took. Crystals lined the trim of his royal jacket, catching the light like stars. His hair was perfectly styled—yet a single strand still fell naturally over his brow—and gods, he had never looked more like a king.

Heeseung swore his breath left his lungs.

The moment your figure stepped onto the aisle, framed by light and shadow, your gown flowing like starlight behind you and veil trailing with each slow, graceful step—he couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed across his lips. Not the small kind. Not the gentle kind. The full kind, the one that crinkled his eyes and made his chest ache with a thousand unsaid words.

“By the gods,” he murmured under his breath. “She’s real.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Could only stand there in full awe as if you were the very goddess the temple was built for.

Your gaze met his—warm, filled with every memory and every dream you’d ever shared. And as you stepped closer and closer to the altar, the sounds of hushed gasps and admiration filled the pews.

Heeseung barely heard them. He only saw you.

At the end of the aisle, your father stood tall but emotional as he gently guided you the last few steps forward. Once the music slowed, he turned toward Heeseung, looking the prince in the eye with all the weight of a father handing off the most precious thing he’d ever protected.

He took Heeseung’s hand and placed yours in it.

“Take care of her,” your father said, his voice deep but warm, soft with meaning. “She’s always been our light.”

Heeseung’s expression softened instantly. He nodded—not with stiff formality, but with reverent sincerity. “Always,” he whispered. “With all I have.”

Your father gave a small, proud smile before stepping aside, finding his seat beside your mother, who wiped the corner of her eye with her silk handkerchief.

You and Heeseung now stood before the altar together.

Fingers interlocked.

He looked down at you, and the way his thumb grazed the back of your knuckles sent a wave of calm through you.

“You look like every prayer I never thought would be answered,” he murmured so only you could hear. “And I must’ve done something right in a past life… because you're walking straight to me.”

You felt your heart rise to your throat as your eyes welled up—but you smiled, wide and unstoppable.

“Then hold me like you’ll never let me go,” you whispered back, voice trembling slightly.

“I already do,” Heeseung breathed, gaze locked on yours. “I already have.”

And somewhere behind you, the temple bells began to chime.

The ceremony was about to begin.

The gods were watching.

And the entire kingdom held its breath—for this union, for this love, for the future they believed in.

Laughter spilled from your lips like music, even as your hand tightened around Heeseung’s. The sky was dusted with sunset, the air alive with the roaring cheers of thousands—your people, your kingdom, the witnesses to a union that would be written into history books and bedtime stories alike.

“Careful,” Heeseung chuckled, eyes glinting as he helped you navigate the ornate steps of the royal carriage. “The gown’s winning the battle right now.”

You gave him a playful glare but let him hoist the heavy train of your dress just enough so you could climb inside without tripping. The velvet cushions cradled you immediately, the whole space fragrant with rose petals and wild lilac—gifts from the palace staff who had prepared it in secret.

Heeseung followed in after you, and the moment he closed the door behind him—sealing out the deafening celebration, the blinding flash of royal photographers, the weight of the world—

He turned to you.

And pulled you into him.

The kiss was firm and full of everything he hadn’t said at the altar. His hands cradled your jaw with devotion, lips pressing to yours like they were finding home.

You smiled against his mouth—because how could you not?—arms wrapping around his shoulders as your laughter was swallowed into the warmth of him.

He only pulled away when your lungs begged for air.

And even then, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, fingers trembling ever so slightly as his gaze dropped to the dazzling ring glittering on your finger.

A rare golden band, wrapped in tiny vines of diamonds. At its center—a stone so clear and so rare, it was said to have been taken from the gods’ altar themselves, gifted only to royal soulmates.

Heeseung sighed softly, brushing his lips against the gem once more, before lifting his gaze back to you.

“My wife,” he whispered, as if saying it for the first time made it real. His voice cracked with the weight of it, eyes shining like the stars overhead. “My beautiful wife.”

The word settled in your chest like a prayer answered.

You reached forward, cupping his cheek, fingers threading into the strands of his dark hair that had begun to fall from their styled place. His skin was warm under your touch, his eyes—god, his eyes—were filled with nothing but wonder.

Your voice trembled as tears began to blur your vision. “And you’re my husband,” you whispered. “My beginning. My middle. And my always.”

Heeseung’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, as if the moment was too much. Then he leaned into your touch, turning just enough to kiss your palm.

“Remind me to thank the gods for making you,” he said softly, pressing your forehead against his. “Because there is no way I deserved this. Deserved you.”

“You deserve everything,” you whispered, pulling him closer. “Everything, Heeseung.”

You let out a soft breath, letting your forehead rest gently against his chest, the rise and fall of it slow and steady beneath your cheek.

His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you closer, your white gown crinkling slightly between your bodies but neither of you cared.

“We’re headed to the island, right?” you murmured into the fabric of his coat, fingers curling around the lapel, the velvet soft under your touch.

Heeseung hummed, chin resting gently on the top of your head, his voice vibrating against your cheek. “Mhm. The very island I had that mansion built on… for us.”

He smiled as he spoke, almost shy about it. “Just for the two of us to spend our honeymoon in peace. No titles. No duties. Just you. Me. And the sea.”

You giggled, tilting your head up slightly to press a kiss to the tip of his chin. “I swear, I have the best husband ever. The perfect prince ever.”

That made his whole face light up. He beamed, heart full, like he was just realizing he could finally hold you like this without rules or eyes or limits. His hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin as he whispered, “You’re perfect. Really perfect.”

You flushed, lips curling in a soft smile. “Well… I’m just glad the island isn’t that far from the mainland. At least we can come and go whenever we want.”

Heeseung snorted, pulling back just enough to give you a playful look. “You mean you can come and go as you please,” he said, eyes teasing. “Because you have a habit of storming off on me, my love.”

You gasped with a laugh, swatting lightly at his chest. “That was one time—!”

“Three,” he corrected smoothly. “Once after I forgot your birthday flower, the other when I fell asleep halfway through your poetry reading—”

You narrowed your eyes. “And the third?”

He grinned. “I don’t even remember, I think you were just being dramatic.”

You let out a mock gasp of offense, which only made Heeseung laugh harder. He pulled you back in, kissing your temple as he whispered, “I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth, you know. Even if you storm off again.”

“Even in this giant dress?” you teased, gesturing to the sheer volume of fabric surrounding you.

He nodded solemnly. “Even if I have to carry you and the fifteen layers of it across the entire kingdom.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing too loudly, burying your face back into his chest as the carriage bumped gently along the road—your fingers tangled in his, your heart full, your future already unfolding before you in soft gold and island winds.

You gasped as Heeseung thrust into you again, deep and unrelenting, his rhythm messy and desperate now—etiquette forgotten, restraint burned to ash.

He moaned low into your ear, voice wrecked. “Fuck—been dreaming of this,” he whispered, lips dragging along your jaw. “Years of holding back—do you even know what you’ve done to me?”

You whimpered, arching into him as your nails raked down his back, drawing soft, broken curses from his lips. “Heeseung—”

“That’s it,” he breathed, kissing you hard, possessive. “Say my name like that again, sweetheart—please—”

“Heeseung,” you gasped, body trembling under him, overwhelmed by the sheer stretch and heat of him, of this, of everything. “You’re my husband—y-you’re really mine—”

That did something to him.

He growled low in his throat, pulled out, and you whined at the loss—but then he flipped you onto your stomach, firm and commanding, and patted your ass twice, a dark gleam in his eyes as he said, “Up, love. Let me see you.”

You obeyed on instinct, body moving to all fours, ass raised, face flushed against the pillows.

“Fuck,” he muttered behind you, dragging his hands down your spine. “Look at you… gods, you’re perfect.”

He lined himself up again, the thick head of his cock brushing against you, teasing, making you whine and twitch in anticipation.

“Beg for it,” he said, voice barely steady. “Just once. Please, baby—after everything—I need to hear it.”

“Please, Heeseung,” you whimpered, backing against him. “Please… I need you.”

He slammed back into you with a groan that echoed off the high ceilings, one hand gripping your hip, the other wrapping around your waist to pull you against him. The sound of skin meeting skin was shameless, vulgar, as he lost himself in the heat of you, panting curses into your shoulder.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he moaned, head dropping to your back. “This body—this fucking body was made for me.”

Your cries grew louder as his thrusts deepened, more erratic now—driven by years of pent-up love, desire, obsession.

When he reached forward and wrapped his fingers around your throat, pulling your back to his chest, he whispered against your ear: “Mine. My queen. My wife. I’ll spend the rest of my life ruining you like this.”

And as your walls clenched around him, body trembling from the pleasure blooming like wildfire inside you, he kissed your temple—soft, reverent, the only gentle thing in that moment—and whispered, “Give it to me, love. Let go. Let me have all of you.”

You shattered with a cry, the kind that echoed off the walls, one hand gripping the sheets as your body convulsed around him. Your release hit hard—white-hot and overwhelming—and Heeseung groaned against your skin, hips stuttering as you clenched tight around him.

“That’s it,” he rasped, pressing kisses along your shoulder, hips still lazily rocking into your overstimulated body. “Fuck—so good for me, so perfect.”

You could barely breathe, chest rising and falling as sweat clung to your skin. But Heeseung wasn’t done—not even close.

He hooked two fingers under your chin, lifting your face to meet his. Your eyes were glossy with tears, lips parted as soft whimpers spilled out of you. Heeseung’s gaze flickered between your eyes and mouth, his own expression completely undone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured, then kissed you—sloppy, desperate, like he was trying to taste the moans still lingering in your throat.

But then he pulled away—just enough to flip you back onto your back, drawing a gasp from your lips as he manhandled you closer to the edge of the bed.

“Heeseung—” you breathed, voice cracking.

He leaned down, kissed the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes with such gentleness it made your heart ache.

“I know, baby,” he whispered. “I know. But I need you one more time.” Then he raised your legs, resting them over his shoulders, and thrust back in.

Your cry was broken, high and breathless, your hands flying to his arms for something to hold onto as your body arched into him.

“Still so tight,” he groaned, hips rolling into you deep and slow, like he was savoring every second. “Gods, you take me so well, even after—fuck, I’ll never get over this.”

You sobbed softly, overwhelmed by the stretch, the intensity, the sheer love in the way he moved inside you.

He leaned down, folding your legs closer to your chest, his forehead pressed against yours as he whispered, “Look at me. Let me see you fall apart again.”

And then he slammed into you—hard and sloppy, each thrust punching a moan out of your throat as he hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back instantly.

“Heeseung—ah—!” you cried, voice ragged, high, needy.

“That’s it,” he rasped, watching your face with a wild hunger in his eyes. “That’s the face I wanted to see—gods, look at you—so gone for me.”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. The pleasure was blinding, white-hot and all-consuming as he plunged into you over and over, cock hitting so deep and so perfect, your body had no choice but to obey.

Your mouth hung open, drooling a little, moaning with every deep, brutal thrust—and Heeseung ate it up like a man possessed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, sweat dripping from his brow as his pace grew faster, rougher. “I’ve fucked you stupid, haven’t I?”

You whimpered, tried to answer, but only a breathless moan left your lips.

He smirked darkly. “Can’t even talk. Just taking it. Letting me ruin you.”

Your body jolted with every movement of his hips, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the chamber like a prayer.

“I’m close,” he panted, voice shaking. “You’re squeezing me so tight, gods, I’m gonna—fuck—”

You could only whimper, tears sliding down your cheeks again from the overwhelming heat building inside you.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear, voice low and wrecked. “I’ll fill you up,” he whispered. “Make you mine. Want you so round and full of me. Barefoot in the palace with my child inside you—fuck, baby, you’d look so perfect like that.”

A strangled moan ripped out of you, nails digging into his arms as your legs trembled around his shoulders.

“Wanna get you pregnant,” he kept going, voice turning desperate as his thrusts grew rougher. “Wanna see your belly swell. Everyone’ll know you’re mine—all mine. My wife. My queen. My everything.”

You cried out, and he kissed the tears from your cheeks again, groaning as your body tightened around him.

“Gonna give it to you,” he gasped. “Take it—take all of me—”

And then he buried himself deep one final time, spilling inside you with a long, low moan, his whole body shaking as he pressed his forehead to yours, breath ragged, arms trembling.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “I love you—I love you—I love you.”

He kissed you again—deep, slow, as if trying to pour every bit of himself into your mouth, like he didn’t know where he ended and you began. His hands were still trembling, still greedy even now, cradling your face.

Then, slowly, gently, he eased your legs down from his shoulders, never once letting go. His hips shifted just enough so that he could wrap his arms around you, rolling onto his side and taking you with him—still buried inside you, warm and full and his.

You let out a soft gasp as your body adjusted, sensitive and raw, but comforted by his arms pulling you flush against his chest.

Heeseung let out a shaky exhale, pressing his nose into your hair. “Still with me?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded sleepily, breath shallow, heart pounding as you pressed your palm against his bare chest—feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.

He kissed your forehead, and then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, his voice low and thick. “I’m not pulling out,” he mumbled, half-drunk on love, half-drunk on you. “Not yet. Not ever.”

You laughed softly—weakly—body still pulsing from everything. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” he muttered, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wanted to fuse your bodies together. “I meant what I said, you know. About getting you pregnant. About seeing you with my child.”

“I want all of it,” he whispered. “You in this bed, in our castle. You walking through the palace holding your stomach. You with my name, my ring, my child. I want everything.”

You could barely speak. So you just whispered, “You already have everything.”

His eyes fluttered shut at that, a soft, boyish smile tugging at his lips.

The room was quiet, save for your breathing, the soft rustle of the silk sheets tangled beneath you. You were both still trembling from the aftermath—but wrapped in him, filled by him, you felt like the world had stopped moving just for the two of you.

The royal library was bathed in the soft light of the afternoon sun, golden beams streaking through the high arched windows. The gentle rustle of pages echoed quietly, along with Jaeyun’s voice reading aloud from a worn leather-bound storybook.

“…and then the young prince lifted the veil of thorns, finding the princess fast asleep, untouched by time, heart still waiting for his,” Jaeyun read, lips curling into a fond smile as he glanced down at your belly, voice softening even more. “He kissed her, and—”

You huffed, adjusting your position with an audible grunt as you shifted your weight on the deep-cushioned couch. It was custom-made, one of Heeseung’s many attempts to appease your growing complaints about how “every chair in the palace was clearly built for pain and suffering.”

Jaeyun winced. “Uh… did I do something wrong, noona?” he asked carefully, lowering the book.

You sighed heavily and gave him a sweet smile, brushing his arm. “No, sweet boy. You’re perfect. Don’t let the thundercloud above my head scare you.”

His brows furrowed in confusion before glancing up—and that’s when he saw your husband, standing near the grand shelf of magical history books, looking like a deer caught in divine, hormonal headlights.

Heeseung blinked. “What… what’d I do?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stared. A slow, furious, finger-pointing kind of glare.

Heeseung looked behind him. Then pointed at himself. “Me?”

Jaeyun immediately started packing up the book with the speed of a trained soldier. “I’m gonna, um… give you two some privacy. Or leave the continent. Whichever’s safer.”

You gently held his wrist. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Jaeyun. Don’t let the idiot standing near the bookshelf convince you otherwise.”

Heeseung’s jaw dropped. “Wait—what idiot—hey!”

That’s when you sniffled. Loudly. Tears instantly welled up in your eyes as your lip trembled, and you looked down at your round belly, hand resting protectively over it.

Jaeyun froze in horror. “Noona—wait, are you crying? Did I—?”

From across the library, Jungwon’s head snapped up, quill falling from his fingers. He was at your side in a heartbeat, eyes wide and worried.

“What happened?” Jungwon asked, voice soft but urgent, his hand gently resting on the edge of your couch as he leaned over. “Noona, what’s wrong?”

You pointed at Heeseung again, face crumpling as the tears rolled down your cheeks. “He forgot my pickles and sour cream,” you sniffled. “I woke up and it wasn’t there and I waited and waited and I was starving and craving and he just—”

“Oh.” Jungwon tried very, very hard not to laugh, biting the inside of his cheek as he nodded seriously. “Pickles and sour cream. A fatal offense.”

“I didn’t forget!” Heeseung defended, walking closer, arms flailing slightly in helplessness. “I mean—I did, but not on purpose! I had to help Jungwon with the—”

Jungwon lifted his hand, still grinning. “Forgive my brother, noona,” he said sweetly. “I think it’s partly my fault. I made him stay up last night helping me deal with some… knight stuff.”

You raised a brow, still crying, still very much hormonal. “What kind of knight stuff?”

Jungwon cleared his throat. “Uhm. A few of the southern patrol horses were unshod, and the stablemaster said the armory budget was overspent again. So we were fixing allocations and—”

“Oh, so horses are more important than your pregnant wife?” you cut in, voice trembling as you narrowed your eyes at your husband.

Heeseung panicked. “No! No, absolutely not—I would die for you. I would kill for you. I was going to go after breakfast and—”

“You said that yesterday!” you cried, covering your face.

Jaeyun stood behind Jungwon now, whispering, “We should probably leave before she gives birth out of spite.”

“Smart,” Jungwon whispered back.

Heeseung rushed to your side, dropping to his knees in front of you and placing both hands gently on your belly.

“My love, please,” he said, looking up at you with big, guilty eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll get you all the pickles. All the sour cream. I’ll grow a pickle tree if I have to. Just please don’t cry, it breaks my heart.”

You glared at him for one more moment before sighing, lower lip still wobbling. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Heeseung beamed. “That’s a relief. Because I love you too. And you, little one,” he said, pressing a kiss to your belly. “Don’t worry, father will bring home all your weird cravings.”

You sniffed again, wiping your face as Heeseung pulled out a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed your cheeks gently.

“…You want ice cream with chili flakes too?” he asked cautiously.

“Obviously,” you muttered. “I’m not a monster.”

Jungwon and Jaeyun had already vanished by then, likely off to send a servant to retrieve a very urgent royal order of pickles and sour cream.

You sniffled once more, dabbing your own cheek as you tapped your fingers insistently on Heeseung’s arm.

He blinked. “Huh?”

You gave him a look.

“Oh! Right—right, sorry!” he scrambled, immediately hopping to his feet in a heartbeat. One arm slipped behind your back, the other lacing through your fingers with practiced ease. “Here we go—one, two—”

You groaned as he gently helped you up from the cushioned couch, belly stretching against the fabric of your soft dress. “Ugh. This is all your fault.”

Heeseung winced. “Yes, I—I know.”

“I should have your cock chopped off for this, you little—”

“Whoa—! Okay!” Heeseung laughed nervously, heart thudding against his ribs as he tucked you closer to his side. “Easy now, love. You scare me sometimes.”

You shot him a narrowed glare. “Sometimes? You should live in fear.”

“I do!” he said immediately, guiding your steps slowly and carefully as you waddled your way toward the hallway. “Every waking second, actually. Have I mentioned how stunning you look while plotting my demise?”

You clicked your tongue, though your cheeks betrayed you with the faintest tinge of blush.

Pregnancy had turned you into an emotional tempest. One second, you were smiling sweetly and asking Heeseung if he’d sing to the baby—and the next, you were threatening bodily harm over poorly cut fruit or lukewarm tea.

He loved you more for it. Terrified? A little. But madly in love? Completely.

Heeseung tried not to laugh at the memory of last week, when one of your most beloved royal cooks almost got fired.

You had wobbled your way down to the kitchen, belly-first, eyes ablaze. He had just finished making your requested plate of crackers—and forgot the sour cream.

The way you gasped, horrified, clutching your chest like your world had ended.

“I waited all day for this,” you whispered like a betrayed ghost. “And no sour cream? Off with your hat. No—your head!”

The poor man stood there, blinking in shock as you fumed.

By the time Heeseung had rushed in—dragging Sunghoon behind him for backup—he found you mid-sob and mid-threat, the cook still trying to apologize.

Sunghoon, eyes wide, bowed quickly to the cook. “We’re so sorry—she’s, uh—pregnant. Very pregnant.”

The cook only chuckled, waving it off. “It’s alright, Your Highness. This happens all the time. It’s quite normal, really.”

“Normal?!” Sunghoon whispered in horror as you let out a wail again.

Back in the present, Heeseung looked down at you now, walking slowly through the castle hallway, his hand cradling your back while you leaned your weight into him.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You sighed. “No. I’m bloated, I’m mad at you, my ankles feel like they’re being crushed by divine punishment, and I’m sweating in places no princess should sweat.”

“…So that’s a yes?”

You smacked his chest, and he only grinned, leaning down to kiss your temple again. “I love you, you know. You’re terrifying. But I’m obsessed with you.”

“I know,” you muttered, lips twitching upward despite yourself.

As you passed a stained-glass window, you paused and turned to face him—hand still on the curve of your belly.

“…You really forgot the pickles?” you asked again, narrowing your eyes.

Heeseung’s face went pale. “I swear to the gods, I’ll name our firstborn Sour Cream if that’s what it takes to make it up to you.”

You burst into laughter so hard you had to lean against him again.

The palace gardens were in full bloom.

You walked slowly beneath the soft morning sun, the wind warm and gentle as it kissed your face. Every step felt like a task and a half at nine months pregnant, your belly stretching the limits of your once-elegant maternity dress that now clung to you like it was begging for retirement.

Still, you needed the air.

The lilacs and lavenders had just been planted—your favorite colors. A gift from Heeseung after you spent an entire evening crying because you missed the way your childhood home used to smell.

“They’re blooming beautifully,” you murmured as you waddled beside your mother and mother-in-law, who were deep in discussion about installing fountains near the kingdom gates.

“A marble structure, perhaps,” your mother-in-law offered, gesturing with her fan. “Something timeless, to match the new rose archway.”

Your own mother nodded, her hand resting gently against your back. “And maybe benches shaded by wisteria vines—good for walks like these.”

You smiled faintly, hands settled protectively over your belly. You felt huge. Round and sore and terribly emotional.

Lately, all you wanted was Heeseung. You missed his hands on your belly, his kisses at the corners of your mouth, the way he’d whisper “You’re still the most beautiful woman in the world” every time you cried over not fitting into your royal robes anymore.

Poor Heeseung had endured months of emotional whiplash—you throwing pillows at him one minute, begging for cuddles the next—but he never wavered. Always patient. Always soft.

You sighed. “That man is too good for me.”

A sharp pang shot through your lower abdomen.

Your hand shot down to your belly as your breath caught, and in the next heartbeat—warm liquid trickled down your legs, soaking the hem of your dress and dripping onto the garden soil below.

Your eyes widened.

The queens turned to you instantly. “Darling?” “What is it?!”

“I think… I think my water just broke,” you whispered.

Panic, majestic and maternal, swept through both women. Your mother’s voice shot up first. “Servants! Fetch the midwife—now!”

“The healer too!” your mother-in-law added. “And blankets! Bring towels! Quickly!”

You winced again, grabbing at your lower back as another cramp rocked through you. “I can walk! I’m fine—just… need help.”

“Absolutely not,” your mother huffed, hooking her arm under yours with impressive strength for someone in full court attire. “You’re not walking anywhere without us.”

The two queens flanked you like royal guards, one on each side, carefully helping you take slow, careful steps back toward the palace. You groaned at each movement, breath labored, hands trembling.

“Where is Heeseung?” you whined, voice wobbling.

“He’s in council with the stewards—someone will fetch him,” your mother-in-law promised, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Don’t you worry, darling. He’ll be with you before the next contraction hits.”

“I swear if he misses this—” you hissed as another pain bloomed in your spine, “—I’ll induce a second pregnancy just to make him suffer through the next one!”

Both queens laughed despite themselves.

“You’re doing wonderfully, sweetheart,” your mother whispered, kissing your temple. “Heeseung will come running the second he hears. Just hold on a little longer.”

“And scream at him when he does,” your mother-in-law added with a mischievous grin. “It’s tradition.”

You let out a strangled half-laugh, half-sob as your foot crossed the marble threshold of the castle.

“Bring hot water!” a maid cried out. “Prepare the birthing chamber!”

Servants scrambled like a military drill as the two queens continued leading you toward the royal wing.

And as another wave of pain rolled through you, sharp and sudden, you gripped both women’s hands tightly and muttered—

“…Heeseung is so dead.”

The words had barely left your mouth when a young servant, barely older than a squire, nodded frantically at your mothers’s command.

He turned on his heel and sprinted down the castle corridors, nearly slipping on polished marble as he weaved past nobles and guards. His face was pale, his steps frantic—because everyone in the kingdom knew that when it came to you, Prince Heeseung did not waste time.

Especially not today.

The council room sat in a gilded hallway of the eastern wing, its doors heavy with ornate gold carvings, muffling the sound of bored sighs and shuffling chairs from within.

Inside, the seven princes were scattered across the long oak table, listening—somewhat respectfully—as an aging duke discussed property disputes near the northern border.

Heeseung sat at the center of the table, shoulders square, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. His jaw tensed as he adjusted the fit of his vest, trying to mask just how miserable he looked.

Beside him, Jongseong leaned on an elbow, eyes half-lidded in sheer exhaustion. “If he says the word acreage one more time, I’m jumping out the window.”

Sunoo, who had long given up on pretending to listen, was poking Jungwon with a quill, whispering, “Bet you a week of your rations that hyung zones out and agrees to give the entire north to some greedy lord.”

Jungwon rolled his eyes, muttering, “He already did last month.”

Across the table, Riki and Sunghoon were whispering animatedly—probably about girls or sword duels or which of them would win in a wrestling match if their lives depended on it.

Jaeyun had a book propped open on his lap, held just under the table’s edge, completely absorbed and occasionally mouthing the words under his breath.

Heeseung cleared his throat, trying to gather enough composure to politely end the duke’s hour-long monologue. “We’ll reconvene to review—”

The council room doors flew open so hard they rattled on their hinges.

All seven princes shot up, hands instinctively flying to their sides as if expecting danger. The guards posted at the entrance had barely enough time to react before the young servant stumbled into the room, panting so hard it sounded like he’d just outrun a horse.

Heeseung was already halfway to standing, eyes sharp and alert. “Speak.”

The servant didn’t even bow. “T-The princess! Princess (Y/N)—she’s gone into labor!”

The words hit Heeseung like lightning.

Everything else vanished. The air, the weight of duty, the politics, the room itself—it was all just static in the background.

“Council dismissed,” Heeseung ordered, voice hard and final.

He didn’t wait for a single reply. He threw his glasses on the table with a clatter, not even bothering to place them gently, and shrugged off his coat as he made for the door. His vest was still half-buttoned, his cravat slightly askew, but he didn’t stop to fix any of it. He just ran.

“Hyung!” Jongseong called after him, but he was gone.

Sunoo blinked. “He didn’t even breathe.”

“Why do I feel like we’re in labor too?” Riki muttered, already on his feet.

“Heeseung-hyung’s going to faint before (Y/N) does,” Sunghoon said, half amused and half terrified.

Back in the halls, Heeseung’s footsteps echoed like thunder. Servants scrambled out of the way, bowing quickly before darting aside. He passed the main stairs, two wings of the palace, and stormed through three doors before finally reaching the private chambers near your bedroom—where the royal birthing room had been prepared days in advance.

He saw the royal guards, saw the maids darting in and out with wet cloths and blankets.

And then he heard you.

A muffled cry of pain from within.

His heart nearly stopped.

Heeseung stood just outside the doors, hand on the carved gold handle, breaths ragged as he tried to steel himself—but just before he could push it open, a commanding voice echoed through the corridor.

“Prince Heeseung, you cannot go in.”

He turned, startled, eyes narrowing as he was met by the flowing robes of the Archbishop of Decelis, flanked by a few elder members of the High Council—those who hadn’t been in attendance during the earlier meeting. Their expressions were grave, respectful, but firm.

“What?” Heeseung snapped, his tone already laced with disbelief. “Why not?”

One of the older men stepped forward, hands folded neatly in front of him. “My prince, it is tradition. Men are not permitted inside the royal birthing chambers. It is an honored law of the land.”

Heeseung dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated and on the verge of unraveling. “Tradition?” he echoed, almost laughing bitterly.

“That’s my wife in there. My child. And you’re telling me I can’t be with them because of some old, dusty decree written before any of you were even born?”

The Archbishop stood firm. “It is to maintain the sanctity and protection of both mother and child. We must follow protocol.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring, his heart screaming inside his chest. Behind him, hurried footsteps approached—the rest of his brothers flooding into the corridor one by one, panting and wide-eyed.

“Hyung, we came as fast as—” Jungwon began before seeing the situation unfold.

But Heeseung didn’t turn to them.

Because just then, through the thick double doors, he heard you scream again.

His spine straightened. His vision tunneled.

A young maid appeared from the side chamber, looking breathless and flushed. “Prince Heeseung!” she called, bowing quickly. “Her Highness is calling for you. She keeps asking—she’s crying, asking where you are.”

Heeseung moved for the doors again, only for the Archbishop to raise a hand, stepping into his path once more.

“Your Highness, please—”

“Do you like being the Archbishop of Decelis?” Heeseung asked sharply, voice low and dangerous.

The man froze.

The council members stiffened.

“Do you?” Heeseung repeated, eyes like wildfire.

“…Yes, my prince.”

“And you all,” Heeseung turned to the councilmen. “Do you like your titles? Your seats? Your influence?”

No one answered.

He took a slow, threatening step forward, each word like a blade. “Would you like to remain the Archbishop of Decelis? And remain members of this council?”

The hallway went deadly silent. Even the guards didn’t breathe.

Because Heeseung had never raised his voice. Never threatened anyone. Never looked like this before. But now—he was livid. A man unhinged by love, fear, and a cry from someone he couldn’t bear to be separated from.

“You forget your place,” he growled. “That’s my wife. That’s my child. And I swore before gods and men to protect her, cherish her, be by her side in every joy and every pain. And if any of you think for a second that I’ll let her scream for me alone while you stand here quoting traditions—”

His voice cracked at the edge.

“Then you’re not just wrong. You’re finished.”

The Archbishop opened his mouth—then closed it again.

“I said move.”

The men parted.

Heeseung didn’t waste another second—he slammed the doors open and marched in, not as a prince, not as a future king, but as your husband.

As a man about to become a father. As someone so in love with you that the thought of you suffering made him feel physically ill.

You were there, on the padded birthing bed, your back supported by pillows, your hair sticking to your forehead with sweat, hands gripping the sheets so tightly your knuckles were white.

Your mother and mother-in-law were at your side. The midwife—an older woman with gentle hands and sharp instructions—was calmly checking your status.

You looked up, eyes glassy and tired, and—

“Heeseung,” you whimpered.

He rushed to you without a word, dropping to his knees beside the bed and grabbing your hand. His fingers trembled as they laced through yours. “I’m here. I’m here, love, I’m right here.”

“I told you you were dead,” you gasped between contractions, squeezing his hand hard enough to crush bone.

Heeseung winced. “If I survive this, I’m building you another garden. Bigger. Full of lilacs. And pickles. And sour cream. Just—keep breathing, okay?”

You cried. “This is your fault!”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, kissing your hand desperately, forehead resting against your arm. “I’m a terrible husband. I’ll never touch you again—I’ll sleep in the stables if I have to.”

“You’re damn right you will,” you hissed, then screamed through the next wave of pain.

Heeseung paled, but kissed your temple anyway. “You’re doing amazing, my love. You’re almost there.”

Behind him, one of the queens whispered, “He’s more scared than she is.”

And he was.

Because he’d faced sword fights, battles, political scandals, and enemy threats. But nothing terrified him more than the idea of you in pain.

The midwife barely glanced at him, too focused on the task. She peeked between your parted legs and gave a tight, pleased smile. “She’s fully dilated. We’re ready.” Then she dropped onto the birthing stool at the end of the bed and called over her shoulder, “You, get the clean towels. And the water, now.”

“Yes, madam!” a maid stammered as they scurried to follow.

“Alright, Your Highness,” the midwife addressed you gently now, her voice calm but firm. “When I say push, I need you to push hard, understand?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “It hurts—gods, it hurts so much—”

Heeseung was already at your side, kneeling beside you despite the thick gold embroidery of his royal vest crumpling beneath him. He took your trembling hand and pressed it to his lips, his forehead leaning against yours.

“You can do this, love,” he murmured, voice cracking. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

You sobbed softly, body trembling. “I’m scared…”

“I know,” he said. “But you’re strong. So strong. You’re everything. And our baby—our little prince or princess—they’re so close. Just a little more, okay?”

Another contraction hit and the midwife barked, “Push!”

You cried out, gripping Heeseung’s hand so tightly it felt like you might break it, and he welcomed every second of it—because if he could take your pain for you, he would a thousand times over.

“That’s it!” the midwife encouraged. “Good girl, Your Highness, again!”

Heeseung wiped the tears streaking down your cheeks with his other hand, pushing the damp strands of hair off your sticky forehead, his lips kissing every inch he could reach.

“I love you,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well, I’m so proud of you.”

But after another few rounds, you fell back against the pillows, exhausted. “I can’t… I can’t anymore, Hee…”

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, desperate now, tears pricking his eyes. “You’ve made it this far, you can. Just one more, darling. Please. Our baby’s waiting for you.”

You whimpered, chest rising and falling fast, but his hand didn’t leave yours, and his words—warm and trembling—wrapped around you like armor.

“One more push!” the midwife called again. “I see the head! One big push, my lady!”

You screamed as you gave everything, every last ounce of strength in your body—and then—

A sharp, high-pitched cry cut through the air.

The room stilled.

Heeseung gasped, tears immediately spilling down his cheeks as the sound hit him like an arrow through the heart.

“She’s here,” the midwife breathed with a smile. “A healthy baby girl!”

The moment your daughter was wrapped in warm linens and placed against your chest, your body quaked with sobs—relief, exhaustion, love, everything. She was tiny, pink, and perfect, crying softly as her fists curled against your skin.

“Oh, gods,” you wept, arms trembling as you cradled her. “She’s so… she’s so little…”

Heeseung was crying openly now, brushing soft, trembling kisses over your cheeks, your temple, your lips—everywhere.

“You did it,” he breathed, voice shaking as he stared at you like you hung the stars. “You did so good, love. She’s perfect. You’re both perfect.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, his hand gently stroking your daughter’s soft downy head. Her cries softened, soothed by your warmth, and when her tiny hand flailed, Heeseung instinctively wrapped his finger around hers.

“She’s got your nose,” he whispered with a teary laugh.

“And your eyes,” you whispered back, voice breaking as more tears fell.

He kissed you again, lingering and reverent.

“My queen,” he murmured, voice soaked in awe, “my love, the mother of my child…”

And for the first time in forever, the kingdom outside went quiet—because in that room, on that bed, with your daughter in your arms and your husband holding you like you were made of gold.

You stood in the quiet, polished halls of the royal wing of the museum, the scent of aged books and lavender floor polish lingering in the air.

Jungwon and Sunoo had excused themselves a few minutes ago, excited to take pictures by the towering marble fountain near the entrance, leaving you to explore at your own pace, sipping on the lilac tea you bought from the museum café.

Your footsteps slowed to a stop when you turned the corner and came face to face with it.

A massive oil painting, stretching from the polished floor almost to the vaulted ceiling. Encased in a golden frame, dusted only at the corners with time. And in it, frozen in hues of soft ivory and golden light—

“Prince Lee Heeseung and Princess (L/N) (Y/N), in a timeless embrace beneath a canopy of lilacs and lavenders.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The artist had captured something so impossibly intimate it made your chest ache. Heeseung stood tall, dressed in a white military-style coat, adorned with golden embroidery that shimmered even under the museum’s soft lights. His hand gently cupped the princess’s cheek, gaze tender and unguarded, as if the entire kingdom didn’t exist when she was near.

The princess wore a flowing white gown with a lilac sash, long sleeves embroidered with delicate gold threads, mimicking vines curling around her arms. She looked up at him, her eyes almost tearful with love, one gloved hand clutching the edge of his coat as though anchoring herself to him.

But it wasn’t just the beauty of the painting that left you frozen.

It was her face.

Her face—your face.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same shape of the nose and curve of the chin. Even the way she tilted her head slightly, like she was listening to something only he could whisper.

You took a shaky breath and stepped closer, glancing at the golden standee resting just beside the red velvet rope:

“Prince Lee Heeseung and Princess (L/N) (Y/N). Captured in the royal gardens during the Spring Festival of 1782.

This portrait is one of the most beloved in the royal collection, known not just for its artistic mastery, but for the love story it represents. Theirs was not a marriage of convenience or political alliance—but one of deep, enduring love.

They were said to have loved each other until their very last breath.”

You blinked at the plaque, rereading your name etched in gold again and again, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something more logical.

“…That’s not funny,” you whispered, barely audible.

A slow chill crawled up your spine as you looked back at the painting.

What were the odds? Your name. Your face. The same features captured in oil centuries ago. Was the tea messing with you? Were you sleep-deprived?

You turned to glance behind you, half-expecting Jungwon and Sunoo to be playing some elaborate prank, but the corridor was empty.

You let out a small exhale and turned back to the painting.

But you weren’t alone anymore.

There was someone standing beside you.

A tall figure, dressed in a sleek black blazer and slacks, his silhouette sharp against the soft golden lighting of the gallery. His hands were tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed, but his gaze… his gaze was fixed right where yours had been moments before—on the painting. Unmoving. Focused. Like it meant something.

Your eyes flicked down to the silver pin on the left lapel of his blazer: the Decelis University insignia. A student, then.

You shrugged to yourself, figuring he was probably here on the same field trip. You took another sip of your lilac tea, the floral taste now bittersweet on your tongue as your heart settled in your chest again.

“It’s uncanny,” he murmured beside you.

You blinked and tilted your head slightly. “Are you talking to me?”

His lips curved, not quite into a full smile—but into something quieter, gentler. And his voice—God, his voice was warm. Deep, but velvety.

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t really see anyone else here besides you.”

You let out a soft laugh, caught off guard. “Wow. Is that your line, or do you just flirt in front of 18th-century paintings?”

“Only with people who look like they’ve just seen a ghost,” he teased.

You turned to him, finally taking in his features properly. And your breath caught in your throat.

His hair was dyed a soft lilac—the exact same shade as the flowers in the painting. It caught the sunlight pouring in from the museum’s high glass windows, casting a faint halo around his head. But it wasn’t just the hair. It was the eyes. The way he looked at you—not like a stranger—but like someone remembering.

“What did you mean by uncanny?” you asked softly, your grip tightening around your tea cup.

He glanced at the painting again, then back at you.

“Well,” he began, “for starters… she looks exactly like you.”

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said, voice smaller than you meant. “I noticed that.”

The stranger beside you let out a soft laugh—not the polite kind, but the real one. Full-bodied and warm, the kind that came from the chest, from somewhere deeper. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, something boyish blooming across his face as he fully turned to face you now.

He was breathtaking up close.

Lilac hair tousled like the wind had played with it on the walk here, his blazer crisp and worn with ease, like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone—but still somehow did.

There was something timeless about him. Like his face didn’t belong to any specific era. Like it had been painted in oil and carved into memory long before today.

He glanced back at the painting again and tilted his head slightly, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Well,” he teased, “the real one looks way better.”

Your breath hitched.

Heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it. “Oh my gods,” you muttered under your breath, fighting a smile as you stared at the floor, willing it to open and swallow you whole.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with your reaction.

You sighed, defeated, and risked another look at him.

The way he stood there, relaxed but attentive. The way he smiled like he already knew you—like he was waiting for you to remember too. The way his eyes searched yours with a kind of gentleness, like he didn’t want to scare you off, but couldn’t help getting drawn in.

You finally found your voice again, soft but steady.

“Well,” you said, looking right at him this time, “you look exactly like him, so…”

Your hand lifted slightly, finger pointing toward the prince in the painting, but he didn’t follow it. His eyes were on you. Only you.

He took a step closer.

Not too much—but just enough that you could smell his cologne, something clean and woodsy, like cedar trees after the rain.

“You think so?” he asked, voice quiet, as if the question itself held centuries of weight.

You nodded.

And you gave him the smallest smile. The kind of smile you only give someone you feel like you’ve known your whole life—someone you’ve missed before you even met.

His eyes softened.

And then he looked up at the painting once more, but not for long. “They say those two married for love, not for politics,” he murmured. “That they stayed together until their last breath.”

You blinked. “You know the story?”

“Bits and pieces,” he said. “My professor’s a nerd about royal bloodlines. Said they were the last real fairytale before the world became… complicated.”

“…That’s kind of beautiful,” you said quietly.

“Yeah,” he replied, looking back at you. “It is.”

You stared at each other for a moment too long.

And in that silence—filled only by distant footsteps and the soft hum of the museum—you felt it.

That pull in your chest.

Like gravity—but gentler. Like you’d been waiting your whole life to stand in this exact spot, with this exact person, under the eyes of your past selves immortalized in paint and gold leaf.

You swallowed down the weight in your chest and cleared your throat, unsure how to ask the question on your tongue without sounding absolutely unhinged. But the curiosity burned hotter than your nerves.

So you looked up at him, voice hesitant but steady.

“…What’s your name?”

He turned to you, that boyish grin softening into something quieter—shyer, even. He chuckled under his breath and reached a hand toward you, the sunlight from the glass ceiling catching on the silver ring he wore.

“Lee Heeseung,” he said.

You stared.

You had to blink once, twice, to make sure you heard him right.

The same name etched into the gold plate by the painting.

The same name whispered by fate across brushstrokes and centuries.

The same name that made something in your bones stir like they remembered.

Was the universe playing a joke? A test? A cosmic prank?

Or had it been quietly arranging this moment since the day you were born?

You were certain if someone snapped a photo of this second, the stars would burn a little brighter behind the frame.

You reached for his outstretched hand, your fingers brushing against his palm. The moment your skin touched his, a jolt shot up your arm—not painful, not harsh. Just… warm. Familiar. Like home.

He didn’t let go.

And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

His fingers wrapped around yours just right, firm but careful, like he already knew you needed both comfort and gentleness.

“And you?” he asked, voice softer now. Like he was scared to breathe too hard and shatter something delicate.

You swallowed, heart loud in your ears.

“(L/N) (Y/N),” you said, breathless.

Something shifted in his eyes.

Like a sunrise cracked through storm clouds.

Heeseung smiled—slowly, knowingly. “Nice to meet you, Princess,” he murmured, still not letting go.

Your breath hitched.

The nickname shouldn’t have meant anything coming from a stranger. But from him—it felt like the world had finally remembered a story it forgot to finish.

In that fleeting space between his smile and your breathless heartbeat, you realized something:

Maybe some loves weren’t just meant to last lifetimes.

Maybe some loves were lifetimes.

Maybe you and him—Lee Heeseung, the stranger who felt like a memory—had been chasing each other through history, always finding, always losing, always waiting.

And as the sunlight spilled through the stained glass, casting lilac and gold across your skin, you smiled.

Because somehow, in a crowded museum filled with relics of the past—you had found your future.

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[liuhsng]

i haven’t been able to publish recently because i’ve been getting sick a lot these days. i had a 38.3°C fever yesterday and i’m still not fully okay (i still have pretty severe coughs and colds), but i’m currently recovering.

i sincerely apologize for any delays. thank you so much for your patience and understanding—please take care always, loves 🤍

[liuhsng]

───〃⋆⭒˚.⋆ XO, WITH YOU MASTERLIST

⤷ nsfw content ahead, minors do not interact

seven boys. seven different love stories. seven moments when love decides to bloom. from the warmth of a surprise hug to the sweet confusion of stolen glances, these seven stories trace the exhilarating rush of falling in love—messy, uncertain, and utterly irresistible. this is where love finds you.

⤷ series taglist — open ! ⤷ permanent taglist — open ! ⤷ warnings — this series contains mature themes, smut (some), toxic dynamics, fluff and angst

⤷ a/n — this is my second series and it’s still ongoing! some parts are already under editing and proofreading, so please be patient with updates and revisions. i’m taking my time to make each love story feel just right <3 thank you for being here 🫶

✩ˎˊ˗ ride with caution ( lhs ! )

⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3

⤷ pairing — heeseung x fem!reader

⤷ summary — lee heeseung has always been the kind of boy you were told to stay away from—reckless, with a trail of rumors that follow wherever he goes. they say he fights for fun, kisses without meaning, and never sticks around long enough to fall. you, on the other hand, have never had time for distractions. being one of decelis university’s most promising fashion majors, the spotlight’s already on you—you were supposed to avoid him. and you did. until a quiet offer of help changed everything. or, where the boy you never planned to look twice at ends up being the only one who sees right through you.

✩ˎˊ˗ sugar in the soil ( pjs ! )

⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3

⤷ pairing — jay x fem!reader

⤷ summary — your fascination with flowers was a quiet love you turned into your future. majoring in biology at decelis university, you often found yourself needing rare blooms, fresh clippings, or just the scent of something calming after long hours in the lab. that’s why the little flower shop down the street became your second home. the staff knew your name. mrs. park always had tea ready. until one afternoon, the usual calm was replaced with someone entirely unexpected—park jongseong, of all people. golden boy. heir to a business empire. the last person you'd expect to be arranging sunflowers behind the counter like he belonged there. or, where your love for flowers leads you to someone who's far more than just his reputation.

✩ˎˊ˗ under the same stars ( sjy ! )

⤷ part 1 | part 2 | part 3

⤷ pairing — jake x fem!reader

⤷ summary — you’ve never been the type to chase the noise. deciding early on that parties, people, and popularity were things better left outside your apartment door, you built a quiet life in the middle of the chaos that was decelis university. but across thin walls and late nights, you start to notice the boy whose music seeps through your walls, whose laughter echoes from the next balcony over, whose shadow you’ve memorized under moonlight—sim jaeyun, the university’s golden physics major with a reputation that stretches far beyond the quiet hallway you share. you never wanted to be involved. but he smiles at you like you placed the stars he’s been trying to understand his whole life. or, where a shared silence between two strangers becomes something that feels a lot like home.

✩ˎˊ˗ breaking the ice ( psh ! )

⤷ coming soon

⤷ pairing — sunghoon x fem!reader

⤷ summary — everyone said you were made for this—communication arts at decelis university, a packed schedule of volunteer work, campus events, and friend groups that always had a place for you at the table. you were loud when it counted, soft when needed, and you got along with just about everyone. except him. park sunghoon has been in the same circle, same rooms, same moments for years. and yet—he’s never said more than a handful of words to you. a mystery you didn’t ask for but somehow can’t stop chasing. and now you’re set on finding out what it is about you that makes him look away every time. or, where the boy who never speaks finally does—just not in the way you expect.

✩ˎˊ˗ the moon in his sky ( ksn ! )

⤷ coming soon

⤷ pairing — sunoo x fem!reader

⤷ summary — you’ve always loved performing. as a music major at decelis university, stages felt like home, and the spotlight never burned—it glowed. you lived for the thrill of it all: the crowd, the rush, the applause. but there was someone who loved it even more. kim sunoo, your classmate. always smiling, always glowing. everyone adored him—how could they not? he was warmth in every hallway, laughter in every shared glance. you never got close. just simple greetings and soft goodbyes. until the day you found him in your favorite coffee shop, eyes red, smile nowhere in sight. or, where even the brightest sun needs a moon to light the dark—and maybe, unknowingly, that’s exactly who you were becoming.

✩ˎˊ˗ where we begin ( yjw ! )

⤷ coming soon

⤷ pairing — jungwon x fem!reader

⤷ summary — yang jungwon has always been the type of guy people admired from afar—disciplined, composed, and respected, both as the president of the taekwondo club and the head of the athletics organization. you, on the other hand, weren’t in it for the love of sports. you just needed the credentials, and maybe a clean-looking resume. you didn’t talk. didn’t look his way. didn’t think he even knew your name. or, where a position you didn’t even want leads to a boy you didn’t expect. and somehow, he ends up needing you just as much as you need him.

✩ˎˊ˗ everything in between ( nk ! )

⤷ coming soon

⤷ pairing — ni-ki x fem!reader

⤷ summary — being park jongseong’s cousin came with expectations—polished, poised, and impossible to beat. as a business major in decelis university, you had your goals lined up like stepping stones, top of your class, heir to your family’s legacy, admired by most. except one. nishimura riki has been butting heads with you since high school. snide remarks in class, competitive glares across the room, an unspoken rivalry that somehow never faded even when you both entered university. he always seemed to have a comeback ready, and you were never one to back down either. or, where years of rivalry blur into something softer, and the boy you swore hated you might’ve just been hiding feelings all along.

⤷ permanent taglist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie @yjmylove @in-somnias-world @cripplinghooman @yeossified @ateez-atiny380 @chemiru @eleftheriance @deluluscenarios @simp4simlee @baedreamverse @lala-loopsydoll @elairah @my-neurodivergent-world @jakeyismine @laylasbunbunny @zealouscookierebeltrash @riddlerloveb0t @angelhyuka @saraabbas

⤷ series taglist — @seungsoftly @aloveminsalade @merakicafee @isagistar @heeknow @blooqz @k1ttyjwon @dearestdreamies @sourkiki @mixxie2203 @wonuzu @12e45 @fancypeacepersona @omlhyck @starfallia @koizekomi @hommyy-tommy @laylasbunbunny @aggarwaldrishti @bestboileeknow @meeghangryfun @liliawritesss @starfire21 @seokjinthescientist @iicehoon @stayupdates @carmenxhiu @atashiboba @therealmrsbahng @futuristicphilosophermagazine

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ relapse ( khj ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ ateez masterlist ( coming soon )

⤷ pairing — hongjoong x fem!reader

⤷ word count — 12k ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — hi my loves !! this is one of the last ateez pieces before i dive back into finishing my enhypen works. as always, thank you for the love, the support, and for staying with me through all my wips. please enjoy 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), rough sex, dom!hongjoong, bottom!reader, possessive!hongjoong, markings (hickies and biting), idol!au, idol!hongjoong, kinda runner!hongjoong, non-idol!reader, reader is seonghwa’s younger sister, fuck buddies, dirty talk, manhandling, oral sex (f & m receiving), hair pulling, choking (light), slapping (impact play), overstimulation, multiple rounds, creampie, praise kink, degradation (light), avoidant!hongjoong, aftercare, fluff

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — kim hongjoong is a man of control—over his music, his time, his life. but everyone has a guilty pleasure, and his just happens to be his best friend’s little sister—the one person he should never want, and the only one he can’t stay away from. or wherein what starts as stolen glances and unsaid rules turns into something neither distance nor self-control can outrun.

Hongjoong had half a mind to either throw Seonghwa off a cliff or drop to his knees and thank him like some sort of saint.

There was no in-between.

Because really—this was Seonghwa’s fault.

Hongjoong was a busy man. Not the kind of busy people exaggerated about over coffee, but the kind that lived in calendar blocks and half-finished meals.

His days started before the sun and ended long after it disappeared, hours spent hunched over a desk littered with lyric sheets and coffee cups gone cold, beats looping from nine to five until the walls of the studio felt like they were breathing with him.

Sleep was optional. Food was negotiable. Leisure was something he had to be dragged into, kicking and protesting, and even then his mind never really left work.

Some days, he missed the sun entirely.

Either locked inside the company studio, doors shut, lights dimmed just enough to keep him awake, or buried in sketchbooks filled with clothing designs he swore he’d release ‘soon’—a word that meant nothing and everything at once.

Creation followed him everywhere. It clung to his fingers, crawled into his head, refused to leave him alone even when his body begged for rest.

And Seonghwa knew this.

Which was why Hongjoong wanted to scream when Seonghwa introduced you.

Seonghwa—older, a brother he respected with years of shared history and quiet loyalty—had always been secretive. Protective to a fault. Especially when it came to family.

Even with the rest of the team, there were lines he never crossed, doors he never opened. So when he stepped aside and gestured toward you like it was nothing, Hongjoong’s first thought was disbelief.

Like hell.

It had been a year into their debut when Seonghwa finally decided to clear his throat in the middle of Hongjoong’s studio room.

The timing alone was criminal.

Hongjoong stood with his back turned, shoulders hunched, fingers hovering over the keyboard as the same eight bars looped for what felt like the hundredth time.

His hair was a mess, curls flattened in places from resting his forehead against the desk at some ungodly hour, and his white shirt reeked of coffee—bitter, stale, clinging to him like proof of the last forty-eight hours he hadn’t slept.

The studio lights were dimmed, not for atmosphere but mercy.

The soft sound behind him made him pause.

A throat clearing.

Hongjoong groaned before he even turned around, plopping his headphones down around his neck as he spun in his chair. He blinked, slow and unfocused, eyes burning as he tried to force the fog out of his head.

“What’s up?” he muttered, voice rough, like it had been dragged across concrete.

Seonghwa grimaced.

He stood way too close to the slightly open door, one hand braced against the frame as his eyes swept over Hongjoong in a single, assessing glance—taking in the dark circles, the stiff posture, the untouched takeout box sitting cold on the side table.

Then his gaze flicked to the large monitors behind Hongjoong, the waveform frozen mid-loop.

“When was the last time you slept?” Seonghwa asked.

Hongjoong shrugged, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm. He leaned forward to grab the discarded hoodie off the carpeted floor, pulling it over himself like armor, tugging the hood halfway up his head to look marginally more presentable.

“Two days ago,” he said flatly. “What do you need?”

Straight to the point. Always.

Seonghwa sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For the love of God, fix yourself up. I’m giving you ten minutes.”

Hongjoong blinked at him, slow and lazy, the words barely registering. “Ten minutes for what?”

“I want to introduce you to someone.”

That made Hongjoong pause.

He stared at Seonghwa like he’d just spoken a different language. Introduce. Someone. In his studio. Now.

“Oh,” Hongjoong muttered, turning back to his desk. “Can it wait?”

“No.”

That got his attention.

Seonghwa’s soft gaze sharpened, the warmth draining as his patience thinned. “Ten minutes, Kim Hongjoong.”

Seonghwa pushed the door shut, harder than necessary, the click echoing through the studio. Hongjoong flinched, scowling as he leaned back in his chair.

“Good grief,” he muttered under his breath.

Hongjoong sighed, long and tired, reaching for the untouched water bottle on his desk. The plastic crinkled under his grip as he twisted the cap open, took a short sip, then another—enough to calm himself, not enough to wake him up.

He pushed open the door to the cramped bathroom tucked inside the studio, the hinges creaking softly as if even the room knew better than to be loud.

The mirror greeted him with a version of himself he barely recognized. He leaned forward, bracing both hands against the sink before splashing water onto his face.

He scrubbed his hands together, dragged damp fingers through his ash-dyed hair in a futile attempt to tame it, watching curls spring right back out of place like they always did. His eyes flicked downward briefly, irritation flaring when he noticed the zipper of his pants—half undone.

He fixed it with a quiet curse.

Five hours. That was how long he’d been in and out of the bathroom without noticing.

He exhaled, straightened, tugged at the hem of his hoodie, then turned off the light and stepped back out.

Ten minutes later, when he finally left the studio for real, he had to blink against the harsh brightness of the company hallway. The overhead lights felt aggressive after hours in dim silence, and it took a second for his eyes to adjust.

That was when he saw Seonghwa.

Their oldest member sat by the long chairs outside the studio, posture relaxed, one arm draped casually over the backrest. But he wasn’t alone.

He was talking to someone.

Hongjoong slowed, steps faltering without him meaning to. He hovered just at the edge of the hallway, half-hidden by the doorframe, suddenly unsure whether to move forward or retreat back into the safety of four walls and unfinished music.

The dark hair caught the light first—soft, almost glowing. It bounced slightly as you laughed, the sound was light, slipping easily past Seonghwa’s usual composure. Hongjoong watched the way Seonghwa leaned in just a fraction, listening, engaged.

Too engaged.

You seemed too deep into the conversation to notice anything else, and for a moment Hongjoong considered staying exactly where he was—unseen, untouched, unaffected.

But the lock of the studio door slid into place behind him, louder than it had any right to be.

Seonghwa turned at the sound.

And just like that, Hongjoong’s breath was stolen from his lungs.

Not the way it happened on stage, under lights and cheers, adrenaline pumping so hard it felt like flying. Not the kind that came with choreo so sharp it knocked the air out of him.

This was different.

Seonghwa straightened, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re alive,” he said mildly.

Hongjoong swallowed. “Barely.”

Your gaze followed Seonghwa’s, landing on him.

Hongjoong reasoned it had to be the caffeine.

Or maybe the sudden palpitations coursing through his veins were from the harsh morning light finally greeting him after hours of artificial dimness. That had to be it.

Anything but the way his chest felt tight all of a sudden, like something had lodged itself right behind his ribs.

Seonghwa hummed as he stood, meeting Hongjoong halfway. The latter lifted his fist lazily, bumping it against Seonghwa’s in greeting.

Seonghwa grimaced. “Have some manners, you moron.”

Hongjoong winced. “Ow.”

Despite himself, despite you sitting right there, Seonghwa reached out and patted Hongjoong’s shoulder, firm and familiar. “Come on,” he added, already nudging him forward. “It’s bad to keep a lady waiting, you know.”

The hallway felt narrower. Closer. Hongjoong suddenly became painfully aware of the hoodie clinging to his skin, oversized as it was, trapping heat instead of hiding him. His palms felt warm. His pulse was loud.

You stood up as they approached.

The soft fabric of your dress brushed your upper thighs where it ended, the coat draped around your shoulders doing little to hide the movement.

You smiled—easy, genuine—when the two of them stopped in front of you, and Hongjoong had the absurd thought that maybe he wasn’t as short as he always claimed to be.

Because the way he seemed to tower over you did something strange to him.

Seonghwa shifted beside you, leaving your side briefly, and said with a grin far too smug, “You’re one lucky bastard. You’re the first one I’m introducing her to.”

You rolled your eyes. “Language.”

Seonghwa’s grin softened instantly, sheepish in a way Hongjoong had never seen before. “My bad.”

Hongjoong raised a brow, watching the way their oldest member’s usually demanding, careful exterior melted into something warmer—gentler—when he looked at you. It unsettled him more than he expected.

Seonghwa turned back to Hongjoong, who was now openly bewildered. “Hongjoong,” he said evenly, “this is my younger sister—(Y/N).”

Hongjoong’s breath hitched.

“(Y/N),” Seonghwa continued, glancing at you, “this is Hongjoong. Our leader.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You stepped forward and held out your hand, and before Hongjoong could think better of it, instinct took over. He clasped your hand firmly, the span of his fingers wrapping around yours completely. Your skin was warm. Soft.

A bright smile lit up your face. “It’s really nice to meet you,” you said. “I hope Seonghwa’s been nothing but kind.”

Silence answered you.

Hongjoong stared. Blank.

You tilted your head, concern flickering across your expression as you leaned in just a little, lowering your voice. “Are you okay?”

The scent of strawberries reached him then—light, sweet, unmistakable.

He inhaled sharply.

Hongjoong cleared his throat, finally remembering himself, gently shaking your hand that was still held in his. “Sorry,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “I’m Hongjoong. It’s nice to meet you, (Y/N).”

He tested your name on his tongue.

It felt sweet—strangely sweet—for someone he had just met.

Weirdly sweet for him, who never let people that close that fast. Not the way he scolded the members, not the way he watched staff move quietly behind cameras, always careful, always distant.

This was different. Entirely different.

Your hand was still in his, soft and warm, shaking slightly with a kind of nervous excitement he didn’t hate. Didn’t mind. Might’ve liked, actually. You leaned closer without realizing it, closing the small space between you until Seonghwa let out a low chuckle.

“Okay,” Seonghwa said, amused. “Give the man some space, (Y/N). He values it.”

You blinked, cheeks immediately dusted pink. “Oh—my bad. I’m so sorry. I just—” you laughed softly as you stepped back, your warmth leaving his grasp far too soon, “I’m just excited to meet you.”

Hongjoong felt the cold immediately.

He had half a mind to curse Seonghwa for pulling you away—verbally, at least—but instead, a smile crept onto his lips before he could stop it. Small. Unguarded.

“I don’t mind,” Hongjoong said, shaking his head. “It’s fine.”

Seonghwa hummed under his breath, eyes narrowing just slightly as he observed the way Hongjoong’s usually sharp exterior seemed to melt within minutes of meeting you.

That wasn’t normal.

Hongjoong tilted his head, gesturing down the hallway. “So,” he asked, casual despite the way his heart still hadn’t settled, “what are you doing here?”

Your eyes lit up instantly. “Oh! I don’t have university today,” you said, nodding. “So Seonghwa thought it’d be a good idea to bring me around. And, well—I didn’t really have anything else to do.”

As you spoke, you started walking, and Hongjoong—without thinking—fell into step beside you. The two of you moved slowly down the hallway, your voice animated as you talked about your schedule, your classes, the way your hands moved when you explained things.

Seonghwa trailed behind, watching with open disbelief as their leader—who guarded his personal space like it was sacred ground—let you walk beside him, nodding, responding, occasionally glancing down at you with an expression Seonghwa couldn’t quite place.

Seonghwa sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “Do I want Kim Hongjoong as my brother-in-law?” he muttered to himself.

Ahead of him, Hongjoong laughed quietly at something you said.

Hongjoong decided—very calmly—that he wanted to throw Seonghwa off a cliff.

Because why, out of all the days and all the free hours they barely ever had, did Seonghwa think it was a good idea to invite you again?

Everyone else had scattered the moment they were released from schedules. San and Yeosang had claimed the company gym, already mid-competition over who could outlast the other.

Yunho and Mingi were nowhere to be found—later reports from staff would confirm they’d passed out in one of the lounges after a disastrous attempt to see who could eat and drink the most from the cafeteria downstairs.

Jongho and Wooyoung were apparently chasing each other through the halls, laughter echoing wherever they went.

And Hongjoong was sitting rigidly beside you.

You occupied the seat next to him, delicate fingers flying over Seonghwa’s laptop—the same one he’d handed you without hesitation before excusing himself to the bathroom.

That had been twenty minutes ago.

Twenty minutes of Seonghwa not returning.

Twenty minutes of Hongjoong gripping an iced coffee so hard the condensation soaked into his palm, cold and slick, grounding him just enough to keep him from spiraling. He’d bought three drinks earlier—muscle memory, habit—but now there were only two.

Seonghwa, traitor that he was, had left you alone with him anyway.

The space between your thighs was minimal. Just a few inches. Close enough that Hongjoong was painfully aware of every small movement you made.

His gaze betrayed him.

It drifted from the lengthy paper pulled up on the screen to your hands, to the charms on your nails catching the fluorescent lights overhead. Tiny details. Colors he wouldn’t normally notice.

He hummed quietly, eyes flicking up to scan the nearly empty company cafeteria. A few staff lingered behind the counter, voices low as they took their own quick breaks. Otherwise, it was quiet. Too quiet.

“So,” Hongjoong said finally, voice softer than he intended, “what are you working on?”

You glanced at him, eyes bright. “Oh—this? Just an assignment. Seonghwa said I could finish it here while he waited.”

At that, Hongjoong took a slow sip of the iced coffee in his hands, the bitterness calming him as he ignored the way your voice stirred something restless in his chest. It usually took obscene amounts of caffeine to get his heart racing like this—but this felt different.

It was unwarranted, unwanted.

He pushed it down.

“Hm,” he grumbled, raising a brow as he leaned just slightly closer, bracing one hand against the edge of the table. Close enough to read a few lines on the screen without meaning to. “Where is your brother anyway?”

You blinked at him.

Long lashes brushed the apples of your cheeks, and Hongjoong craned his head to the side a fraction, suddenly very invested in the condensation sliding down his cup—anything to hide the heat creeping up his face.

He cursed under his breath.

You looked like Seonghwa in more ways than one. The doe-eyed glances when you looked up, the soft giggles that escaped without warning, the easy smiles. But where Seonghwa was elegant and androgynous, you were—dangerously—something else.

Pure beauty.

The kind that made Hongjoong uneasy.

You hummed thoughtfully. “He said he had a recording today.”

That made Hongjoong turn fully to you, brow lifting. “Recording?”

You nodded, lashes fluttering again as you met his gaze. The hem of your dress brushed your knees when you moved, fabric catching the light—another reason, Hongjoong decided, that Seonghwa deserved to be thrown off a cliff.

He let you leave the house looking like this?

“Since when does Seonghwa schedule things and then disappear for half an hour?” Hongjoong muttered.

You laughed softly. “Since always.”

Hongjoong huffed, the sound barely audible over the café’s low hum, fingers tightening around his cup. He knew—for a fact—that Seonghwa didn’t have a recording today.

He’d gone over the free schedules with one of the managers just two days ago, color-coding, annotating, making sure nothing slipped through the cracks. Seonghwa’s name had been glaringly empty.

Which meant this wasn’t work.

He took another sip of his coffee, eyes flicking to the window for half a second before they came back to you. You were already watching him, chin tilted just slightly, eyes warm in that infuriatingly calm way that made him feel like he was the one being studied.

You lifted your cup, took a slow sip, then smiled at him over the rim.

Hongjoong tilted his head, brow knitting together. There was something about the way you held his gaze—unblinking, unapologetic—that made it feel like you were peeling him open layer by layer. And then, absentmindedly, you licked your lips. Soft. Unrushed.

He looked away a beat too late.

A second. That was all it took.

One second too long, and Yunho’s knowing brow raise from a few days earlier flashed in his mind—every time you stood just a little too close to him, every time Hongjoong leaned down instead of asking you to speak up.

“You always do that,” Hongjoong said suddenly.

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Smile like you know something I don’t.”

You laughed again, quieter this time, eyes crinkling. “Maybe I do.”

He scoffed. “Seonghwa’s either hiding somewhere to get peace and quiet, or he’s setting us up.”

“Us?” you echoed, amused.

He shot you a look. “Don’t play dumb.”

Your smile softened, but you didn’t deny it. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, crossing your legs slowly. “He’s protective, sure. But he’s not stupid. He knows I can handle myself.”

Hongjoong’s jaw ticked. “That’s not what worries me.”

“Oh?” you teased. “Then what does?”

Before he could stop himself, the words slipped out. “That he trusts me with you.”

Silence settled between you—the kind that made the air feel heavier, warmer.

You leaned forward, elbows resting on the table now, voice dropping just enough to make his pulse jump. “And can you?”

Hongjoong stared at you, heart thudding against his ribs. He thought of Seonghwa—his careful eyes, his quiet warnings masked as casual concern.

Thought of how the older member had introduced you with that calm smile, like he was handing Hongjoong something precious and dangerous all at once.

He absolutely wanted to throw Seonghwa off a cliff.

Hongjoong was thinking of more ways than one to kill Seonghwa. He had, in fact, brainstormed at least seven different ways to do it.

Months. It had been months of knowing you, of shared schedules and accidental touches and conversations that lingered a second too long, and still—still—he found himself jumpy, skittish, like a rookie with a crush he didn’t know how to name without choking on it.

There were days he couldn’t even look at you properly.

Like when you’d be sitting on the couch in the practice room, legs tucked under you, scrolling through your phone while he stood behind you pretending to check choreography notes.

His eyes would drift—unbidden—toward your face, the curve of your jaw, the way your lashes brushed your cheeks when you blinked.

And then he’d snap his gaze away like he’d been burned.

“Hyung,” Mingi’s voice cut through the air, dripping with amusement. “If you turn your head any faster, you’re going to snap your neck.”

It was a losing battle.

Every time you were in the room, Hongjoong’s throat would suddenly feel like sandpaper. He’d clear his throat more times than was socially acceptable, usually resulting in a quiet, awkward coughing fit that drew everyone’s attention—specifically yours.

“You okay?” you’d ask, already on your feet.

“I’m fine,” he’d croak, waving a hand uselessly.

You never listened.

You’d cross the room in seconds, palm warm and gentle between his shoulder blades, patting softly. “Breathe, Joong. Slow down.”

That was usually when it got worse.

His cough would hitch, ears flushing a deep, unmistakable red as he tried to lean away without being obvious. “Y—you don’t have to—really, I’ve got it—”

You had pulled your hand back, eyes wide and slightly hurt, and Hongjoong had wanted to die right there. He hadn’t meant to be sharp, but the feeling of your hand on him through his thin shirt was enough to send his heart rate into the danger zone.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the mornings when you decided to visit their dorm.

Hongjoong stood under the spray of the shower, the water turned to a freezing, icy blast.

He had purposely cranked the handle all the way to ‘cold,’ ignoring the heater entirely. The freezing morning ambience of the bathroom was torture, but it was a necessary one.

He gripped the tiled wall, shivering violently as the water sluiced over him, willing his body to calm the fuck down. It was the only way he could walk out there and face you.

Because you had shown up today in that dress. It wasn’t even that it was inherently inappropriate—it was skimpy in the way that clung to your curves, the hem brushing dangerously high, the neckline dipping just low enough to make him lose his mind every time you leaned forward.

He squeezed his eyes shut, resting his forehead against the cold tile as the freezing water pounded against his back.

It was the only thing capable of killing the very evident, very persistent hard-on that had been tormenting him since the moment he opened the front door and saw you standing there.

“Get it together,” he muttered to himself, teeth chattering slightly.

When he finally emerged, towel-drying his hair and wearing layers to hide the fact that he was still freezing, the tension in the kitchen was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Seonghwa was sitting at the counter, meticulously building a LEGO structure, his expression unreadable. You were moving around the kitchen, unpacking the containers of food you had prepared the night before, setting them out on the counter.

You paused, glancing toward the hallway where Hongjoong had just appeared, looking slightly traumatized and shivering.

“Is he okay?” you asked, your brow furrowed as you looked at your brother. “He looks like he’s freezing to death.”

Seonghwa sighed, long and suffering, placing another red brick onto the castle. He didn’t even look up as he tilted his head, his voice flat.

“You two are grown, mature adults,” he said evenly. “Figure it out yourselves, yeah?”

Hongjoong stood in the doorway, clutching his hoodie around himself like a shield, staring at Seonghwa with absolute betrayal.

The older man just went back to his bricks, whistling a low tune, effectively leaving Hongjoong to fend for himself against the scent of your perfume and the memory of that damn dress.

Hongjoong wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what game Seonghwa was playing, even if the older member pretended to be aloof, whistling at Legos like he hadn’t just engineered a domestic trap.

Hongjoong saw through it. Seonghwa was setting you up with the only person he deemed competent enough to handle you, someone to pull you from your university spirals and bad habits.

It wasn’t just about protection; it was about trust.

It was why, on the nights you came over crying because you got a ninety-eight instead of a perfect hundred, you ended up in their arms. And it was why Hongjoong was usually the one suffering for it.

He still remembered the last time, sitting on the couch with your tear-streaked face buried in his shoulder, his own face burning red as he mumbled some excuse about forgetting to get you both water—just to escape the suffocating scent of your shampoo and the warmth of your body against his.

Other days, you’d seek comfort differently.

You’d lie down on his lap while he worked in his studio, his heart hammering against his ribs so violently he was sure you could hear it.

He’d wanted to fetch Seonghwa those days, wanted to beg for backup, but the older man was nowhere near Hongdae. He was off in Seoul for some brand photoshoot, having settled down with their manager a few days ago, leaving Hongjoong alone with his crumbling patience.

Hongjoong knew better than to break Seonghwa’s trust. He knew better than to take advantage of your vulnerability when you felt sad.

So what the fuck was he doing the moment he locked the doors to his studio?

He had one arm hooked around your waist, keeping you steady on his lap, holding you in place with a grip that bordered on desperate.

You were pliant, warm, and utterly devastating.

His mouth was busy placing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your exposed neck, the off-the-shoulder design of your dress giving him easier access than he had any right to take.

He was leaving bruises in his wake, little dark marks blooming on your skin like a claim he was too terrified to speak aloud. He pulled back for a split second, smirking at the glint of his saliva on your skin, before diving back in.

“Hongjoong…” you whimpered, your voice wrecked.

His other hand was currently knuckle-deep in your pussy, the sounds obscene and sloppy, echoing lewdly in the small room. He pumped his fingers in and out, curling them just right, addicted to the way your walls clenched around him.

Your hands were gripping his shoulders desperately, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

“Hongjoong, please…”

The sound of his name on your lips made him hum, dark and satisfied. He pressed a soft, mocking kiss to your tear-stained cheek.

Was it the second or third time he’d gotten you cumming on his fingers alone? He couldn’t tell himself with the amount of slick gushing out of you, coating his fingers and the rings that sat on them snugly.

Your panties pushed aside and the material of his pants soaked, but he didn’t have a single care—he could always get them cleaned out, as he says.

“Yes?” he murmured against your skin, voice low and teasing, his thumb circling your swollen clit with pressure that made your hips buck involuntarily. The way your walls fluttered around him, sucking him deeper like you couldn’t get enough, had his cock twitching hard beneath you, straining against the confines of his pants.

He could feel the heat of your core seeping through, the damp spot on his thigh growing with every desperate grind you made.

You were a mess in his hold, breaths coming in ragged gasps, your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as if clinging yourself to reality. “Please… I—I can’t…” you stuttered, but your body betrayed you, chasing the friction of his hand, the curl of his fingers hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

Hongjoong chuckled softly, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours, his free hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, tilting your head just enough to expose more of your throat. He nipped at the fresh hickey blooming there, sucking until the skin turned a deeper shade of purple, marking you as his.

“Shh, baby, you can,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “You take it so well for me—look at you, soaking my hand like this. Feel how wet you are?”

He pulled his fingers out just enough to let you hear the lewd squelch, then plunged them back in, deeper this time, scissoring them to stretch you open. 

Your cry was muffled against his shoulder, body trembling as another wave built low in your belly, coiling tighter with every thrust of his hand.

The rings on his fingers added that extra bite of sensation, the cool metal warming against your heated walls, dragging along every sensitive ridge.

He shifted beneath you, his arm around your waist tightening to keep you from slipping off his lap, the other hand relentless now, pumping in and out with a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart.

“That’s it, let go again,” he urged, voice husky with his own arousal, eyes dark as he watched your face contort in pleasure.

Tears slipped down your cheeks anew, not from stress this time, but from the overwhelming rush crashing through you.

Your thighs quivered, clamping around his wrist as you shattered, pussy pulsing wildly around his fingers, more slick flooding out to drench his palm.

Hongjoong didn’t stop, not right away—slowing to gentle strokes, drawing out your high until you were whimpering, oversensitive and boneless in his arms.

He withdrew his hand finally, bringing his glistening fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a groan that sent shivers down your spine.

“Taste so fucking good,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours, the intensity in them making your core clench around nothing.

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a messy kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, the salt of your tears mixing with the sweetness of your release.

Pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, he smoothed a hand over your hair, thumb wiping away the fresh tracks on your cheeks.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked softly, the protective edge creeping back into his tone, even as his cock throbbed insistently against your hip.

He wanted to take care of you—always had—but right now, with you like this, vulnerable and sated in his lap, the lines blurred in the best way possible.

Hongjoong hummed low in his throat, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into yours, a soothing sound that made your eyelids flutter.

“I'm gonna have to clean you up, (Y/N),” he murmured, his voice husky from exertion, eyes flicking toward the box of tissues perched on the edge of his desk just a few feet away.

The studio felt even quieter now, the faint hum of the air conditioner the only backdrop to your shared breaths, the empty space amplifying every rustle and sigh.

You slumped your head onto his shoulder, exhaustion pulling at your limbs like weights, but you wrapped your arms around his neck anyway—desperate for the solid warmth of him, the way his body enveloped yours so completely.

Your fingers tangled in the damp strands at the nape of his neck, inhaling the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat. Despite the tiredness weighing you down, you nuzzled closer, your cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

With a contented sigh, Hongjoong moved beneath you, his strong arms flexing as he effortlessly lifted you just a few inches—enough to give him access without fully separating your bodies.

The movement made your pussy clench involuntarily around nothing, a fresh trickle of your arousal seeping out, and you bit your lip to stifle another whimper.

He grabbed a handful of tissues from the box, his touch gentle as he brought them between your legs, dabbing carefully at your swollen folds.

You hissed sharply at the contact, your hips jerking away on instinct. “Sensitive,” you whispered, voice breathy and cracked, burying your face deeper into his shoulder as a shiver raced up your spine.

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Hongjoong cooed.

He worked methodically, wiping away the evidence of your passion with feather-light strokes, his free hand rubbing soothing patterns on your lower back.

Internally, he marveled at how fragile you looked like this—flushed and spent, trusting him with every vulnerable inch of you. He tossed the used tissues into the small bin tucked below the desk, the soft thud barely audible in the stillness.

Once you were as clean as he could manage, he reached down to slide your panties back into place, the lace whispering over your sensitive skin.

He sighed softly, noting how the fabric that had been pushed aside earlier remained miraculously unstained and dry—a small mercy in the heat of the moment. His fingers lingered for a second, tracing the edge before he patted your hair down gently, trying to tame the wild tangles and smooth out the flush on your cheeks.

He wanted you to look less thoroughly fucked out, more like you could pass for just tired if anyone glanced in, though the thought of hiding this from the world twisted something jealous in his gut.

Hongjoong pulled you closer, his arms banding around your waist as he muttered to himself under his breath, “Seonghwa’s going to kill me.”

The words were half-joking, half-serious, his mind flashing to the promises he’d made months ago—vows to keep things professional, to not cross that line with you, Seonghwa’s little sister by proxy in their tight-knit circle.

This could never happen again.

But he knew to himself that it was a lie.

Because now, here he was again, caging you beneath him on his bed.

The dorm was empty, the kind of heavy, silence that only happened when everyone else was out running errands or attending schedules. It was just you and him, alone in the dim light of his room.

And it was all Seonghwa’s fault, really.

He had called you earlier that morning, rambling something about not opening his door because he was locked in a schedule, and adding something about how “He’s been weird, (Y/N),”

You'd laughed it off then, but you hadn't hesitated—rushing to the dorm without a second thought, leaving everything behind in your haste. It had led you straight here, tangled in sheets that still smelled faintly of him, your body marked by his touch.

“You really came running, didn’t you?” Hongjoong murmured now, his lips brushing your temple as he settled his weight more fully atop you, one hand cupping your face to tilt it up toward his.

Gently, he pushed the small strands of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering to tuck them behind your ear with a care that made your breath hitch.

His other arm, previously braced beside your head, slid lower, wrapping around your waist to pull you impossibly closer beneath him.

The sheets of his bed rumpled further under the shift, cool against your heated back, a contrast to the fire building where his body pressed into yours. He dipped his head, trailing soft kisses down the column of your neck, each one a feather-light press that ignited sparks along your nerves.

Your shirt—his oversized tee that you’d thrown on haphazardly earlier—rode up with his movements, bunching at your ribs to expose the soft flesh of your stomach.

In the low glow from the bedside lamp, your skin seemed to shimmer, supple and inviting, drawing his gaze like a magnet. Hongjoong’s lips found that bare expanse, sucking gently on the tender skin just above your navel, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your perspiration.

The sensation pulled a low moan from deep in your throat, your back arching off the mattress in a instinctive bow, pressing your core against the hard line of his thigh still slotted between your legs.

Your hand reached up instinctively, fingers threading through the soft, disheveled strands of his hair, tugging lightly as his mouth ventured lower.

The world narrowed to the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin, your mind already fogging with anticipation, every nerve attuned to his touch.

He hovered just above the lace waistband of your panties, the fabric still slightly askew from before, and tilted his head up to meet your hazy gaze.

“Tell me what you want,” he muttered, voice rough and laced with hunger, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your pulse race.

You blinked down at him, the pleasure already coiling tight in your belly, words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

His hands reached down, fingers toying with the delicate lace edge, tracing the curve of your hip before he pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh. The warmth of his mouth there made your muscles quiver, a shiver racing up your spine.

“I need words, sweetheart,” he said softly, his tone firm yet coaxing, lips brushing the sensitive skin as he waited, his breath fanning over you.

“Please, Hongjoong,” you whispered, the plea escaping on a shaky exhale, your hips shifting restlessly beneath him. “I need you—anything. Just… don’t stop.”

He didn’t hesitate, a low growl rumbling in his chest as his fingers hooked into the waistband and tugged the laced fabric down your thighs, the cool air of the room kissing your exposed pussy.

Instinctively, your legs drew together, a reflexive shyness flooding you despite the vulnerability of the moment, but Hongjoong clicked his tongue in gentle admonishment.

His hands were there in an instant, palms pressing against your inner thighs to part them softly, slotting his broad shoulders between your legs with effortless strength.

He groaned, the sound vibrating through you as he settled in, his face inches from your core. “Stop that,” he murmured, voice thick with desire. “You’re beautiful—every inch of you. Let me see.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the reverence in his words, a flush creeping up your neck even as your body relaxed under his touch.

He pressed a series of kisses along your upper thigh, nipping lightly at the skin with his teeth—bites that teased without leaving marks, mindful of your love for those shortest dresses and skirts that hugged your figure and turned heads.

The faint sting bloomed into warmth, making you squirm, a giggle bubbling up unexpectedly. “Joong, that tickles,” you laughed, the sound light and breathless, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He smiled against your thigh, the curve of his lips pressing into your skin as he glanced up at you, eyes sparkling with mischief and affection.

Without another word, he leaned in, giving an experimental lick up the length of your folds—flat and slow, his tongue dragging through your slick heat.

Your eyes fluttered shut, a gasp tearing from your lips as pleasure jolted through you like electricity, your fingers finding purchase in his hair once more, arching your hips toward his mouth in silent demand.

Hongjoong groaned at the taste of you, the vibration sending fresh waves of sensation pulsing through your core. His arms reached up, hands splaying across your lower stomach, pressing down firmly to pin you in place as you whined against the restraint, your body writhing instinctively.

He held you steady, his tongue darting in once more—experimental at first, circling your entrance before flicking up to tease your clit. The direct contact made you moan sharply, the sound raw and unrestrained.

“Ngh—Hongjoong,” you gasped, but your hand flew to your mouth, muffling the noise in a surge of self-consciousness.

He paused, one hand lifting to pat your lower stomach once—a gentle reminder that made you drop your hand immediately.

Raising a brow from between your legs, his gaze met yours. “None of that shy bullshit,” he said, voice low and edged with playfulness, before diving back in.

His assault was relentless now, tongue lapping and sucking at your folds with hunger, groaning deeply at the tangy sweetness of your juices coating his mouth. The wet sounds of his efforts filled the quiet room, mingling with your escalating whimpers.

One hand released its hold on your thigh, sliding down to slowly push a single finger into your welcoming heat—the intrusion slick and easy, your walls clenching around him greedily.

You moaned out loud, the stretch amplifying every sensation. “Fuck—right there,” you panted, hips bucking despite his grip, chasing the building pressure.

Hongjoong hummed in response, the vibration humming against your clit as he knew your body better than you sometimes did himself—curling his finger just so, scissoring it in and out with strokes that hit that perfect spot inside you.

The sweetest moans spilled from your lips, unfiltered and desperate, your body trembling under him as whimpers turned to pleas. He released your clit with a small, obscene pop, pulling back just enough to watch your face contort in utter bliss—brows furrowed, cheeks flushed a deep pink, lips parted on silent cries.

A small smirk tugged at his lips, turning into a full grin as he admired you, never ceasing the rhythm of his finger. ‘God, she’s never looked prettier,’ he thought, chest swelling with a fierce protectiveness and adoration.

Your moans grew small and breathy, the telltale sign he recognized instantly, and he tilted his head, voice muffled against your skin. “You cumming for me, sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically, words barely coherent. “I’m close—please, don’t stop.”

Hongjoong wasted no time, diving back into your folds with renewed vigor, his tongue lapping and assaulting every sensitive surface he could reach—circling your clit, delving into your entrance alongside his finger, adding a second to stretch you further.

The dual sensations overwhelmed you, pleasure cresting like a tidal wave until you shattered, gushing around his fingers in hot pulses that coated his lips and chin.

He groaned at the taste, lapping it up greedily, his free hand stroking your thigh soothingly as you rode out the high, body quaking in his hold.

Hongjoong smiled lightly at the blissed-out look on your face, his chest tightening with a fondness so potent it almost hurt. You looked wrecked, completely undone by his hands, yet there was a softness to your features that made his heart stutter.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned down, resting his forehead against the soft skin of your thigh. The position was intimate, calming him amidst the chaos of his own racing thoughts.

Your fingers found their way into his hair, threading through the damp strands gently, your nails scratching lightly at his scalp in a way that made him hum in contentment.

The silence in the room was heavy, but it wasn’t uncomfortable—it was thick with unspoken words and the scent of what you’d just done.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of your skin, and the question that had been haunting him for months surfaced again, louder this time.

Just how many more months and years could the both of you hide whatever this is?

It was getting harder. Before, it was just lingering glances and accidental touches. Now, it was locked doors and bitten-back moans, it was sneaking around behind Seonghwa’s back like a guilty teenager despite the fact that you were both adults.

Hongjoong knew he was playing a dangerous game. He was falling in love with his best friend’s little sister, and worse, he was letting himself indulge in it.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you murmured sleepily, your voice vibrating through him where his head rested.

Hongjoong let out a huff of amusement, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Can you hear my thoughts?”

“No,” you hummed, your hand continuing to stroke his hair, the rhythmic motion soothing him more than he cared to admit.

“But I know that look. It’s the one you get when you’re weighing the pros and cons of something you know you shouldn’t be doing.”

He lifted his head then, propping his chin up on your stomach so he could look at you. His eyes were serious, searching yours for any sign of regret, but he found none. You were looking at him with a soft gaze that made his breath hitch.

“I’m just wondering how long we can keep getting away with this,” Hongjoong admitted softly, his voice rough in the quiet room. “Sooner or later, Seonghwa is going to notice. He knows everything.”

You reached down, tracing the line of his jaw with your thumb. “Then maybe we stop hiding.’

“It’s not that simple,” he said, though he leaned into your touch like a starved man. “He trusts me. I’m the one who’s supposed to be looking out for you, not… not defiling you in my room.”

“I’m not a child, Hongjoong,” you scolded gently, your fingers trailing down to play with the chain around his neck. “And you didn’t defile me. I wanted this just as much as you did. More, maybe.”

Hongjoong chuckled, a low, dry sound, as he caught your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You have no idea what you do to me. It scares the shit out of me sometimes.”

“Join the club,” you teased, though your smile was soft. “But for now… can we just have this? Just this moment? Let’s worry about Seonghwa later.”

It turned out that Hongjoong’s way of ‘looking out for you’ looked an awful lot like disappearing from your life for five months.

It started slow. The secret dates where he’d meet you in darkened corners of the city turned into casual hangouts with the rest of the group whenever they had a break from the stage.

Those intimate movie marathons in his studio, where he’d hold you until his arm went numb, were replaced by you laughing in the cafeteria with Mingi.

Hongjoong had watched from a distance the other day, his jaw tight, as Mingi eagerly showed you his favorite way to eat ramen, Yunho cackling beside you when Mingi’s clumsiness resulted in sauce splattering everywhere instead of in his mouth.

The stolen kisses and desperate make-out sessions inside empty dance practice rooms had evaporated into thin air. Now, when you passed each other in the hallway, you were lucky if you got a small hug or a stiff pat on the back.

It hurt. It hurt to admit it, but it fucking hurt. And he knew it hurt you too.

Hongjoong sat at the dining table in the middle of the dorm living room, his laptop open in front of him, glowing with the faces of their managers on a video conference. He was nodding at whatever they were saying—something about tour logistics and stage timings—but he wasn’t hearing a word.

He had signed up for a 6km run tomorrow late afternoon, a grueling addition to his already packed schedule. He told himself it was for a better cause, for stamina, for the team.

But really? It was just an outlet. A way to burn off the pent-up sexual frustration and the self-loathing that came from choosing to push you away. Every time he saw you smile at someone else, it felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

In the kitchen, a huge mess had erupted.

You were currently in the middle of a flour fight with San. Hongjoong’s eyes darted over, watching as San dumped a handful of flour onto your head.

He used his fingers to twirl the white powder into your hair, laughing as he admired how the dusting contrasted with the brown dyed strands you took such great care of.

You were giggling, face flushed, and Hongjoong had to physically restrain himself from marching over there and wiping that smug look off San’s face.

San grabbed another handful of flour, squishing it onto your cheeks, and the physical contact made Hongjoong’s fists clench under the table.

Seonghwa walked into the room then, looking like a zombie.

His hair was a messy mess from sleep, dark circles under his eyes, and he was cradling the half-built Lego car he’d been obsessively sorting for the past week like it was a newborn baby. He shuffled toward the dining table, squinting at the scene before him.

He sat across from Hongjoong, placing the Lego structure down gently, and raised a brow at the open laptop. He leaned in, trying to gauge the noise level, then whispered, “Are you muted?”

Hongjoong nodded sharply, dragging a hand through his own hair, the stress making his scalp itch. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m muted. They’re just reviewing the draft schedules.”

Seonghwa let out a long, dramatic sigh, his shoulders slumping in relief. “Oh, thank fuck. I felt like I was going crazy. I thought they were yelling at me through the screen.”

“Everybody else is asleep?” Hongjoong asked, his voice low.

“Passed out,” Seonghwa mumbled, rubbing his face. “Except for those two idiots.”

Suddenly, a squeal of laughter escaped your lips from the kitchen, loud and bright. San had apparently managed to get flour down your shirt, judging by the way you were squirming.

“Look at those two,” Seonghwa said, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated as he gestured vaguely toward the kitchen with his chin. “They’re going to make a mess that I’ll have to clean up tomorrow.’

“They’re just having fun,” Hongjoong forced himself to say, though the words tasted like ash in his mouth. He glanced back at the laptop, nodding mechanically at the screen.

“Are you listening to me, Hongjoong?” the manager’s voice blasted through the speakers suddenly, making Hongjoong jump.

“Yes!” Hongjoong lied quickly, clicking the mute button just in case. “I’m taking notes. Just… thinking about the run tomorrow.”

“Right,” Seonghwa said, giving him a side-eye that told Hongjoong he wasn’t buying the act for a second. “The run. You sure that’s the only thing you’re running from?”

Hongjoong couldn’t stop the glare that carved itself into his face the second the words left Seonghwa’s mouth.

Paired with that infuriatingly smooth tone—and the teasing grin that followed—it was lethal.

“Shut up,” Hongjoong muttered under his breath, fingers already moving again, typing out the details for their upcoming Asia tour with far more force than necessary.

Dates. Cities. Draft schedules. Anything to keep his hands busy.

Seonghwa only shrugged, unbothered, reaching for a clear LEGO piece that caught the overhead light like glass. He snapped it onto the half-built car with practiced ease. “I didn’t grow up into an adult with you,” he said calmly, “just for you to turn out a coward, Hongjoong.”

That made him pause.

The voices of their managers blurred into background noise as Hongjoong blinked once, then twice, before mechanically typing the proposed rehearsal times. His jaw tightened.

Seonghwa leaned back slightly, gaze drifting past him—to where you and San were still fooling around near the counter, laughing over something stupid and leaving behind the beginnings of a mess. Hongjoong followed his line of sight without meaning to.

And the scowl came instantly.

Seonghwa huffed. “Seriously,” he said, voice lower now. “When the hell are you going to grow some balls and ask my sister out?”

Hongjoong sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders stiffening at the sudden seriousness threaded through Seonghwa’s words. It felt unfair—how calmed he sounded while sitting there, surrounded by LEGO bricks, like he hadn’t just detonated something in Hongjoong’s chest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hongjoong muttered, eyes glued to the screen as he resumed typing.

“Good grief,” Seonghwa sighed.

He stood, the wooden chair letting out a quiet squeak against the tiled floor. Hongjoong felt him before he saw him—Seonghwa stopping just beside him, close enough that his presence was undeniable.

A hand settled on Hongjoong’s shoulder.

“Don’t mess this up,” Seonghwa said softly, eyes gentle despite everything. “Got it?”

Before Hongjoong could respond, Seonghwa leaned down and reached past him—unmuting the microphone on his laptop.

“Don’t worry,” Seonghwa said smoothly into the meeting, just as the managers were discussing transportation. “I’ll pick him up after the run.”

He gave a small, professional wave to the camera before moving out of the frame, muting the mic again as he turned toward the kitchen. “Okay, both of you—stop that madness,” he said, eyeing the mess. “Because I am not the one cleaning that up.”

You and San paused mid-motion, clearly ready to create another mess, but the look on Seonghwa’s face stopped you cold. You blinked at your brother, who only sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Now,” Seonghwa continued, already tired, “(Y/N), go use the bathroom in my room. San, use the common bathroom. Yeah?”

Despite the synchronized grumbles that left both your mouths, you both knew better than to piss Seonghwa off when he had that look in his eyes.

San headed for the hallway, but as you walked past the kitchen counter to head toward your brother's room, you caught Hongjoong’s gaze.

He was already looking at you, hand still hovering over the keyboard—and when your eyes met, something in his chest stuttered. He lifted his hand in a small, awkward half-wave.

You couldn’t help but smile back, but it was small—fragile, as if you were scared of what that look meant, or perhaps nervous that you were reading too much into it.

It was small. Careful. Almost shy—like you were scared of being seen.

Then you disappeared down the hallway.

Hongjoong’s fingers felt heavier with every click after that.

Seonghwa glanced back once, worry etching itself into his features as he watched the younger leader sit there, shoulders tense, heart very clearly somewhere else.

Despite the long run—the burn screaming through his calves, the ache settling deep into his thighs, the way his lungs protested with every sharp inhale—Hongjoong couldn’t shake you from his mind.

It pissed him off.

Each step hit the pavement hard, shoes striking in rhythm with his pulse, but his thoughts lagged behind, trailing back to you every single time. Your voice. Your smile. That stupid, careful way you looked at him like he was something fragile.

His breath hitched whenever he lingered on the thought for more than a second, huffs escaping his lips as if his body itself was betraying him.

Focus. Just finish the run.

He forced his eyes forward, jaw tight, but it didn’t matter. You were there anyway—woven into the burn of his muscles, tucked into the space between heartbeats.

Even now.

“Hold still,” Seonghwa said.

Hongjoong dragged a hand through his ginger-dyed hair, brushing sweat out of his eyes just as the flash went off. He scowled immediately, lifting a brow at the older man.

“You done?” he grumbled.

Seonghwa, wrapped snugly in a coat to fend off the evening breeze, stepped closer and handed him his phone. “Enough sulking. Up. Let’s go.”

With a heavy groan, Hongjoong pushed himself off the wooden bench. His legs trembled—not enough to give out, but enough to remind him of the miles he’d just punished them with.

He followed Seonghwa toward the car, steps heavier than usual, unsure if it was the run catching up to him or the way your face kept intruding where it didn’t belong.

He stopped in front of the passenger door, yanked it open, and collapsed into the soft leather seat with another breathy groan. Seonghwa slid into the driver’s seat moments later, humming as he locked the doors and pulled away from the curb.

The radio crackled softly, low static filling the space between them as the city slipped by outside the windows.

Seonghwa glanced at him once.

Then sighed.

“Sometimes,” he said casually, “I wonder what (Y/N) sees in you.”

Hongjoong stiffened.

“What do you mean?” he asked, too quickly.

The car slowed to a stop at a red light. Seonghwa craned his neck to look at him properly this time, eyes sharp and knowing. Hongjoong held his gaze, even as nerves crawled up his spine.

“I’m not stupid, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa said. “Dumb, maybe. Stupid? No. I know exactly what the two of you are doing.”

Hongjoong opened his mouth—

Seonghwa clicked his tongue. “Did I ask you to interrupt me?”

He shut it instantly.

The light turned green.

Seonghwa shifted gears smoothly, the engine revving low as the car rolled forward again. He exhaled through his nose, grip tightening on the wheel—not angry, not rushed, just controlled. The way he always was when something mattered too much to say lightly.

“I’m her brother,” Seonghwa continued, voice steady but edged with something sharp. “I know everything. I know how complicated this is—because of me, right?”

Hongjoong stared straight ahead, jaw tight, the city lights blurring past the windshield. His chest felt too full, like his ribs were pressing inward instead of out.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Seonghwa went on, softer now. “Not if you two decide whether you’re going to let this fall apart… or fix it like normal adults.”

Hongjoong swallowed.

The streets grew familiar. Too familiar.

Corner after corner passed—shops he recognized, streetlights he’d stood under before, sidewalks he’d walked with you more times than he could count. His pulse picked up, loud in his ears, each turn tightening the knot in his chest.

Seonghwa didn’t slow down.

“I’ve spent my whole life protecting her,” he said quietly. “From people who only saw her as something pretty. Something easy. Something temporary.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Hongjoong before returning to the road.

“And I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near her,” Seonghwa added, blunt. “Not if I didn’t trust you.”

That made Hongjoong’s breath hitch.

“I can’t stop the two of you from loving each other,” Seonghwa continued. “I saw it coming before either of you did. The moment you stumbled out of your studio six years ago looking like some kind of fucking zombie—”

Hongjoong blinked, fingers curling against his thigh.

“—and yet (Y/N) fell in love with you anyway,” Seonghwa finished. “Quietly. Carefully. Like she was afraid of breaking you.”

The words landed heavy.

“She did, didn’t she?” Seonghwa asked, not accusing—just certain.

Hongjoong’s throat closed. He nodded once, barely there.

“I figured,” Seonghwa murmured. “She doesn’t look at people the way she looks at you unless it’s real.”

The car slowed.

Then stopped.

Hongjoong’s heart slammed violently against his ribs as Seonghwa parked in front of the building he knew far too well. The one with the familiar lobby lights. The one where you lived. The one he’d avoided knocking on for far too long.

Seonghwa turned the engine off. The sudden quiet was deafening.

He unlocked the doors.

“Go get her,” he said simply.

Hongjoong froze, hand hovering inches from the handle.

“What if I—” His voice cracked, and he hated it. “What if I mess this up?”

Seonghwa sighed, leaning back in his seat. “You already are,” he said honestly. Then, gentler, “By not trying.”

He turned his head, eyes sharp but warm. Protective—but not controlling.

“She’s not fragile,” Seonghwa added. “And neither are you. Stop treating this like it’s something you have to survive instead of something you’re allowed to want.”

Hongjoong stared at the door, knuckles white.

“I trust you,” Seonghwa said quietly. “Both of you. Don’t make me regret it.”

“And for the record,” he added, “I don’t need to be an uncle this early.”

That earned a shaky huff of a laugh and an eye roll—but it didn’t stop Hongjoong from opening the door.

Cold air rushed in immediately, biting against his damp skin, nipping at his basketball shorts as he stepped out. He sucked in a breath, lungs burning—not from the run this time, but from the weight of what he was about to do.

Behind him, Seonghwa watched. Silent. Trusting. Ready to kill him if he hurt you—but believing he wouldn’t.

The ride to the elevator up to your unit was anything but silent, the hum of the machinery doing little to drown out the storm raging inside Hongjoong.

He could feel the pounding of his heartbeat in his head, a relentless drumbeat echoing the frustration and pent-up desire that had been building for weeks—months, even—ever since Seonghwa’s warnings started chipping away at his patience.

His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to touch you, to claim what he'd been denying himself out of some misguided fear of ruining everything.

But as the doors dinged open on your floor, that fear cracked, splintering under the weight of how desperately he needed you right now.

Hongjoong stood in front of your unit longer than he meant to.

The hallway was quiet, almost too quiet, the hum of distant traffic muffled behind concrete walls. His chest still ached from the run, lungs burning, sweat cooling against his skin as he stared at your door like it might bite him if he got too close. He lifted his hand once—then let it fall.

Coward.

He swallowed, jaw tightening, before knocking anyway.

Not loud. Not confident. Just enough to be heard.

There was a pause. One second. Two.

The door opened.

You stood there with your keys still in your hand, eyes flicking up to meet his. Whatever you’d been about to say died on your lips the moment you saw him—hair still damp, shirt clinging to his frame, eyes dark with something that made your breath hitch.

Hongjoong opened his mouth to say something—anything—to break the silence, but before a single word could escape, you spun around, grabbed the front of his shirt in a tight fist, and yanked him forward.

Your lips crashed into his with a hunger that matched the fire in his veins, the kiss messy and demanding, teeth clashing as you poured all your frustration into it.

He froze for a split second, shock widening his eyes, but then he caved—fuck, did he cave—his hands snapping to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise as he shoved you back against the door.

The keys clattered to the floor forgotten, the lock clicking open from the force of your bodies. You both stumbled inside, the door slamming shut behind you with a resounding thud that vibrated through the walls of your dimly lit apartment.

His mouth devoured yours, tongue thrusting deep, tasting the remnants of your earlier shared intimacy mixed with the sharp tang of urgency.

“Sweetheart,” he growled against your lips, voice rough and edged with something feral, “you have no idea what you're starting.”

You didn’t care. Your hands fisted tighter in his shirt. “Then show me, Hongjoong,” you breathed, nipping at his lower lip hard enough to draw a hiss from him.

He hauled you up by your thighs, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively as he carried you through the living room, kicking aside a stray shoe in his haste.

The world blurred—couch, coffee table, all obstacles in his path—until he dumped you onto the bed with a bounce that made your breasts heave under your thin top.

Hongjoong loomed over you, eyes dark and stormy, his chest heaving as he tore at your clothes. Your shirt went first, ripped over your head and flung across the room, followed by your skirt hiked up and panties shredded in one swift yank.

The cool air hit your bare skin, but his body was there immediately, pinning you down with his weight, his shorts rough against your inner thighs as he ground his hard cock against your slick folds.

“I’ve been holding back for too fucking long,” he groaned, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other shoved his jeans open, freeing his throbbing length. It slapped heavy against your stomach, pre-cum smearing hot across your skin.

“Hongjoong—please,” you whimpered, arching up to meet him, your pussy clenching around nothing, aching for the stretch. He didn't make you wait.

With a guttural groan, he lined up and slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The burn was exquisite, your walls fluttering around his thick cock as he set a punishing pace—hips snapping forward relentlessly, the bedframe creaking under the force.

Each drive punched the air from your lungs, his balls slapping wetly against your ass, the obscene sounds filling the room alongside your shared moans.

“Fuck, baby—you’re so tight,” he panted, releasing your wrists to grip your hips, angling you higher so he could hit deeper, grinding against that spot inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

You clawed at his back, nails digging red lines into his skin, urging him on. “Right there—oh god, Hongjoong, right there!” Your voice broke on a sob, pleasure coiling tight and vicious in your core.

He leaned down, capturing a nipple between his teeth, sucking hard before biting just enough to sting, the pain shooting straight to your clit.

It built fast, too fast—the frustration of stolen moments, the fear he'd pushed down—until you shattered, crying out as your pussy spasmed around him, gushing slick that soaked his cock and dripped down your thighs.

Hongjoong followed with a groan, thrusting erratically as he flooded you with hot cum, his body shuddering above yours. But he didn’t stop. Even as you trembled through the aftershocks, oversensitive and twitching, he kept rocking into you, his spent cock hardening again inside your clenching heat.

“Not done yet, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice husky with need, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing firm circles that made you keen, the overstimulation bordering on too much.

He flipped you onto your stomach without pulling out, the new angle letting him grind deeper as he draped his body over yours, lips brushing your ear.

“I’m not afraid anymore,” he confessed between thrusts, each word punctuated by the slap of skin on skin. “Not of Seonghwa, not of what this means—fuck, baby, I need you like this, always.”

His hand snaked around to your throat, squeezing lightly—not enough to choke, just to feel your pulse racing under his fingers—as he pounded into you from behind, his free hand kneading your ass before delivering a sharp smack that made you yelp and push back against him.

“Joong—harder,” you moaned into the pillows, muffled but desperate, your fingers twisting in the sheets as he obliged, fucking you like he was trying to imprint himself inside you.

The coil wound tighter, your clit throbbing untouched now, every drag of his cock against your walls pushing you higher.

He reached down, fingers pinching and rolling your swollen nub, the dual assault ripping a scream from your throat. “Yes—right there, don’t stop!” You came again, vision whiting out as your body convulsed, milking him until he spilled inside you once more, groaning your name like a prayer.

But the sensitivity hit like a wave, your pussy fluttering painfully around him, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. He slowed, but only barely, whispering, “Good girl—take it for me,” as he kept moving, drawing out whimpers that bordered on sobs.

Hongjoong pulled out with a wet pop, your mixed release leaking from your abused hole, but he wasn’t giving you a reprieve. He hauled you up onto your knees, facing the headboard, and positioned himself behind you again, sliding back in with a slick ease that made you both moan.

This one was slower at first—soft, torturous drags that let you feel every ridge and vein of his cock stretching you wide—before frustration took over, his pace turning frantic once more.

“Look at you,” he growled, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back, the other slapping your ass in rhythm with his thrusts. “So fucking perfect—mine.”

You braced against the headboard, pushing back to meet him, the burn in your thighs and the ache in your core blending into a haze of need.

“I’m so full,” you gasped, another orgasm building despite the overstimulation, your clit pulsing with every grind.

He reached around, two fingers plunging into your mouth to muffle your cries, making you suck on them like they were his cock. “Cum for me again, baby—let me feel it,” he demanded, and you did, shattering around him with a muffled scream, your walls clamping down so tight he nearly lost it.

He rode you through it, then pulled your hips back flush against him, grinding deep as he came, filling you to overflowing. The excess trickled down your legs, but he stayed buried, rocking gently to prolong the torment, your body quaking uncontrollably.

By now, you were a wreck—limbs heavy, skin slick with sweat, pussy raw and fluttering from the endless assault. Hongjoong sensed it, his touches turning possessive yet careful as he laid you flat on your back, sliding into you one last time with a shared groan.

It was raw, emotional—his forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked as he thrust slow and deep, each movement a confession in itself. “I love you,” he whispered, the words slipping out amid the haze, his hips stuttering as emotion choked him. “Not afraid—never again.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat, as pleasure crested once more.

“I love you too, right there—fuck!” Your final orgasm ripped through you, softer but no less intense, your nails raking down his back as you clenched around him.

He buried his face in your neck, thrusting erratically until he followed, spilling deep with a broken moan, his body collapsing atop yours in exhausted surrender.

The room fell quiet, save for your ragged breaths syncing as the high faded. Hongjoong eased out gently, wincing at your hiss of overstimulation, and scooped you into his arms without a word.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the scent of sex and the lingering heat of your bodies. The only sound was the jagged, syncing rhythm of your breaths as the adrenaline finally ebbed, leaving you both trembling.

Hongjoong moved with agonizing slowness, easing his way out of you. Even that small friction drew a sharp, pained hiss from your throat, your nerves still firing from the overstimulation.

He didn’t say a word, but the way he looked at you—eyes dark with a mixture of awe and love—spoke volumes. He scooped you into his arms, your head falling naturally against the crook of his neck. You felt small against him, your limbs heavy and uncooperative as he carried you toward the bathroom.

The transition to the bathroom was a sensory blur. The cool bite of the tiled floor was a sharp shock against your flushed skin as he gently sat you on the edge of the porcelain tub.

You winced, a soft groan escaping your lips as your sore muscles protested the movement. Hongjoong immediately froze, his hand hovering over your cheek.

“I know, I know,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly caress. “I’ve got you, (Y/N). Just breathe for me.”

He turned to the sink, the rush of warm water filling the quiet space. He dampened a plush cloth, testing the temperature against his own wrist before kneeling between your trembling legs.

The sight of him—the composed leader of their group, now reduced to a man completely devoted to your comfort—made your chest ache with more than just physical sensation.

He began to clean you with feather-light strokes. Every touch was soft, wiping away the drying slick and the stark white streaks of his release from your inner thighs and the sensitive folds of your skin.

Each time you flinched or let out a shaky breath, he paused to press a lingering kiss to your knees or the soft skin of your thighs.

“You did so well for me, sweetheart,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. “So beautiful. I couldn’t stop myself.”

The bath followed, the tub filling with steaming water and a mountain of fragrant bubbles. When he helped you in, your body felt like lead, but the heat of the water was an instant balm to the deep ache in your core.

Hongjoong stripped off his remaining clothes and slid in behind you, his larger frame creating a cradle for your back.

He pulled you flush against his chest, his arms banding around your waist. You let out a long, shuddering sigh, your head falling back onto his shoulder.

His hands, usually so busy and restless, found a slow, rhythmic purpose as they massaged your shoulders. His thumbs dug into the knots of tension near your neck, working them out with a gentle persistence that made you whimper—this time in pure relief.

“Rest now, baby,” he whispered into the shell of your ear, his lips brushing against your damp temple. “We’re okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

He nuzzled into your hair, breathing you in as if you were the only thing keeping him calm.

The water lapped gently against the sides of the tub, a soothing soundtrack to the peace that had finally settled over you both. The fear of Seonghwa’s reaction, the anxiety of their career, the weight of the secrets—it all seemed to dissolve in the steam.

Hongjoong tightened his grip slightly, his nose trailing down to the sensitive skin of your neck where he left a soft, bruising kiss.

⤷ piece taglist — @kaitioo @atinyzenflwr @cyglvr @mingmongminki @matzwhore

⤷ permanent taglist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie @yjmylove @in-somnias-world @cripplinghooman @yeossified @ateez-atiny380 @chemiru @eleftheriance @deluluscenarios @simp4simlee @baedreamverse @lala-loopsydoll @elairah @my-neurodivergent-world @jakeyismine @laylasbunbunny @zealouscookierebeltrash @beaepa @jazz7gnab @all4moi @riddlerloveb0t @angelhyuka @saraabbas @candidupped @rikisblog @vanillakirstein

© 2026 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[liuhsng]

───〃⋆⭒˚.⋆ happy new year !

⤷ and a few announcements

first and foremost, i’d like to greet everyone a happy new year !! 💗

thank you so much for bearing with me throughout 2025. everyone has been so strong—dealing with writer’s block, inner demons, and the challenges we fight every single day. it’s honestly so refreshing and comforting to see that we’re all still here, still pushing through everything together.

before i officially move forward into 2026, i want to take a moment to mention a few people who truly got me through my writing slumps with their never-ending support and love for my works:

@cyglvr @jun2ki @kaitioo @yjmylove @siyalogue @ilovhoonie @jakeys-layla @atinyzenflwr @eleftheriance @jiyeons-closet

thank you so much, genuinely. you never gave up on me, and you always believed in me—even when i doubted myself. to my readers and mutuals who aren’t mentioned here—please know that i love you just as much 🤍 every like, reblog, comment, and quiet read means more to me than you’ll ever know.

i also want to sincerely apologize for the delays in my works, especially the ‘enhypen – xo, with you university series’, i promise i’m actively working on it right now as we speak 🫶 please bear with me just a little longer.

to my readers who want to be closer with me—don’t worry at all 🤍 my inbox and dms are always open ! i may not reply instantly, but i do check them from time to time and i truly appreciate every message sent my way.

lastly, to everyone who’s been sending messages to my inbox—don’t worry ! i’ll be taking time this week to reply to them all !! thank you for your patience, your kindness, and your constant support.

here’s to healing, writing, and growing together in 2026. i love you all always 🤍

© 2026 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ after hours ( smg ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ ateez masterlist ( coming soon )

⤷ pairing — mingi x fem!reader

⤷ word count — 7.3k ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — hi loves ! I know i’ve been writing a lot for ateez lately—but don’t worry, i’m working on balancing out my wip’s so i can give some proper attention to my enhypen-related projects as well. thank you so much for sticking around and supporting everything i write. as always, enjoy reading 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), rough sex, dom!mingi, bottom!reader, possessive!mingi, markings (hickies), idol!au, idol!mingi, composer!mingi, non-idol!reader, established relationship, dirty talk, manhandling, kinda!perv mingi (if you squint), slight choking, recording of sexual acts without explicit consent, use of recorded audio in a professional project, mingi’s a workaholic, fluff

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — song mingi was a big workaholic, that much was true. but nobody ever knew the secret to getting him out of his creative ruts wasn’t coffee or sleep—it was you. you were his muse, and maybe, just maybe, every song he pours his soul into still carries traces of you—even in the soft sounds he never meant to record.

Song Mingi was a busy man.

That was the first thing you noticed about him—the very second Wooyoung decided it was a brilliant idea to introduce you to one of his groupmates in the middle of a cramped café, where the smell of burnt espresso lingered in the air and the line for the cashier wrapped halfway to the door.

Mingi was knee-deep in whatever he was furiously typing on his phone, thumbs moving so fast it looked like they were racing each other. His brows were knit together in concentration, lips pursed ever so slightly as if he were chewing on a thought.

Lyrics, you’d later find out. Lyrics for their next comeback—words that mattered more to him than the world around him.

Which included Wooyoung.

And Yunho.

And you.

Wooyoung had been talking for at least a full minute—loud, animated, hands flying everywhere as he roped Yunho into some silly little afternoon lunch plan—yet Mingi didn’t even blink. Didn’t hum. Didn’t acknowledge the presence of another human being within a five-foot radius.

“Wow,” Wooyoung muttered, offended. “So this is how you treat me now?”

Nothing.

Your lips twitched, amusement curling in your chest as you tilted your head slightly, curiosity getting the better of you. You leaned just a bit closer, eyes flicking to the screen before you could stop yourself—lines of text, scribbled thoughts, half-formed verses.

It was only when Wooyoung finally lost his patience and shoved him forward by the shoulders, chair scraping loudly against the floor, that Mingi huffed and looked up.

And froze.

Because you were already looking at him.

Doe eyes—wide, curious, unguarded—locked onto his, and for half a second, the world narrowed down to just that. Mingi had to fake a cough, bringing his fist to his mouth as heat crawled up his neck, right up to the tips of his ears.

Shit.

Getting too caught up in writing lyrics wasn’t ideal when his exact type was only a chair away, staring at him like he was a puzzle she wanted to solve.

He cleared his throat again, hurriedly shoving his phone into his pocket like it had personally betrayed him.

The younger smirked in pure, evil victory. “Finally,” he said. “You look alive.”

Wooyoung padded over to Yunho, who was already lining up by the cashier, leaving you and Mingi sitting there—alone, awkward, and way too aware of each other.

You tilted your head, arms crossing loosely in front of you, weight shifting to one hip. Mingi cursed under his breath when he noticed how that movement made your top stretch just slightly, his eyes flicking down before he could stop himself.

Double shit.

“Uh—hi,” he mumbled, voice lower than he expected. “I’m—uh—”

You laughed softly, the sound light and warm, shaking your head. “I know,” you said. “You’re Mingi.”

That didn’t help him at all.

“I’m (Y/N),” you added gently. “And I apologize in advance for Wooyoung.”

Your eyes drifted past him then, landing on where Wooyoung was now animatedly talking Yunho’s ear off by the counter.

Wooyoung’s hands were moving a mile a minute, eyebrows lifting and dropping like he was telling the most dramatic story known to man, while Yunho—looked far too amused, head tipped back in laughter as he listened.

Mingi followed your gaze, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That tracks.”

His eyes found their way back to you almost immediately, like they’d been pulled on an invisible string. You were already smiling at him when he looked, head tilted slightly to the side, a curtain of hair falling over one shoulder, expression open—inviting.

Mingi had to physically fight the urge to grab your hand and drag you out of this café, consequences be damned. He’d only known you for ten minutes, and he was already planning a whole life with you.

“So,” you began, your voice pulling him back from the brink of insanity. “How are the lyrics going?”

Mingi swore, right then and there, that you were a godsend. An actual, literal angel sent to test his sanity. He blinked, his brain short-circuiting for a second before he managed to shrug, trying to play it cool.

“Oh—uh,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck as he shrugged. “They’re… not that good. I mean, I’m not even halfway done.”

You hummed thoughtfully, lips pursing as you shook your head. There was the slightest pout there—barely anything—but Mingi’s eyes betrayed him, drifting down to your mouth before he could stop himself.

The slight shimmer from the clear gloss coated your perfectly pink, plump lips, and he was cursing himself inside his head. ‘Get it together, you fucking perv.’

He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake, not a hormonal teenager. But here you were, making him feel like one.

“Well, we’ll never know unless we check, right?” you said, a sheepish smile playing on your lips.

You leaned in just a fraction, and the scent of your perfume—something sweet and vanilla-like—nearly knocked him sideways. “Would it be okay for me to see?”

Mingi felt his heart leap out of his chest and do a triumphant little jig on the floor. He was nodding before he even registered the question, a frantic, jerky motion.

You beamed, and it was like the sun came out from behind a cloud. You patted the empty seat next to you, the one Wooyoung had abandoned earlier. “Do you mind?”

Mingi shook his head. He shot up from his chair, the loud scrape of the wooden legs against the tile cutting through the café’s ambient noise. He felt every eye in the place turn to him, but he couldn’t care less.

You could have asked him to buy you a Prada bag right then and there, and he wouldn’t have even blinked, already fumbling for his wallet and handing you his card.

He rounded the small table, his movements feeling clumsy and oversized, and sat down next to you. The chair suddenly felt impossibly small. He cleared his throat awkwardly, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he unlocked his phone, his fingers suddenly feeling thick and useless.

You giggled, a soft, airy sound that made his chest feel tight. You placed a delicate hand over your mouth, but your eyes were sparkling with mirth. “For someone so big,” you teased, your voice light and playful, “you act like I’m going to eat you.”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” you cut in, smiling. “Relax.”

That was the day Song Mingi decided that he was probably going to ask for your hand in marriage.

Song Mingi was aware that he was a busy man—more than he’d ever like to admit.

His days were packed down to the minute. Studio sessions that bled into early mornings, practice schedules that left his muscles sore for days, meetings stacked on top of meetings until his phone became a never-ending stream of reminders.

It was past one in the morning when his third alarm for yesterday rang through the studio.

“Fuck,” Mingi muttered under his breath, hand flying out blindly as he reached for his phone amid the organized mess of his mixing console. He slapped it down onto the empty gaming chair beside him, the cold metal of his rings digging into his fingers as the alarm finally died.

He let out a slow breath, shoulders sagging.

“Thank fuck for soundproof walls,” he muttered under his breath.

Walls he had very generously paid an interior designer for—one he hadn’t really had much say in when the two of you were choosing designs, because Mingi had long since learned he could never say no to you.

Any more seconds of that alarm and you would’ve woken up, despite the shared bedroom being a few doors away.

The thought alone made his jaw tighten.

“Stupid fucking work,” he hummed quietly, more tired than angry as he turned back to the console.

His fingers moved on autopilot now—muscle memory built from years of doing this. He adjusted the faders, nudging the levels just slightly, twisting the EQ knobs to clean up the lows, adding a bit more presence so the beat didn’t feel flat.

He pressed play.

The beat filled the room—low, steady. Mingi leaned back in his chair, eyes glued to the screen as his fingers hovered over the effects rack, adding just a touch of reverb, dialing in compression until it felt right in his chest.

Better.

He paused it again, letting the silence sit as a satisfied hum left him. His mouse clicked over to another screen, fingers typing out personal notes—small reminders to himself, half-formed thoughts, timing cues only he would understand.

“Fix second verse flow,” he murmured. “Lower gain on hook.”

He grabbed the mic stand, dragging it closer until the microphone hovered just in front of his mouth. He adjusted the height, rolled his shoulders once, breath steadying as he leaned in.

Just one more take.

Knock. Knock.

Mingi froze.

His hand stilled mid-reach, fingers hovering inches away from the mic before he slowly pushed it aside. A small, tired smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

“Well, shit,” he whispered, fond.

He stood up, joints aching as he stretched slightly, grimacing at the heavy feel of the clothes still clinging to him—the same ones he’d worn during filming earlier that day. He’d gotten too immersed, too deep into the music to even think about changing.

Padding toward the door, he rubbed a hand down his face before pulling it open.

You stood there in one of his hoodies, the soft, worn black fabric swallowing your frame, the hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs, leaving a long stretch of your legs bare to the chill of the hallway air.

The sleeves, far too long for your arms, were pushed up in messy bunches around your elbows, and your hair was a soft, slightly tangled halo around your face, a clear proof to the fact you’d just rolled out of bed.

In your hands, you held two plates, balanced with a practiced ease, steam curling up from the creamy pasta and perfectly seared steak—the same dish he’d fallen in love with years ago when you’d first cooked it for him in your tiny, shared dorm room, the smell of garlic and butter clinging to every surface for a week.

Your eyes were soft now—knowing—as you looked up at him.

“Good morning,” you murmured.

Mingi sighed, all the tension he’d been holding onto melting instantly. He leaned his head lightly against the doorframe, eyes slipping shut for a second—a small, helpless smile tugging at his own lips.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbled, voice low and tired and warm.

Your gaze flicked past him, into the dimly lit studio, taking in the glowing screens and scattered papers. You laughed softly, shifting your weight as your arms strained just a bit.

“These plates are heavy, Song Mingi.”

“Oh—shit, sorry,” he yelped quietly, immediately stepping aside. “Come in, come in.”

He guided you inside with a hand at your lower back, careful as you padded into the studio. The smell of the food filled the space instantly—rich, comforting—and it hit him then just how long it had been since he’d eaten anything proper.

You set the plates down on the large table beside his mixing console with a soft clink, sighing under your breath as your eyes drifted over the mess.

“Wow,” you muttered.

Your hands reached for the scattered sheets of paper—lyrics, notes, half-written melodies you’d long stopped trying to understand. You hummed absently as you stacked them, straightening bent corners, smoothing them down against your palm.

“You know,” you said quietly, “I’ve lived with you for years and I still don’t know how to read any of this.”

Mingi chuckled, closing the door behind the two of you, the soft click sealing the studio off from the rest of the house. “It barely makes sense to me half the time.”

You glanced back at him, lips quirking. “Always so messy.”

He stepped closer, his feet padding softly against the worn wooden floors. His arm slipped around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against him as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

Mingi pressed a line of soft, warm kisses against the column of your neck, his breath fanning out in a contented sigh. “You love me,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your skin.

“I love you,” you corrected him gently, your arm reaching back to ruffle his already messy hair. You leaned your full weight back into him, your other hand coming to rest softly over his arms where they were locked around your waist. “Your mess? Not so much.”

He laughed, the sound a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body as he pressed a light kiss to your cheek, causing you to scrunch your nose in protest. He only pulled you closer, his embrace tightening. “You didn’t have to cook,” he murmured.

“I wanted to,” you said simply, turning your head to look up at him. Your eyes traced the faint shadows beneath his own, the exhaustion showing despite the layers of makeup he’d forgotten to remove after filming. “You forget to eat when you’re like this.”

Mingi smiled sheepishly at you, his hands caressing the sides of your waist as he mumbled, “Guilty.”

You patted his cheek, your touch soft and fond. “Eat up.”

But before you could utter another word, Mingi hooked his chin over your shoulder and pulled you down with him, a playful strength in his arms. You released a small, undignified squeak as he landed right back in the rolling chair he’d been in before, pulling you flush into his lap.

You landed with a soft huff, the air knocked from your lungs as you glared at him. “Mingi, I swear—”

He just laughed, leaning his head back against the headrest, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he shifted to settle you more comfortably against him. His arms wrapped securely around your middle. “What? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

You only rolled your eyes at him, a gesture you knew was utterly ineffective.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, lips lingering there for a moment before he spoke again, quieter this time. “Let’s eat together. But first… I want you to listen to this.”

Reluctantly, he let go of your waist just long enough to roll the chair closer to the mixing console. His hands hovered over the laptop for a second—hesitant, almost shy—before he pressed the space bar.

The beat that erupted from the speakers was refreshing and utterly summer-like, a vibrant pulse of synths and bass that echoed off the dimly lit walls of the studio, wrapping around you both like a warm breeze on a sun-soaked beach.

Then came the familiar voice of Hongjoong, smooth and commanding, chording through the air with that signature edge that always made your skin tingle.

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, the sound bubbling up from your chest as you moved forward in Mingi’s lap, your body instinctively seeking more of that infectious rhythm.

Mingi groaned low in his throat, the vibration rumbling against your back as you wiggled closer, but you were too immersed in the demo playing out on the screen. Your eyes zeroed in on the waveform visuals, those jagged peaks labeled with initials that danced hypnotically.

“Are those San’s vocals?” you asked, voice laced with genuine curiosity and a hint of playfulness, twisting just enough to glance at Mingi over your shoulder.

His large hands landed firmly on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there as you pushed yourself more firmly onto him, feeling the heat of his body seeping through the layers.

“Yes, baby, it’s San,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, voice already roughening with the strain of holding back.

You pressed your palms flat against his thighs, the muscles tensing under your touch as you leaned forward, your ass rubbing against the growing bulge in his pants.

Mingi had to physically bite down on his lower lip, teeth sinking into the plump flesh to stifle the curse bubbling up, his hips moving involuntarily and dragging you along with him in a slow, teasing grind.

“Your rap sounds really nice, baby,” you hummed appreciatively, snuggling back against his broad chest, the scent of his cologne—woody and spiced—filling your senses as the track built to a crescendo.

Mingi forced the groan threatening to escape back down his throat, but his grip on your hips tightened like iron vices, knuckles whitening as he glanced down to where your bodies met.

Your ass, barely covered by the hem of his oversized hoodie that you’d claimed as your own, pressed insistently against him; only the thick fabric of his sweatpants and the thin barrier of your panties separated your heated cores.

You hummed along to the beat, the melody vibrating through you both, and leaned even more into him, the full weight of your body adding delicious pressure to the tent straining against his zipper.

His cock throbbed beneath you, hard and insistent, the outline clear even through the layers as it nudged up against your cleft.

“Baby, wait—” Mingi groaned out, the word strained and desperate, his voice cracking slightly as one hand slid up under the hoodie to splay possessively across your bare stomach.

“Hmm?” you replied absently, your hands moving to cover his where they gripped your waist, fingers tracing the cool silver rings adorning his long digits.

You did it slowly, almost teasingly, nails scraping lightly over the metal and his skin, but Mingi knew you were far too lost in the demo’s pulsing rhythm to notice the torment you were inflicting.

He gritted his teeth, jaw clenching so hard you could hear the faint grind. “Nothing… but can you please stop m—” But the words cut off into a sharp hiss as you moved again, moving your position on his lap with a subtle roll of your hips.

Your ass pressed up harder against the ever-growing tent in his pants, the friction sending a jolt straight through him, his cock twitching violently as pre-cum likely soaked into the fabric.

You paused the motion just enough to tilt your head back, lips brushing his jawline in a feather-light kiss. “Stop what? I’m just getting comfy while we listen,” you teased innocently, though the way your thighs squeezed around his made it anything but.

The track hit a drop, Yunho’s voice layering over San’s ad-libs in a hypnotic flow, and you swayed with it, grinding down in time with the bass, your pussy clenching at the feel of his hardness slotting perfectly between your cheeks.

Mingi’s breath came in ragged pants now, one hand abandoning your waist to fist the arm of the chair, the other pulling you flush against him as if he could fuse your bodies together.

Fuck, you’re killing me,” he rasped, nipping at your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue. “That ass of yours… grinding on my cock like that. You feel how hard you’ve got me? All because of this damn demo.”

You laughed softly, the sound breathy and aroused, turning your face to capture his lips in a messy kiss. Your tongue slipped past his bitten lip, tasting the faint metallic tang as you deepened it, hips circling lazily while the music swelled around you.

“But it’s so good, Mingi. Your parts blend perfectly with theirs—listen to that.” As if on cue, his own pre-recorded verse kicked in, deep and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine.

He broke the kiss with a growl, forehead pressing to yours, eyes dark and hooded. “Yeah? You like hearing me sing while you’re teasing my cock?”

His free hand ventured lower, slipping under the hoodie to cup your mound through your panties, fingers pressing just enough to feel the damp heat gathering there. “Because I can feel how wet you’re getting, baby. This pussy’s soaking for me already.”

A soft moan escaped you as his thumb circled your clit through the fabric, the pressure building in tandem with the track’s rising tension. You rocked into his touch, ass still firm against his throbbing length, the dual sensations making your head spin.

“Mingi, fuck, don’t stop,” you whispered, your voice coming out husky and breathless, laced with the need pulsing through your veins.

Even as the words left your lips, you reached back, threading your fingers through his dark hair, tugging him closer with a desperate pull that made his scalp tingle under your grip.

Mingi leaned down immediately, his hot breath fanning over your skin before his mouth descended. He pressed open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck, each one soft and teasing, his lips dragging slowly as if savoring the taste of you.

Then came the suck, his teeth grazing just enough to send sparks down your spine. Red marks bloomed in his wake—dark, possessive blooms that would linger as reminders of this moment in the dim studio light.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he mumbled against your throat, his voice a low rumble that vibrated straight into your core—the sound alone made your thighs clench.

Without warning, his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, yanking them aside with a rough tug that exposed you completely.

The cool air of the studio hit your bare folds for a split second, a shocking contrast that made you whine sharply, your hips bucking involuntarily at the sudden vulnerability.

But the chill didn’t last—Mingi’s hand was there in an instant, two thick digits sliding through your slickness, coating themselves in the evidence of your arousal as they circled your entrance.

“But I’m gonna need you to let that track continue playing while I fuck you good, yeah?” he murmured, his tone husky and commanding, the words brushing against your ear.

His other hand stayed firm on your hip, holding you steady against his rock-hard cock straining through his pants, the heat of it searing into your ass.

A deep moan tore from your throat at his words, your hips moving forward instinctively, trying to draw him in deeper, to chase that penetration you craved.

But Mingi was set on letting you suffer just a little longer, pulling his fingers away at the last moment and returning to circle your clit with agonizing slowness. The swollen nub throbbed under his touch, each loop sending jolts of pleasure that bordered on pain, your body trembling in his hold.

“I need words, baby,” he demanded, his voice dropping even lower, that rumbling timbre making your pussy clench around nothing.

You moaned again, louder this time, turning your head to the side to glare at him over your shoulder.

The heat in your stare was fierce, a mix of frustration and desire, but Mingi only laughed—a dark, throaty sound that echoed softly in the room, his eyes gleaming with amusement and hunger as he met your gaze.

Then, without mercy, he plunged his fingers into you, two thick lengths stretching your walls in one swift thrust. The intrusion made you cry out, a sharp moan that mingled with the beat still pulsing from the speakers, your inner muscles fluttering around him as he curled them just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

Before you could catch your breath, Mingi caught your lips in a heated kiss, his mouth crashing against yours with bruising force. His tongue swept in, tasting of mint and something more primal, as he devoured you.

His other hand tightened its grip on your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, anchoring you as your body arched into him.

Just as quickly, he removed his fingers, sliding them out with a wet sound that left you empty and aching, your pussy clenching desperately around the sudden void.

A whine of protest escaped you, high and needy, and you pulled harder at the ends of his hair still tangled in your hold, yanking his head back slightly to emphasize your frustration.

Mingi groaned at the tug, the sound rough and guttural, vibrating through his chest against your back. But the smirk curling his lips said he was anything but bothered—relishing the way you fought back, even in submission.

“I said words,” he repeated, his voice a low growl now, edged with that teasing dominance that made your pulse race.

To punctuate his demand, his fingers slapped lightly against your clit, the sharp sting blooming into heat that had you jerking in his hold, a gasp ripping from your lungs as fresh slickness coated your thighs.

“F-Fuck, Mingi, please—” you stammered, the plea tumbling out in a rush, your voice breaking on the edges as your body betrayed you, hips grinding back against him for any friction.

He hummed in satisfaction, the sound deep and approving, like velvet wrapping around your nerves.

Leaning in closer, he bit down on the lobe of your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before soothing it with a flick of his tongue. “That’s a good girl,” he mumbled, the praise sending a shiver straight to your core, warm and intoxicating.

“Ngh…” The moan slipped out unbidden, helpless, as Mingi shoved his two fingers back into you, deeper this time, letting you adjust to the stretch.

You arched your back against him, pressing your ass firmer into the bulge of his cock, soft pants leaving your lips in quick, ragged bursts.

The fullness was exquisite, his digits scissoring slightly to open you up, the slick sounds of your arousal filling the air alongside the track’s building rhythm.

Mingi’s arm that was wrapped around your waist shifted, his hand sliding up to push the hoodie higher, bunching the fabric around your ribs and leaving your bottom half fully exposed to the cool studio air.

You barely registered the chill anymore—the heat coursing through you was too intense, a wildfire spreading from where his fingers pumped steadily inside, thumb now brushing your clit in time with his thrusts. Your skin flushing hot as beads of sweat gathered at the base of your neck.

“Look at you, so fucking wet for me,” Mingi rasped, his lips trailing down to nip at your shoulder, voice that low rumble that made your toes curl.

He twisted his fingers, dragging them along your inner walls with slowness, feeling every flutter and squeeze. “This pussy’s gripping me like it never wants me to leave. You gonna be good and keep that track going? Let it play while I stretch you out?”

You nodded frantically, but that wasn’t enough for him—his free hand came up to cup your chin, tilting your head back so you could see the dark promise in his eyes. “Words, baby. Tell me you want my cock ruining you right here.”

“Y-Yes, Mingi,” you gasped, the words spilling out as his fingers curled again, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

“Please, fuck me… don’t make me wait.” Your hand tightened in his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, messy and desperate, teeth clashing as you rocked back against his hand.

Mingi chuckled into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your lips in the heat of the moment, his tongue swirling with yours in a lazy, dominating dance that left you breathless.

His fingers pumped a few more times inside your aching pussy, each thrust deep, the pads of his digits curling to drag along your sensitive walls.

Sometimes, the cool edges of his metal rings caught against your entrance as he drove them in, the stark contrast to the warmth of his skin making you whimper sharply, your body jolting at the unexpected chill that only heightened the fire building low in your belly.

“My good girl,” he mumbled against your lips, the praise rough and affectionate, his voice that familiar low rumble that sent shivers racing down your spine.

With that, he withdrew his fingers slowly, the slick drag leaving you clenching around nothing, a soft whine escaping as the emptiness throbbed insistently.

His hand on your hip traveled upward, sliding along the curve of your side until it reached the side of your face. Mingi cupped your chin firmly, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he tilted your head back, forcing you to stare directly up at him.

Those dark eyes locked onto yours intensely, holding you captive in their gaze. He brought his two fingers—the ones that had been buried inside you moments earlier—to his mouth, rubbing them together first, the glistening strands of your arousal catching the dim light.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he shoved them past his lips, groaning deeply at the taste of you, the sound guttural as it rumbled from his chest.

You watched, transfixed, as his tongue lapped over the soaked digits, swirling around them to savor every drop of your juices, the sight making your core pulse with renewed need.

He sucked them clean, hollowing his cheeks before letting them go with a wet pop that echoed softly in the quiet studio. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as he looked down at you, satisfaction gleaming in his expression like he’d just claimed another victory.

Before you could form a coherent thought, he leaned down to kiss you again—this time less messy, more passionate, his lips moving against yours with a controlled hunger that made your knees weak.

His tongue traced the seam of your mouth, coaxing it open to delve inside, sharing the faint tang of your own flavor.

“Always so sweet for me,” he mumbled into the kiss, the words brushing hot against your tongue, sending a flush of warmth through your cheeks.

You smiled into the kiss, soft and involuntary, the tenderness in his touch contrasting the desire still simmering between you.

Mingi pulled back just a few inches, his breath mingling with yours as he hovered close. “Up,” he murmured, tapping your hip twice with a firm press of his fingers, the command gentle but insistent.

He let you stand on your own, though your legs trembled from the torture he’d just put you through, muscles quivering like jelly under the weight of your arousal. You steadied yourself against the edge of the table, the cool wood pressing into your palms as you gripped it tightly.

Behind you, the shuffle of the chair—the one you’d both been tangled on seconds ago—scraped across the floor, followed by the faint clink of his metal rings hitting his belt buckle as he worked it open with hurried precision.

Mingi leaned his body into yours from behind, not enough to push you forward but close enough to loom over you, his broad frame casting a shadow that made you feel deliciously small and exposed.

The heat radiating from him seeped through the fabric of your pushed-up hoodie, and you felt the shift as he shrugged off the heavy jacket that had been weighing him down for hours, the material whispering to the floor in a heap.

“Hands on the table,” he ordered, his voice dropping to that husky timbre that brooked no argument, “and you better not move anything from that console, baby.”

A whimper slipped past your lips as you bit down on your lower one, nodding obediently while your hands splayed out on the empty spot of the table in front of you.

The smooth wood was cool against your heated palms, calming you even as your body thrummed with anticipation, the console's glowing buttons just inches away—a temptation you wouldn’t dare touch.

Mingi let the material of his jeans slide down to his ankles, kicking them aside with a rustle, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, which he didn't even bother pushing down all the way.

The desperation was evident in the way the fabric tented obscenely, strained against his arousal. His white buttoned top hung loose, half-untucked and forgotten, the thin material doing little to hide the flex of his muscles beneath.

His hands settled on your hips, warm and possessive, his large palms spanning the flesh easily, fingers digging in just enough to keep you steady as your body leaned forward slightly.

A soft moan escaped you at the contact, your voice breaking on the plea. “Mingi, please…”

He chuckled, the sound dark and teasing, vibrating through his chest as it pressed against your back. His other hand slipped from your waist, wrapping around the base of his cock—already aching and heavy, the tip glistening with pre-cum that had been leaking since the moment you first sat on his lap.

He stroked himself once, twice, the wet sound of it making your breath hitch, before lining up the blunt head against your slick folds.

The first brush of him there was electric, the velvety heat of his tip nudging your entrance, and it was enough to make your knees buckle, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat as your legs threatened to give out.

Mingi breathed out heavily, the sound low and deep, like a growl restrained, his arm wrapping tighter around your waist to hold you upright.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, the praise warm against your ear, his lips brushing the shell as he leaned his body into yours.

Slowly, he pressed inside—an inch at first, the fat head of his cock stretching you open with a burn that bordered on exquisite pain.

“Ngh—ah! Fuck—” you moaned, the cry high and broken, your fingers curling against the table's edge as your walls fluttered around the intrusion.

He pressed soft kisses to the top of your head, his height making the gesture almost endearing amidst the pleasure, and you could hear the almost-laugh in his exhale at the stark difference in your statures—him towering over you like this.

Another inch pushed in, his girth filling you inch by inch until you felt impossibly full.

“You’re doing so well for me, baby. That’s it,” he mumbled, voice strained with restraint, his breath hot on your skin as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass.

The head of his cock nudged deep, almost kissing your cervix, the pressure sending stars exploding behind your closed eyelids, your body arching involuntarily.

It was too much—the stretch, the fullness, the way he hit every sensitive spot—and the coil inside you snapped without warning.

“Mingi, I’m cumming—!” you whimpered out, the words fracturing into a sob as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your pussy clenching around his length.

Mingi leaned down, pressing soft, soothing kisses to your shoulder, his lips lingering on the skin as he murmured, “Let go for me, baby.”

You shivered violently against his hold, the strength of your orgasm rippling through you like wave, nearly toppling you both as your walls clamped down hard, milking him in tight, pulsing squeezes.

He hissed through his teeth, the sound sharp and needy, fighting every instinct not to shove you forward onto the console and ruin the hours of meticulous work he'd poured into the tracks.

Instead, his other arm flew up to wrap softly around your neck, pulling you back against his body, your back flush to his chest as he held you steady.

“Fuck…” he breathed, the word a ragged exhale, his eyes scanning over the console's buttons—familiar as the lines on his own hand—before landing on the glowing red one labeled ‘record.’

A glimmer of mischief flashed in his eyes, dark and playful, and he removed his grip from your waist just long enough to casually press the button.

The soft beep was drowned out by the synth waves that appeared on his laptop screen, capturing the moment in digital eternity.

He smirked to himself, the expression wicked, before his arm returned to your waist, pushing the material of the hoodie higher to expose more of your skin to the cool air.

“I’m gonna move now, okay?” he said, his voice a low rumble against your ear, thumb stroking your hip in a gentle circle.

You could only nod, too lost in the haze of pleasure, your body limp and pliant in his grasp, breaths coming in shallow pants as aftershocks still trembled through you.

Mingi pulled out slowly, inch by torturous inch, leaving just the tip nestled inside your fluttering heat, the drag making you whine at the loss.

The emptiness hit you like a punch, your walls clenching desperately around nothing but that teasing crown, slick and swollen from the stretch he‘d given you moments ago.

Your thighs quivered, muscles spent, but the ache deep in your core begged for more, for him to fill you up again and chase away the void.

Then, with a smooth thrust, he plunged back in, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion. The slap of skin echoed through the room, sharp and resounding in the sudden quiet—only the soft, unfinished beats of the song pulsing from the speakers, those wavy visuals dancing across the screens.

Mingi’s grip on your waist tightened, his large palms kneading the flesh there, fingers digging into the soft give of your hips as if securing himself against the urge to lose control entirely.

His other hand stayed firm on your throat, not squeezing but guiding, pushing you further back into him with every roll of his hips, forcing your body to arch and take him deeper.

He buried his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply the familiar scent of your shampoo—that light, citrusy tang he always found himself missing during long shoots away from you. It calmed him, mixed with the musky evidence of your arousal clinging to your skin, and a low groan rumbled from his chest.

“Shit, baby, you feel so good,” he murmured, voice rough and gravelly, laced with that raw hunger that made your pulse stutter.

You could only moan in response, the sound high and needy as you arched into him, your back bowing off the surface beneath you, chasing the fullness of his cock splitting you open.

He continued his assault on your pussy, each thrust powerful, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the studio—wet, rhythmic, punctuated by the squelch of your juices coating him, your folds sucking him in greedily with every withdrawal and plunge.

It was enough to send him into overdrive, his breaths coming hotter, faster against your neck, muscles in his arms flexing as he held you steady.

Mingi’s fingers reached over to your cheeks, tilting your head back gently but insistently, his touch warm. He leaned down, pressing a hot kiss to your mouth, lips crashing against yours in a messy claim.

His tongue shoved into yours without preamble, tangling and dominating, tasting the salt of your sweat and the faint sweetness of your earlier whimpers. It had you seeing stars, sparks bursting behind your eyelids as the world narrowed to the slide of his mouth, the grind of his hips.

Your other arm, the one that had been propping you up, gave way slightly, landing on his arm around your throat. The feel of his warm skin under your palm sent electricity shooting through you, a jolt that made your toes curl and your inner walls flutter around his length.

“Ah, fuck, you feel so—so big—!” you whimpered out, the words tumbling breathlessly, broken by the way he filled you so completely.

Mingi preened at that, a smug glint in his eyes as he squinted down at you, watching your face contort in bliss. Your eyes rolled back to the depths of your skull, lashes fluttering, as he hit your g-spot effortlessly with the next thrust—sending a fresh wave of heat coiling tight in your belly.

You whimpered into his hold, body jerking, and he chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Yeah? Love how my big cock is pounding into your little pussy?” His voice dropped an octave, teasing yet filthy, each word punctuated by the snap of his hips.

“Y-yes, fuck…” you moaned, your voice cracking as his pace fastened.

His cock dragged along every ridge and spot inside you, veins pulsing against your sensitive walls, reaching depths your fingers could never dream of touching—not the way Mingi did, especially on those nights he came home late, too exhausted to ravage you properly but making up for it now with ruthless precision.

You arched into him harder, spine curving as your walls clamped down on his cock, squeezing in rhythmic pulses that made him hiss through clenched teeth.

He leaned down, teeth grazing your lower lip before biting down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to sting and spark pleasure-pain that shot straight to your core.

You moaned louder, the sound muffled against his mouth as his hips staggered for a split second, the intensity nearly undoing him.

His grip on your waist tightened further, bruising in the best way, before one hand slid down, fingers finding your clit swollen and throbbing. He rubbed small, firm circles there—his touch slick with your combined arousal.

“Are you close?” he whispered, breath hot against your ear, his thrusts never faltering, each one driving you higher.

“F-fuck, yes!” you cried out, voice pitching up, body trembling on the edge as the coil wound unbearably tight.

“Good,” he groaned, and without hesitation, he plunged deep into you one final time, hips grinding flush against yours.

Hot, white thick ropes of cum painted your womb white, flooding you with warmth that spread like liquid fire, his cock twitching as he emptied himself inside.

His fingers sped up on your clit, relentless circles that shattered you—sending you tumbling over the edge. Your walls clamped down on him, milking every last drop as ecstasy ripped through you, vision blurring with white-hot bliss.

You fell limp against his hold, boneless and spent, gasps tearing from your throat. Mingi held you firmly against him, steadying your shaking form, his arms a solid cage around your body as he rode out the waves.

Your juices mixed with his release, the amount enough to spill out around where he was still buried deep, trickling down your thighs in warm, sticky trails that cooled against your heated skin.

He let his fingers drag over the mess, gathering the evidence of your shared peak, and murmured softly, “Open.”

You did, parting your lips on instinct, tongue darting out as he brought his fingers to your mouth.

The taste exploded on your tongue—salty tang of his cum mingled with the sweet musk of your own arousal, intimate and filthy. You licked them clean slowly, sucking gently, eyes locked on his darkened gaze.

Mingi pressed a tender kiss to the side of your head, lips lingering. “Good girl,” he mumbled, voice soft now, laced with affection amid the afterglow.

His eyes glanced back at the array of waves on his laptop screen, the same hypnotic patterns reflecting across the monitors in front of you both—undulating lines that mirrored the rhythm he’d just set in your bodies.

He hummed under his breath as he steadied you against him, his arms wrapping around your waist. His gaze flickered to the recorded audio of the both of you, the soundwaves frozen in time, a proof to the moment you’d created together.

His eyes then returned to his microphone, the blinking red light casting a faint glow on the surfaces of the equipment in the studio.

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips as he pulled your hoodie down to shield you from the cold, his fingers brushing against your skin in a gesture that was both protective and possessive.

He may not be able to use your voice now, not with their comeback goal being all about summer and fresh vibes, but he could already hear it—your voice, layered into the backing vocals of their upcoming album.

Hongjoong would probably agree, he thought, but Mingi knew he’d have to hide the fact that it was your moans.

⤷ piece taglist — @kaitioo @atinyzenflwr @cyglvr

⤷ permanent taglist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie @yjmylove @in-somnias-world @cripplinghooman @yeossified @ateez-atiny380 @chemiru @eleftheriance @deluluscenarios @simp4simlee @baedreamverse @lala-loopsydoll @elairah @my-neurodivergent-world @jakeyismine @laylasbunbunny @zealouscookierebeltrash @beaepa @jazz7gnab @all4moi @riddlerloveb0t @angelhyuka @saraabbas @candidupped @rikisblog @vanillakirstein

© 2026 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ masterpiece ( psh ! )

✩ˎˊ˗ ateez masterlist ( coming soon )

⤷ pairing — seonghwa x fem!reader

⤷ word count — 4.4k ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — hi loves ! a little break from my very late kinktober pieces, but i honestly had so much fun writing this one. this piece was actually inspired by an irl older sister figure (you know who you are), so huge kudos to her for planting the idea in my head. as always, please enjoy ! 🤍

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), rough sex, soft dom!seonghwa, bottom!reader, possessive!seonghwa, markings (biting and hickies), idol!au, idol!seonghwa, non-idol!reader, established relationship, power imbalance, dirty talk, manhandling, wooyoung’s a little shit and seonghwa hates it lowkey, mentions of omega x’s junghoon, fluff

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — park seonghwa was known for being rational. composed. gentle to a fault. a man who thought before he spoke and chose peace before conflict—especially as a significant other. but all that logic flies out the window when people dare to question his skills in the bedroom. high on pleasure and fueled by petty mistakes, all it took was one flash from a phone to cause an uproar. at least now the whole world knows he’s as good in bed as you always said he was.

Park Seonghwa was known to be kind.

The kind of man who listened more than he spoke, who carried quiet care in everything he did—like it was instinct, like it was breathing. He always put others first. His members. The staff.

And you—always you—before he ever dared to think about himself.

Even in the smallest, dumbest things.

“Baby, you pick,” he’d say, already smiling, already resigned, when the two of you stood in front of shelves stacked with LEGO sets during your silly little dates.

His hands would rest in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he watched you debate between spaceships and castles like it was a life-or-death decision.

“You sure?” you’d tease. “You’re not gonna complain when I choose another pastel one?”

“I’ve never complained,” he’d reply softly, lips twitching. “And I won’t start now.”

That was Seonghwa. Inner peace above everything else. Silence over loud chaos. A man who let things roll off his back—even when they shouldn’t have.

Especially when they came from his younger members.

So when Wooyoung’s voice cut through the air during dinner a few nights ago—loud, careless, and far too amused—Seonghwa barely reacted at first.

“Seonghwa’s such a wuss,” Wooyoung laughed, chopsticks waving dangerously close to someone’s face. “So vanilla. Like, damn. I swear, you’re scared to do anything extreme with (Y/N).”

Seonghwa blinked once.

Then twice.

He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or feel offended. Probably neither. Wooyoung was joking—he knew that. It was all for shits and giggles, the usual teasing they drowned in every team dinner.

He even let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Eat your food,” he muttered. “You talk too much.”

The teasing should’ve ended there.

But Seonghwa’s gaze drifted—naturally, instinctively—to you.

Your nose twitched as you smiled.

Not a big reaction. Not dramatic. Just that small, telltale twitch that always happened when you were holding something back.

Your lips curved upward like you were playing along, like you were unbothered, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes that night. There was a tightness there, as if you were bracing yourself for something you hadn’t asked to hear.

You let out a breathy laugh, light and rehearsed.

“Oh my God,” you said, waving a hand dismissively, nails catching the light. “Can we not talk about our sex life at the dinner table? I’m literally trying to eat.”

Wooyoung only laughed harder. “See? Even (Y/N) agrees—he’s too innocent for—”

“Enough,” Seonghwa cut in, sharper this time.

“It’s fine,” you murmured. “They’re just joking.”

But Seonghwa knew you better than that. He always did.

The way your jaw tightened just a fraction, the flicker in your eyes that screamed frustration beneath the forced calm—it was all there, etched into his memory like the lines of your palm.

Park Seonghwa wasn’t one for raised voices or swinging fists; violence was an ugly stain he refused to wear. No, he preferred the cool edge of reason, the quiet power of knowing when to pull back before things spiraled.

But backing down wasn’t in his nature, especially not when it came to you. Teasing from the guys like Wooyoung’s shady side comments? He’d let it slide in the moment, but not without noting every jab, every implication that rubbed you raw.

He noticed everything about you, after all. The way you fidgeted with your rings when stress crept in, how your laugh turned a touch too sharp after a long day, even the subtle shifts in your mood synced to your cycle—he tracked it all without you ever asking, because that’s what love looked like to him: attentive, unwavering.

Accusations thrown your way, fingers pointed at shadows of doubt? He wouldn’t stand for it, not openly. Instead, he’d handle it his way—subtle, calculated, letting the heat of the night burn it out between just the two of you.

Dinner wrapped up faster than expected, the table a battlefield of empty plates and lingering tension. Jongho, ever the instigator, slammed down at least ten bottles of soju the second the main dishes vanished, the clink of glass echoing like a challenge.

Laughter erupted, but Seonghwa caught your sidelong glance, the one that said you were teetering on the edge.

He stood smoothly, excusing the both of you with a polite nod. “We’re heading back early—long day tomorrow,” he said, his voice steady, arm slipping around your waist to guide you out before anyone could protest. The dorm hallway felt like a reprieve, the door to his room clicking shut behind you with finality.

The lock turned, and Seonghwa didn’t waste a beat. His hands found your waist, firm and possessive, yanking you flush against him as his mouth crashed onto yours.

The kiss was hungry, tasting the faint strawberry tang of your lip gloss—the one he’d picked out for you last week, now smearing across his lips.

He didn’t care; he pulled back with a ragged pant, breath hot against your skin, fingers already tugging at the hem of your coat—his coat, oversized and swallowing your frame.

It thudded softly to the wooden floor, forgotten, as you attacked the buttons of his crisp button-up, fingers flying with pent-up fury.

“Stupid people and their stupid fucking opinions,” you muttered, voice laced with venom, shoving the fabric off his shoulders. His chest was warm under your palms, muscles shifting as he chuckled low, the sound vibrating through you.

You shot him a raised eyebrow, but he was already hauling you closer, the shirt pooling at his feet. His lips claimed yours again, searing and deep, tongue slipping in to tangle with yours while his hands deftly worked the zipper of your skirt.

The metal rasped down, cool air kissing your thighs as the fabric loosened, but he didn’t bother stripping it off fully—just let it hang, pooling at your hips.

Your white fitted blouse, the one he’d chosen for you earlier that night, stayed on too, a teasing barrier he hiked up instead, bunching it over your chest to expose the lace of your bra and the soft swell beneath.

“Fuck, you sound hot when you’re mad,” he mumbled against your mouth, voice rough with want, eyes dark as he bent lower.

His lips latched onto the exposed curve of your breast, sucking gently at first, then harder, teeth grazing the skin just above the lace. Your hands flew to his neck, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him in as a gasp escaped you.

“You find anything I do… ngh—hot!” The word broke off into a moan as he bit down, not hard enough to bruise but enough to send sparks racing down your spine.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, cheeks flushing, but Seonghwa just looked up, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, that smirk curling his lips as he nipped again, soothing the sting with his tongue.

“Can’t blame me for worshipping the ground you walk on, darling,” he murmured, voice husky, breath fanning hot over your damp skin.

His hands slid lower, palming your ass through the skirt, squeezing as he straightened just enough to capture your nipple between his teeth, tugging the lace aside with a flick of his tongue.

The sensation shot straight to your core, heat pooling between your legs, and you arched into him, cursing Wooyoung’s name under your breath again.

Seonghwa laughed softly, the sound muffled against your chest as he lavished attention on one breast, then the other, switching sides with deliberate slowness.

His teeth grazed the sensitive peak of your nipple, nipping just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity racing through your veins. Then, without warning, he sank his teeth into the soft flesh of your breast, not breaking skin but marking you deeply.

A sharp sting bloomed into heat as he sucked hard, leaving a trail of red blooms—fresh hickey marks that would bruise beautifully by morning, claiming every inch of you as his.

“Stop mentioning another man’s name while you’re writhing under me,” he mumbled against your skin, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body. His breath was hot, possessive, as his free hand dipped between your thighs.

Fingers hooked into the waistband of your skirt, he tugged it lower, the fabric whispering down your legs until it pooled at your feet on the wooden floor. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, but it did nothing to quench the fire building inside you.

His fingertips brushed the edge of your panties, teasing the damp lace that clung to your folds. “Don’t let them get to you, baby,” he murmured, his tone soothing yet edged with steel. “They don’t know anything.”

With a swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the fabric, pulling it aside to expose your slick heat. The first touch of his thumb against your clit was featherlight, circling with agonizing gentleness that made your knees buckle beneath you.

Pleasure sparked like fireworks, your body trembling as you gripped his bare shoulders harder, your perfectly manicured nails digging in and carving small crescent marks into his flesh.

You hissed through clenched teeth, the words spilling out in a rush of frustration and need. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t offend me… or you, for that matter.”

Your hips rocked against his hand instinctively, chasing the friction as pants escaped your lips. “Acting like you don’t pleasure me in bed or some bullshit like that.”

Seonghwa groaned, the sound raw and guttural, as he pressed his thigh firmly between your legs to steady your quivering form. The hard line of his cock strained against the confines of his dress pants, nudging insistently against your belly.

“They’re a bunch of idiots,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

Without another word, he sank a finger inside you, curling it just right to stroke that hidden spot deep within. Stars burst behind your eyelids, your vision blurring as ecstasy coiled tighter in your core.

“So no, they don’t know anything,” he added, his eyes locking onto yours with fierce intensity. He thrust that finger slow and deep, drawing out every slick inch before pushing back in.

Then he added a second, stretching you deliciously as he pumped them with rhythm. His mouth returned to your neck, lips sealing over the hammering pulse there, sucking hard enough to make your head spin.

The room tilted around you, pleasure overwhelming your senses until nothing existed but the slide of his fingers, the wet sounds filling the air, and the possessive heat of his body against yours.

Your fingers yanked at his hair, the long strands silky and soft against your skin as you tugged him closer. You pulled back just enough to capture his lips in a deep kiss, his tongue invading your mouth with ease, tangling with yours in a messy, desperate dance.

A moan tore from your throat—“H-Hwa…”—muffled against his lips, your body arching into him as waves of bliss crashed over you.

He hummed in approval, a shit-eating grin curving his mouth as he bit down on your bottom lip, tugging it gently before releasing. You blinked up at him, long lashes fluttering, your doe eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears of overwhelming sensation.

Cheeks flushed a deep crimson, your breath came in ragged gasps, your bra pulled down to expose your heaving breasts, blouse tugged out and disheveled. Panties shoved aside, his fingers buried deep inside you, your thigh-high socks accentuating the trail of wetness dribbling down your inner thighs.

The sight of you like this—utterly wrecked and begging—made Seonghwa groan low in his throat, his control fraying at the edges. It took every fiber of his being not to hoist you up right there, pin you against the wall, and fuck you senseless.

Instead, he pressed a tender kiss to the tip of your nose, his thumb still lazily circling your clit to keep you on the edge. “On the bed,” he commanded, voice rough with restraint. “All fours. Now.”

Your legs felt like jelly as you stumbled toward the bed, the wooden floor cool under your bare feet. Heart pounding, you climbed onto the mattress, positioning yourself on hands and knees, ass presented to him like an offering.

The anticipation thrummed through you, every nerve alight as you heard the rustle of fabric behind you—Seonghwa shedding his pants, his cock springing free, heavy and throbbing. He stepped closer, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he aligned himself.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch your back deeper.

“All mine. No one else gets this.” His cock teased your entrance, the thick head nudging your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal before he pushed in slowly, inch by torturous inch. The stretch burned so good, filling you completely as he bottomed out with a hiss of pleasure.

You gasped, fingers curling into the sheets, the tension from earlier melting into pure, consuming need. “Seonghwa… please,” you whimpered, pushing back against him, urging him deeper.

He chuckled darkly, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in, setting a rhythm that had the bed creaking against the floorboards. Each thrust hit that perfect spot, his hips snapping with controlled power, balls slapping against your clit with every drive.

His free hand roamed, pinching your nipple, then sliding down to rub your swollen bud in time with his movements. Sweat slicked your skin, the room filled with the obscene sounds of flesh meeting flesh, your moans blending with his grunts.

Seonghwa leaned off of you with a guttural groan, muttering, “Fuck, you feel so perfect.”

His hands traced over the curve of your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh while he continued fucking into you with effortless rhythm, his cock hitting every sensitive spot inside your pussy just right. The way he filled you stretched your walls perfectly, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

You moaned out loud, arching your back as the intensity built—“Hwa—ngh! Fuck—” Your knees threatened to buckle beneath you, the overwhelming sensations making your legs tremble uncontrollably.

But Seonghwa only cooed softly, his voice a soothing contrast to the raw power of his hips. “You can take it, pretty girl. I know you can.”

Suddenly, he thrust his hips forward with a sharp snap, the head of his cock slamming directly into your g-spot.

Your eyes rolled back to the top of your head, a breathless whisper escaping your lips: “Ahn, fuck!” The world blurred at the edges, your body surrendering to the electric jolt that made your toes curl.

In that moment, all Seonghwa could think about was how utterly perfect you looked writhing beneath him, your ass assisting his hips with every instinctive push back, meeting him halfway. Your juices dripped steadily from where you were joined, slicking his balls and trailing down your thighs in glistening rivulets.

He smirked to himself, a dark satisfaction blooming in his chest—all his members could talk their shit behind his back, but it was you who truly knew how good he could make you feel, how he could unravel you completely with just his body.

His other hand hastily pulled his phone from the pocket of his pants, which were still pooled around his knees.

He placed a firm hand behind your back to steady you as you moaned out, “Seonghwa, fuck—right there!” The pressure of his palm kept you arched just so, your body open and vulnerable to him.

He fumbled with the device for a second, sliding his thumb to the right to open the camera app. The flash kicked on automatically in the dimly lit room, casting harsh white light that danced across your sweat-dampened skin.

You rasped out, “Ah, fuck—” the sudden brightness making your senses overload even more.

He hummed in response, low moans leaving his mouth as he groaned, “Yeah? You love how I’m making you feel, baby?” His thrusts didn’t falter, each one deep, pistoning into your soaked heat with precision.

You whimpered desperately, “F-fuck yes, Hwa, please—right there—!” The plea spilled from your lips like a prayer, your voice breaking on the edges as pleasure coiled tighter in your core.

Seonghwa leaned down, his weight pressing just enough to pin you without letting you collapse fully. He twisted slightly, angling the phone so the camera flash overtook your senses, blinding you momentarily in its glow.

You licked your lips instinctively, tasting the salt of your own sweat, as he murmured, “Yeah? Tell them how good I’m making you feel. Fuck, fuck—”

He fastened his pace then, hips snapping faster, the bed creaking under the force. “Ah, shit, baby…” he mumbled, his breath hot against your skin. Leaning in closer, he bit the shell of your ear gently, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe and sending shivers down your neck.

“Ah, you’re gonna break the bed, Hwa,” you gasped out, half-laughing through the haze of ecstasy, your words slurring as another thrust rocked you forward.

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours, loving how utterly fucked-out you looked and sounded—lips parted, eyes glassy, body quivering with every invasion. “I’m gonna break you first,” he promised, voice rough with lust.

Then he pounded every inch of his thick cock into your pussy, the lewd squelch of your arousal echoing louder.

He slowed after a few brutal strokes, dragging out a single, torturously slow thrust that ground against your g-spot, making you drool slightly, a thin trail of saliva escaping the corner of your mouth as you gripped the sheets in white-knuckled fists.

Seonghwa moved the phone away from your face, refocusing the lens downward to capture the way your pussy sucked him in greedily with each withdrawal. He brought the camera closer, the flash illuminating the obscene sight of his shaft disappearing into you, coated in your combined wetness.

Without warning, he delivered a hard slap to your ass, the sharp crack resounding through the room. You arched sharply, a cry tearing from your throat: “I’m close—!”

He hissed through his teeth, “Fuck, baby,” as the tip of his cock prodded at that deep, hidden spot your fingers could never reach, teasing it relentlessly.

You squealed, “Fuck, please!” your body seizing up as the orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

You came hard, juices gushing from your pussy in hot spurts, soaking your thighs and dripping down his cock, pooling on the sheets below.

Seonghwa smirked, humming appreciatively as he watched you shatter. “Yeah, stay right there for me, baby,” he murmured, his voice laced with possessive hunger.

He quickly fastened his pace again, chasing his own release with frantic thrusts, the slick slide of your walls milking him perfectly. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt one final time, painting the inside of your walls with white-hot, thick ropes of cum.

The warmth flooded you, mixing with your own release, as he held you close, riding out the aftershocks until you both collapsed in a tangle of limbs and heavy breaths.

Before your legs could fully give out beneath you, Seonghwa's arm snaked around your waist with quick precision, hoisting you upright against his chest.

Your body trembled in the aftermath, every nerve ending still firing wildly, and a soft whimper escaped your lips: “I’m so sensitive.” The words came out breathy, almost pleading, as the lingering friction of his softening cock inside you made your inner walls clench involuntarily.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound low and affectionate, his dark eyes flicking down to meet yours before shifting to his phone.

With a few swift taps, he stopped the recording, waiting for the file to save before shutting the device off completely. He tossed it carelessly to the side of the bed, the screen going dark as it landed with a soft thud on the rumpled sheets.

Slowly, he pulled out of you, his gaze dropping to watch the thick mixture of your combined releases trickle down your thighs in lazy, pearly streams, coating your skin in a glossy sheen.

“Such a good girl for me, huh?” he murmured, his voice husky with satisfaction, one hand trailing lightly over the curve of your hip as he admired the evidence of your pleasure.

You could only manage a small whimper in response, your body too spent to form coherent words. Collapsing fully onto the bed, you panted heavily, utterly fucked-out—chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat, hair splayed messily across the pillow.

A lazy grin tugged at your lips as you caught your breath enough to tease, “Maybe I should let Wooyoung anger you more often.”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, a playful exasperation crossing his features as he lay down beside you. “You’re not going to be able to walk at that rate, baby,” he warned, though his tone was laced with fondness.

He reached for the tangled sheets, pulling them up to drape over both of your naked forms, the cool fabric a welcome contrast against your heated skin.

You snuggled close instinctively, tucking yourself into the warmth of his side, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, drawing you fully into his arms.

“Get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up,” he whispered, his fingers combing soothingly through your damp hair.

A sleepy smile overtook your face, your eyelids growing heavy as exhaustion pulled you under.

Yes, Park Seonghwa was indeed the caring and loving image of the oldest member and boyfriend—always attentive, always protective.

But what people didn’t know was how quickly he could be shocked and caught off guard.

Hours later, Seonghwa stood closer to one of the walls in the bustling building, his eyes glued to his phone screen, the glow illuminating his sharp features in the midst of the lively event.

The solo single party press release for Junghoon was in full swing, the room alive with chatter, flashing cameras, and the hum of excited fans and industry professionals milling about.

He replayed the video he’d taken of the two of you earlier that night—the raw, intimate footage of him pounding relentlessly into you, your moans filling the audio as your ass bounced with every harsh thrust.

A link had been posted on Twitter, sent to him via an urgent message from his manager.

The clip was cut short, but it was more than enough: the familiar layout of his room, the unmistakable timbre of his voice growling praises, yours gasping in ecstasy. The way he gripped your hips, slamming his cock deep into your pussy, making you arch and cry out—it was all there, exposed for the world to see.

Seonghwa raised a brow, running a finger thoughtfully over his lips as he watched the way your body jiggled under his assault, the slick sounds of your arousal audible even in the abbreviated version.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he bit down on his lower lip, a flicker of possessive heat stirring in his gut despite the circumstances. Without hesitation, he forwarded the message to you—knowing full well you were in the middle of a high-stakes meeting at work—adding a simple emoji: a winking face.

He hummed to himself, pocketing the phone just as a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Hyung!”

Seonghwa quickly shut off his screen and looked up, his expression shifting to one of warm brotherly affection. There stood Junghoon, the reason for this entire event, looking equal parts nervous and thrilled in his sleek stage outfit.

“Hey, Junghoon,” Seonghwa greeted, pulling the younger man into a firm, one-armed hug, clapping him on the back.

He pulled back with a nod, gesturing to the crowd of people bustling around them—reporters snapping photos, fans cheering from the barriers, staff coordinating the press lineup. “Big event for you, huh? I’m proud of you.”

Junghoon’s cheeks flushed a light pink, his sheepish smile lighting up his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Please, this wouldn’t be possible without all you guys cheering me on. You and the others… it means everything.”

Seonghwa laughed softly, a genuine sound that eased the tension knotting in his chest from the leaked video. He slung an arm around Junghoon’s shoulders, steering him through the throng as his eyes scanned the room out of habit.

He spotted one of his dedicated fansites in the crowd, the person already filming discreetly from behind a velvet rope. They probably had an inkling of what was running through his mind—the subtle chaos of the leak, the thrill of the forbidden exposure—but Seonghwa met their lens with a single, knowing wink, his charismatic smile unwavering.

Junghoon, oblivious to the undercurrents, dragged him along like an overexcited puppy, pointing out details of the setup with wide-eyed enthusiasm. “Oh yeah, look! I got them to serve chocolate milk when I found out you were coming. Your favorite, right?”

Seonghwa ruffled the younger’s hair affectionately, his touch light and encouraging. “You’re a good kid, Junghoon. Never change.”

Junghoon’s smile widened at the praise, his eyes sparkling with gratitude. “Thanks, hyung. Oh yeah, I just noticed—(Y/N)-noona isn’t with you?”

Seonghwa shook his head, his expression softening at the mention of you, though his mind flashed once again to the very angry text messages his manager had bombarded him with earlier.

Undoubtedly, the man was already scrambling, pulling every PR excuse known to mankind to spin this before it spiraled further—damage control on overdrive, calls to legal, statements drafted in haste.

But Seonghwa kept his cool, smiling down at Junghoon with easy reassurance. “Unfortunately, no. She’s busy with work. But she sends her love with me, though.”

As they moved deeper into the event, the buzz of congratulations and questions swirling around them, Seonghwa couldn’t shake the lingering smirk.

He should have had his fun first before trying to calm down his manager, and who’s probably going to fume over the leaked scandal of you both, though this served as a lesson for him.

He really should start unlinking his iCloud to his devices, including the ones he lost—what a rookie mistake.

He made a mental note: first thing tomorrow, call his tech guy. Unlink everything. Burn the old phones. He couldn’t risk another masterpiece like that getting into the wrong hands again. It was art, after all, and art like that was meant for a private collection.

⤷ piece taglist — @kaitioo @atinyzenflwr @cyglvr

⤷ permanent taglist — @m1kkso @ilovhoonie @jiyeons-closet @manobillie @yjmylove @in-somnias-world @cripplinghooman @yeossified @ateez-atiny380 @chemiru @eleftheriance @deluluscenarios @simp4simlee @baedreamverse @lala-loopsydoll @elairah @my-neurodivergent-world @jakeyismine @laylasbunbunny @zealouscookierebeltrash @beaepa @jazz7gnab @all4moi @riddlerloveb0t @angelhyuka @saraabbas @candidupped @rikisblog @vanillakirstein

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[liuhsng]

──── .‧₊࿐ TANGLED UP ( CBG ) — KINKTOBER DAY 10

✩ˎˊ˗ KINKTOBER 2025 MASTERLIST | enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — beomgyu x fem!reader

⤷ word count — 8.6k ⤷ kinktober 2025 taglist — open ! ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ warnings — smut (minors dni), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), rough sex, mean dom!beomgyu, bratty!reader, possessive!beomgyu, red flag!beomgyu (he’s a dick), markings (biting and hickies), idol!au, non-idol!reader, established relationship, power imbalance, dirty talk, manhandling, fluff

.‧₊࿐ summary — choi beomgyu was the best boyfriend you could ever ask for—patient, affectionate, attentive in all the ways that mattered. to everyone else, you were the perfect couple. but perfection cracks. until one night—raised voices echoing through the kitchen, tension burning between you—beomgyu reminds you exactly why you fell in love with him in the first place.

When people imagined dating Choi Beomgyu, they always painted it in sunshine and soft laughter—rainbows strung between inside jokes, a boy who smiled too easily and laughed even easier.

And they weren’t wrong. Not really.

Beomgyu was warmth in human form. A walking spark of chaos who somehow managed to charm everyone he crossed paths with—members, staff, camera operators, even other idols unlucky enough to share a hallway with him during music show promotions.

He had a habit of popping into frames he didn’t belong in, pointing fingers dramatically, talking absolute nonsense until someone snapped and chased him away.

He lived for it. The reactions, the eye rolls, the screaming of his name echoing behind him as he sprinted off laughing like he’d just won something.

That no-nonsense, ‘I’ll-do-what-I-want’ attitude was what made him so endearing.

And as a boyfriend—he was sweet in ways that felt unfair.

Remembering the little things. Leaving notes where you’d find them hours later. Pulling you into hugs when he thought no one was looking—then doing it anyway even when they were.

Choi Beomgyu loved loudly. Easily. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that was exactly why people imagined him as all sunshine and rainbows. They imagined laughter-filled apartments, soft kisses in passing, warmth that never dimmed.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the clock crept past midnight and the apartment felt too quiet for a place meant to be lived in by two people.

You sat on one end of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, arms crossed tightly over your chest—not because you were cold, but because you were annoyed. Irritated. Stewing.

The couch stretched wide between you and the empty space beside you, almost mockingly so. Something you and Beomgyu had splurged on years ago when you first moved in together, laughing about how dramatic it looked, how it would be perfect for lazy days and movie nights.

The TV in front of you played your shared favorite show, characters animated and expressive, mouths moving in silent laughter. You vaguely remembered muting it hours ago—at some point between checking your phone for the fifth time and realizing you were too irritated to care what was happening on screen.

Your gaze flicked upward.

12:26 AM.

You clicked your tongue, jaw tightening as your head tipped back against the couch.

“Seriously?” you muttered under your breath.

Another car passed by outside, headlights briefly flooding the living room with white light before disappearing down the street. You rolled your eyes, sinking deeper into the cushions, arms hugging yourself tighter.

Every sound had your attention snapping up. Every engine. Every shift of light through the window.

And every time, it wasn’t him.

You stared at the clock like it had personally betrayed you, counting each passing minute as if it owed you an explanation. Your phone lay face-down on the coffee table—untouched, because checking it again would only make things worse.

You exhaled slowly, eyes squeezing shut.

“You said you wouldn’t be late,” you whispered to the empty room, voice barely louder than the hum of the apartment.

The looming hour of the night only made the pressure behind your eyes worse. It had started as a dull throb sometime around eleven, but now it sat heavy at your temples, tightening with every passing minute.

The silence didn’t help either—too loud in its own way—broken only by the steady ticking of the oven timer you’d nearly forgotten about.

Your eyes snapped open.

“Oh—shit,” you muttered, pushing yourself off the couch.

You’d left the test batch in there.

The thought hit you all at once—the half-scrolled recipe pulled up on your phone, Beomgyu’s excited voice earlier that evening saying We should try this, it looks easy, the way he’d promised to help. Meaning he’d hover around the kitchen, steal pieces when he thought you weren’t looking, and proudly declare himself the taste tester.

The memory made your frown deepen.

You padded down the hallway connecting the living room to the kitchen, bare feet brushing softly against the wooden floor. The lights were dim, only the warm glow from the kitchen spilling into the space as you rounded the corner.

You grabbed the oven mitts off the counter—carelessly tossed over the still-warm stovetop earlier—and tugged one on hastily, shoving it down your wrist without much care.

The oven door creaked as you pulled it open.

Heat rushed out, blooming against your face. “Oh, thank God,” you sighed, shoulders sagging in relief.

They weren’t burnt. Slightly cracked on top, maybe, but still intact—rows of small, colorful macarons sitting neatly on the tray. You carefully pulled them out, setting the tray down on the counter with a soft clink. For a brief moment, a small smile tugged at your lips.

They were perfectly baked. Soft-looking. The kind Beomgyu would absolutely brag about to anyone who’d listen, even though he hadn’t been here for a second of it.

Your smile faded just as quickly as it came. Because right then—right on cue—you heard the engine of a familiar car slowing outside. Then dying down completely.

You let out a huff, tugging the oven mitt off and tossing it onto the counter. “Of course,” you muttered. “Of course you’d come home now.”

You dragged a hand through your hair, fingers catching on strands you didn’t bother fixing. You didn’t even straighten the hem of your shirt as you stepped away from the counter, the faint warmth of the kitchen following you back into the hallway.

Your sleep shorts hung loosely on your hips, fabric soft and worn-in, but you barely registered it. You didn’t care how you looked. Not tonight.

Beomgyu needed a scolding.

And he needed it bad—if he wanted to stay in your good graces.

Your footsteps were quiet as you crossed the living room again, heart already thudding a little harder than before. The front door unlocked moments later, followed by the familiar clatter of keys and the sound of shoes being kicked off without much thought.

Then you heard laughter. Faint, muffled through the thick wood of the door. A laugh you’d memorized by heart by now.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as the sound carried through the hallway. “Deep breaths,” you muttered under your breath. “Deep breaths, (Y/N).”

You loved him. He loved you.

You forced a smile onto your face, even though it felt tight, unnatural. Reaching over the back of the loveseat, you grabbed the silk robe that had been discarded there earlier—probably yours, forgotten in the middle of the day—and slipped it on loosely as you made your way down the short hallway toward the door.

You didn’t bother peeking through the opaque glass panel beside it.

Instead, you opened the drawer by the entryway, fingers brushing past spare keys until you found the keycard. You pressed it against the sensor, the mechanical beep humming softly before you pushed down on the handle.

The door swung open—and the smell of alcohol hit you almost immediately.

Your nose scrunched instinctively, eyes narrowing at the sight in front of you.

Soobin stood there, looking far too sober for the situation, Beomgyu’s arm slung loosely around his shoulders as he struggled to keep your boyfriend upright. Beomgyu himself was swaying just slightly, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, a lazy grin plastered across his face like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Behind them, Yeonjun leaned against the van, waving sheepishly.

“Sorry, (Y/N)!” Yeonjun called out.

You smiled—but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze shifted back to Soobin, one brow lifting slowly.

“…Uh,” Soobin chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “What happened was—”

“What happened now?” you corrected calmly.

Soobin swallowed, then laughed again—smaller this time, nerves creeping into the sound. “Well… we won the music show.”

You just stood there, arms loosely crossed, gaze fixed on him with an expression that was unreadable at best. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, settling heavily on Soobin’s shoulders.

He winced.

“…Surprise?” he added, hopeful, voice lifting like he was testing thin ice.

Your eyebrow lifted higher.

“…No?” Soobin tried, already backpedaling. “Okay—yeah, we won, and your boyfriend here—” he shifted his grip as Beomgyu sagged further against him, “—might’ve had a little too much to drink.”

“Hey, baby,” Beomgyu chimed in warmly, voice soft and loose, a grin tugging at his lips like this was all one big joke.

You felt it then—the irritation curling tighter in your chest.

You didn’t look at him. Not even a glance. Your jaw set, fingers tightening slightly against your arm as you kept your eyes on Soobin instead, refusing to acknowledge Beomgyu’s presence until you were ready.

“What else?” you asked flatly.

Soobin straightened immediately. “Well—uh—we drove here. Not us. Obviously. Our manager,” he rushed out. “Because we both know drunk driving is illegal, right? I mean—”

“Yes, Soobin,” you cut in calmly, already stepping forward. “I get it. Thank you. I’ll take him from here.”

Soobin blinked, caught off guard by how composed you sounded. “Are you sure? I mean, I can help you escort him inside—”

You stepped back just enough to make space, expression tight but controlled. “Beomgyu’s just exaggerating.”

“I am,” Beomgyu snickered, trying to straighten. “I can walk. Let go of me.”

Soobin rolled his eyes and pushed Beomgyu’s arm off his shoulder. “Sure you can.”

You hummed softly, the sound more tired than amused. “Thank you for bringing him home alive. At least.”

Beomgyu opened his mouth, clearly about to protest—but one look from you had him snapping it shut. Your gaze cut to him briefly then—sharp, warning, unimpressed.

You turned back to Soobin, your expression easing just enough to be polite. “Thank you, Soobin. Please give Yeonjun my thanks too.”

Soobin nodded, already looking apologetic. “Good luck,” he muttered under his breath before stepping away.

You didn’t wait for goodbyes.

The moment Beomgyu stumbled inside, you stepped aside, hand already gripping the handle. You shut the door behind him with a firm click, locking it without hesitation.

Beomgyu turned toward you, still smiling like he hadn’t just walked straight into trouble.

You rolled your eyes, exhaling slowly through your nose. “Oh,” you muttered quietly, “this is going to be fun.”

You turned to face Beomgyu just as he started walking toward you. And honestly—you were almost impressed.

He was steady on his feet, posture loose but not stumbling, eyes bright in that tipsy, annoyingly charming way he got when he thought he was getting away with something.

Almost.

You didn’t acknowledge him. Not even a glance.

Instead, you turned on your heel and headed straight for the kitchen, bare feet padding against the wooden floor. “Stupid Choi Beomgyu,” you muttered under your breath. “And your stupid empty promises.”

He trailed after you immediately, pout already clear in his tone. “Hey—hey, why are you walking away?”

You moved behind the counter, grabbing the flat spatula from where you’d left it earlier—the one you used to gently pop the macarons off the baking sheet. You slid it under the first shell, careful, precise, like he hadn’t just walked in smelling like soju and bad decisions.

“Baby,” Beomgyu whined, leaning his elbows onto the counter across from you. “I missed you.”

You stayed silent, refusing to look up.

You continued working, sliding the spatula under each colorful macaron, lifting them one by one and setting them neatly aside. Like he wasn’t there. Like his presence wasn’t filling the kitchen, crowding the air, making it harder to breathe.

The smell of alcohol hit you again—stronger now. Soju clinging to him, sharp and unmistakable. His jacket from earlier was gone, probably abandoned somewhere by the door.

Beomgyu tilted his head, studying you. “(Y/N),” he said softly, dragging your name out. “Your boyfriend is home. You know that, right?”

You raised a brow, eyes still fixed on the macarons.

“The last time I checked,” you said sharply, finally looking at him, “I didn’t have a boyfriend who forgot he had a girlfriend waiting at home.”

Beomgyu blinked—once, twice. “…What?”

“No?” you continued, voice tight, controlled. “Does that not ring a bell? Or did the alcohol wipe that out too?”

He straightened slightly, caught off guard. The lazy smile faded, confusion flashing across his face as he processed your tone. His posture shifted—suddenly more aware, more present. The kitchen lights flickered for a brief second, casting his shadow taller against the wall.

You ignored it.

You tugged the robe tighter around yourself with one hand, muttering, “Such a fucking bother,” before carelessly tossing it aside onto the empty counter. You transferred the already-set macarons onto a clean tray laid out in front of you, movements a little sharper now, less patient.

Beomgyu hummed, trying to sound casual. “I did tell you I was going to be late.”

Your grip tightened around the spatula. You physically had to stop yourself from throwing it at him as you inhaled deeply.

“You said late,” you said slowly, every word clipped. “Not drunk, Choi Beomgyu. There’s a difference, you fucking idiot.”

You felt his eyes on you—felt them tracking every movement as you kept your head down, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face just yet. The kitchen felt too small, the air thick, heavy with the tension you were barely containing.

You muttered under your breath as you worked, but you didn’t bother lowering your voice. You wanted him to hear.

You sorted through the macarons with rougher movements now, separating the cracked, uneven ones from the perfect shells. The soft clack of them against the tray sounded louder than it should’ve.

“You said we were going to make these together,” you said, voice trembling just slightly. “You said you actually wanted to try.”

You turned, grabbing a plate from the rack, the ceramic clinking sharply as you set it down.

“And instead,” you continued, harsh and bitter, “I look like some lovesick idiot waiting up for her apparently drunk boyfriend to come home from work.”

Your chest tightened.

“Me,” you scoffed. “I’m the stupid idiot.”

“Did I want this life?” you whispered bitterly. “No. I didn’t.”

You moved toward the fridge, stopping just short of the handle. Your hand hovered there, fingers trembling slightly as you stared at it, thoughts racing—about fillings, about ruining them, about whether you even had the energy to finish what you started.

About whether you had the energy for him.

With a sharp exhale, you decided against it.

You yanked the fridge open instead, the cold air hitting your face as you grabbed a can of soda. The chill bit into your palm as you hissed softly, slamming the door shut behind you.

Only then did you turn around.

Beomgyu stood there, expression no longer playful, no longer smug. Just quiet. Watching. His posture had straightened, shoulders tense as he followed you with his eyes while you paced the kitchen, movements sharp, restless.

You gestured vaguely with the can. “You could’ve called me, Beomgyu.”

He shifted then—finally moving—rounding the counter slowly, until he stopped right in front of you. He leaned back against the marble countertop, arms braced behind him like he was settling in, not cornered. Like he wasn’t standing on thin ice.

You squinted at him.

He tilted his head slightly, gaze steady, almost expectant. Like he was urging you to keep going.

That alone made your irritation spike.

You rolled your eyes, setting the soda can down on the counter behind you with a sharp clink. “I’m waiting,” you said flatly. “For you to defend yourself. Do something. Literally anything to protect the remaining good image I have of you in my head.”

Your laugh was short, humorless. “Or are you just going to stand there and stare at me?”

Beomgyu sighed, head tipping back for a second. “What do you want me to say?”

He raised a brow, posture still relaxed—but he still towered over you, presence heavy, unavoidable.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said, softer now. “Baby, I truly am. I don’t know what to say to you, so I’m here apologizing.”

You stared at him. Then you stepped closer—just one step—closing the space between you as you pointed a finger at his chest.

“Why do you sound like you have no idea what you just did?”

That made him huff, irritation flickering across his face. He pushed off the counter, standing fully upright now, removing any trace of casualness.

“Look, (Y/N),” he said, voice tightening, “I’m trying to apologize. And if you don’t want my apology—”

You ground your teeth together, hands curling into fists at your sides as you cut him off, voice low but shaking with restraint.

“Oh my fucking God, Beomgyu,” you hissed. “I don’t need you to apologize. I need you to own up to your fucking mistakes.”

You took another breath, chest rising sharply.

“Who comes home drunk and acts like he doesn’t have someone waiting for him at home?” you demanded. “Who does that?”

The frown came quick, deepening between Beomgyu’s brows. “That wasn’t my intention,” he said, running a hand down his face. “I was already tired. I was snappy.”

He exhaled, frustration bleeding into his tone. “I just worked twelve hours straight. I had to rerecord half my lines because I kept messing up, and the staff insisted we unwind. I couldn’t exactly say no to that.”

All you heard were excuses.

You rolled your eyes again, the motion sharp enough that Beomgyu noticed.

“You couldn’t have told me?” you shot back.

He scoffed under his breath. “We’re going around in circles.”

You bit back the tears burning at the corners of your eyes, refusing to let them fall. “I don’t even ask for much, Beomgyu,” you said, voice cracking despite yourself. “I just want you to know that you have me to call when you’re going through shit.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, breath unsteady. “I’m here for a damn reason.”

Beomgyu stepped forward abruptly, closing the distance completely. “Maybe I didn’t call you,” he snapped, “because I didn’t want to burden you even more.”

His voice was louder now, sharper. “Is that so hard to understand?”

You took a step back.

The heel of your foot caught against the tile, breath stuttering as your brows furrowed. Your chest felt too tight, like every inhale scraped your lungs raw. You didn’t even lower your voice. Didn’t care if the neighbors heard, if someone knocked tomorrow with a complaint—you were already past the point of embarrassment.

“Yes,” you hissed, jaw clenched, eyes blazing. “Because right now, you’re nothing but a jerk.”

The word left your mouth sharp and ugly, and once it was out, everything else followed.

“For the past weeks,” you continued, hands curling into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms, “all you’ve been saying is that you want to make it up to me.”

Your laugh was humorless, brittle.

“And yet all you’ve been doing is coming home late—”

Your voice faltered. You turned your head just slightly, swallowing hard as a lump rose in your throat, burning. You hated that your body betrayed you like this.

When you looked back at him, Beomgyu was staring down at you—eyes dark and intense.

It only made the anger surge harder.

“Stop acting like nobody cares about you, goddammit,” you snapped, stepping forward this time, finger twitching like you wanted to point it straight into his chest. “You’re already a hard worker. You don’t need to keep killing yourself to prove your worth to anyone—”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly now, breaths shallow and uneven. The words were tumbling out faster, anger bleeding into hurt you’d been holding back for far too long.

“I feel like I’m being used,” you said, quieter—but it landed heavier than anything you’d shouted.

Beomgyu’s shoulders stiffened. His jaw tightened.

“You come home drunk,” you went on, voice shaking, eyes stinging, “to a clean house and a cold dinner because you never bother showing up anymore.”

Your hands clenched again, knuckles white. “I wait,” you snapped. “I wait, and I wait, and I tell myself you’re just busy—”

Your voice cracked, and that was what finally pushed you over the edge.

“All you do is come home to get fucked,” you spat, the words ugly and raw as they tore out of you. “And it’s fucking pissing me off.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

It slammed into the room, thick and suffocating. The hum of the fridge suddenly sounded too loud. Your ears rang.

Beomgyu’s eyes widened—just for a split second—before his expression hardened completely. His mouth pressed into a thin line as he straightened to his full height, towering over you without even trying.

“I come home to get fucked?” he repeated slowly, disbelief dripping from every syllable.

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair, fingers curling at the roots like he was holding himself back.

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” he shot back, voice tight, offended—hurt in a way that made your stomach twist painfully.

He stepped closer again, closing the already minimal space between you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension thick enough to choke on.

“You think that’s all this is?” he demanded, eyes flashing. “You think I come home just to—what—use you?”

He laughed, short and bitter, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “That’s what you think of me?” he said, quieter now—but somehow sharper. “After everything?”

You sneer up at him, anger coming off you in waves as you tilt your head in mockery. “Yes,” you spit, the word sharp and jagged. “Because you’ve been treating your own girlfriend like shit for the past months, and I’m fucking tired of it, Choi Beomgyu.”

His name hangs in the air, a final, damning blow. For a split second, his face is a mask of pure shock, the flashing anger in his eyes extinguished by a sudden, cold dawning.

Then, a sound rips from his throat—a laugh, but it’s completely devoid of humor. It’s bitter, dry, and utterly chilling. He leans down, not close enough to make you stumble back, but just enough to invade your space, to make you feel trapped.

A slow, predatory smile engulfs his face, twisting his handsome features into something menacing. “Or,” he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, “is that what you need, you fucking brat?”

You blink, the sudden shift in the atmosphere catching you completely off guard. “What the fuck are you talking about?” you demand, your voice losing some of its fire in your confusion.

He sneers down at you, the expression a perfect, cruel mirror of your own from moments before. He tried to be understanding, he really did. The thought is a bitter pill in his own mind, a justification he’s been chewing on for weeks.

Because despite him coming home late and drunk, he surprised you the next day with your favorite flowers. His gaze flicks towards the living room, and he watches your eyes follow his, seeing the bouquet on the coffee table as if for the first time.

And he was pretty sure the ones he got you three days ago were sitting snugly in one of the glass vases inside your shared bedroom. He watches the shame creep up your neck, the faint blush that betrays your anger, and a cold satisfaction settles in his gut.

Just last week, he got you that bag you were eyeing when he and Taehyun stopped by Dior. And he was pretty sure that was on top of your vanity mirror a few days ago.

He takes another step, crowding you against the wall, and he feels the faint tremor that runs through your body. You weren’t mad at him for being late and drunk. Well, a little, maybe, he concedes internally, a dark part of him reveling in your conflict. But you needed somebody to put you back in your place.

He’s so close now he can see the flecks of brown in your dark eyes, can smell the faint, sharp scent of whiskey mixed with the sweet vanilla of your perfume.

And a little fucking discipline is what Beomgyu’s good at. A cruel smirk plays on his lips. Or really, memorizing your body more than you do.

He leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a ghost of a touch that’s more of a threat than a kiss. He mockingly smiles, his mouth hovering just over yours.

“What?” he purrs, the vibration of his voice sending a jolt straight through you. “Now you’re shutting up? Weren’t you berating me just now?” He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression one of smug, triumphant amusement. “Cat got your tongue?”

You could feel your ears ringing as the heat on your face beat at you, a traitorous blush that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with his suffocating presence.

You stutter out a response, the words catching in your throat. “Th-this is what I mean when you act all high and mighty—”

But Beomgyu was quick to shut you up. His hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around your jaw, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh of your cheek.

His other arm snaked around your waist, yanking you flush against him until there was no space left, not even for air. A shit-eating grin spread across his face as he leaned in, pressing a singular, infuriatingly soft kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Let fucking go of me,” you muttered, your voice muffled by his hold. “You’re drunk, Beomgyu.”

He pouts, the mocking expression never leaving his face as he says, “What happened to calling me ‘baby,’ huh?” He leans closer, and you flinch at the strong smell of soju in every breath he takes, the sharp, alcoholic fumes mixing with the faint sweetness of the yogurt they probably mixed it with.

He whispers, his voice a low, conspiratorial taunt, “I may be drunk, but I’m never too drunk to know if my girl misses me being inside her.”

You open your mouth to protest, a fresh wave of indignation rising, only for him to press his mouth against yours. The taste of soju, sharp and acidic, mixed with the faint, creamy tang of yogurt, overtook your senses as Beomgyu kissed you, deeply.

It wasn’t a kiss of passion but of punishment, his lips moving against yours with a bruising force. You tried to push him away, your hands flattening against his firm chest, but he was an immovable wall.

Just as you were about to give in, he let go, pulling back with a wet sound. He pressed a chaste, almost gentle kiss to your forehead, a stark contrast to the assault on your lips.

He smiles down at you, his eyes dark and glinting. “There, all better now?”

You sneer at him, the furious flush on your cheeks betraying the venom in your expression. “I’m not kissing and fucking you when you’re drunk, Beomgyu. Get your hands off of me.”

He hums, a low, thoughtful sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. “I don’t think so.” His grip on your waist tightens. “You’ve been nothing but a whiny brat the moment I got home.”

You try to step back, but he only pulls you closer, making your frown deepen into a look of pure, unadulterated anger. “For the hundredth fucking time,” you seethe, “this is what I mean! All you do is come home and expect me to be ready and have my legs spread for you—”

Only for him to pull you closer by your face, your cheeks squishing in his hold. He looks down at you with a single, unimpressed raised brow.

“Excuse me?” he says, his voice dripping with condescending sweetness. “Did I say you could stop kissing me and start talking? Because I don’t recall giving you that option.”

He was quick to spin you around, so your front was pressed against the cold marble of the counter. The sudden shock of the chilled surface against your bare skin made you yelp, a sharp, indignant sound that was swallowed by the cavernous kitchen.

Beomgyu’s hands clamped down on your waist, his grip like iron, keeping you pinned in place as you squirmed.

“Choi Beomgyu, let me go this instant!” you huffed, trying to push yourself up, but his body weight was an unmovable force behind you.

He simply chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest and into your back. In one fluid motion, he gathered both of your wrists and held them firmly behind you with one of his large hands, rendering you helpless.

He leaned forward, the heat of his breath fanning over the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold counter. “I don’t think you deserve to be listened to right now, baby,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat.

Beomgyu hummed, his lips brushing against your earlobe. “Because you wouldn’t let me apologize, no?”

You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him exactly where he could shove his half-assed apology, but he chose that exact moment to tug at the waistband, letting the elastic snap back against your skin with a sharp sting. You squeaked, the sound pathetic and utterly betraying your defiant posture.

A smirk was evident in his voice as he said, “I’ve barely even touched you and you’re already acting like a bitch in heat.”

You groaned in pure, unadulterated annoyance, your cheek pressed against the unforgiving marble. “I didn’t even ask for this, you asshole!”

Beomgyu raised a brow, a gesture you couldn’t see but could feel in the shift of his weight. His hand abandoned your waistband, traveling with agonizing slowness to cup your clothed pussy.

You instinctively tried to keep his hand away by shutting your legs together, clamping your thighs tight, but that only fueled him.

The pressure of his palm was a constant, maddening presence as his fingers began to trace the seam of your shorts, following the lines of your folds through the fabric with a precision that made your breath hitch.

He clicked his tongue, a sound of condescending disappointment. “Oh really?” he drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“Your body seems to be telling a very different story. It’s practically begging for it, isn’t it? All this resistance… it’s just for show, isn’t it, baby? You love this.”

You tried to push yourself away, but the movement was clumsy and desperate. It only served to arch your back, pressing your ass more firmly against the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans.

Beomgyu released a sound that was a mix of intrigue and approval, a low, satisfied hum that vibrated through you.

“See what I mean?” he murmured, his lips ghosting over the nape of your neck. “For being such a whore for me?”

The crude word made you gasp, a sharp intake of air that was cut short as he suddenly hooked his thumbs into your shorts and yanked them down. They didn’t fall to the floor, instead bunching up around your mid-thighs, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. The cool air of the kitchen kissed your heated skin.

“This is what I mean!” you cried out, your voice trembling with a mixture of rage and unwanted arousal. “You only see me as some sort of fucktoy and not as your girlf—”

Before you could even finish the word, Beomgyu’s hands were on you, cupping the soft flesh of your ass. His fingers were cold, a stark contrast to the heat blooming under your skin, and the sensation made you flinch. He traced the curve of your ass, his touch possessive.

“And I need you to stop talking,” he commanded, his voice losing its playful edge and hardening with authority.

He leaned closer, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the skin of your exposed shoulder. He wasn’t gentle; he sucked and nipped, leaving a trail of dark, possessive hickies in his wake.

You tried to hold back the moans that were threatening to spill from your lips, pressing them into a thin, defiant line, but the pleasure was a potent drug.

Beomgyu hummed against your skin, the sound a deep rumble. “Still not gonna say anything?” he teased. As if to answer his own question, his fingers found your slick folds, caressing the heated, sensitive skin with an expertise that made your knees weak.

He chuckled, the sound dark and triumphant. “Bold of you to push me away while you’re this wet for me.”

You hissed out a strangled, “F-fuck you.”

A teasingly cruel smile spread across his face. “That’s what I’m trying to do here, baby,” he whispered, and slowly, he let one finger sink into you. You moaned aloud at the intrusion, the sound raw and unrestrained.

“Now shut up and let me talk,” he said, his voice deceptively calm as he suddenly pushed a second finger in, stretching you. You instinctively leaned forward, your elbows hitting the cold marble of the counter for support as your body trembled.

“You’re accusing me of being a bad boyfriend,” he stated, curling his fingers just right, stroking that sensitive spot inside you that made you see stars. You moaned out a broken, “Ngh—you are!”

Beomgyu clicked his tongue, a sound of sharp disapproval. He removed his hold on your wrists, letting you support yourself, but your freedom was short-lived.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back and pulling you flush against his chest. You whined at the sharp, pleasurable pain of the pull.

He snarled against your ear, “I’m such a bad boyfriend that I’m fingering you right now, huh?” He began to pump his fingers in and out of you in a relentless, punishing rhythm that made you shudder and clench around him.

“I’m such a bad boyfriend for letting you wait up on me while I’m stuck in the studio, making money to keep a roof over our heads,” he continued, his voice dripping with venom. “And a pretty damn big one at that.”

He scissored his fingers inside you, stretching you wider, making you moan out in pure, unadulterated pleasure. “Ah, fuck,” you cried out, the fight completely draining out of you, replaced by the overwhelming need for release.

The sound of your surrender seemed to be the only thing he’d been waiting for.

Beomgyu’s grip on your hair loosened, but only so his hand could slide down to grip your jaw, turning your head just enough to capture your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss. It was all teeth and tongue—claiming you, swallowing your moans as his fingers continued their relentless assault between your legs.

“Look at you,” he rasped against your lips, his voice thick with lust and a dark satisfaction. “All that fight… and it all melts away the second I touch you. You’re so easy, baby. So fucking easy for me.”

His words were meant to humiliate, but they only stoked the fire building in your core. He was right. You hated that he was right. With a final, deliberate curl of his fingers against that sensitive spot, the coil in your stomach snapped.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice a low, triumphant rumble against your ear. “I can practically feel you squeezing my fingers. Lie to me again, baby. Tell me you don’t want this when you’re cumming all over my fingers.”

Your orgasm crashed over you with the force of a tidal wave, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down around his fingers.

Your vision went white, and for a moment, the only things that existed were the cold marble beneath your hands and the overwhelming pleasure pulsing through you.

He didn’t stop, drawing out your climax until you were a trembling, whimpering mess, completely boneless against the counter.

Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers, leaving you feeling achingly empty. He brought them to his lips, his eyes locked on yours as he cleaned your arousal from them with a slow swipe of his tongue.

“See?” he murmured, his voice a low, triumphant purr. “I’m not such a bad boyfriend after all, am I? I always give you what you need.”

Beomgyu’s grip on your hair tightened suddenly, yanking harder until your scalp burned with the sharp pull, forcing your back to arch sharply against his chest.

The cool air hit your exposed skin, contrasting the heat radiating from his body as he molded himself to you, his free hand sliding possessively over your hip. You gasped, the lingering waves of your orgasm making every sensation feel amplified, your body still quivering uncontrollably.

“Now,” he drawled, his voice twisting back into that sickeningly sweet condescension, like honey laced with venom, “are you ready to listen to my apology?”

He held you there, waiting, his breath hot against your ear.

But all that escaped your lips were small, ragged pants as you struggled to catch your breath, your chest heaving, mind foggy from the intensity. The words wouldn’t form—couldn’t form—your throat tight and raw from the cries you’d already let out.

Beomgyu cooed mockingly, the sound dripping with false sympathy. “Aww, what’s the matter, sweetheart? Did I just fuck the fight right out of you?”

His free hand moved with slowness, fingers deftly popping the button of his jeans. The zipper rasped down, and he shoved the fabric along with his boxers past his hips in one fluid motion, freeing his throbbing cock. It sprang heavy and hot against your ass, the length of it pressing insistently as he moved closer.

He leaned in, lips brushing feather-light kisses along the side of your neck, trailing up to your jaw. Each press of his mouth sent shivers racing down your spine, a mix of tenderness and control that made your knees weaken further.

“I can take any insult you throw at me, (Y/N),” he whispered, his tone laced with that condescending edge, deliberately omitting the sweet nicknames he usually peppered in—like ‘baby’ or ‘darling’—the absence hitting you like a chill, making your body shiver involuntarily against him.

“But calling me a bad boyfriend? Accusing me of just using you for this tight little body?” He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “That’s just absurd.”

The leaking tip of his aching cock nudged against your dripping folds, slick with your release, rubbing teasingly along the sensitive slit. You whimpered at the contact, hips twitching forward instinctively, but he held you firm with that iron grip in your hair.

A hiss escaped his lips as he coated himself in your wetness, the heat of him making your core clench around nothing. “Don’t fucking say words you don’t mean,” he growled, voice roughening with restrained hunger.

“Might I remind you who was there for me when I was still worth nothing?”

Your response dissolved into a deep, throaty moan the instant the swollen head of his cock breached your entrance, stretching your aching walls as it pushed past your folds and sank into your cunt.

The burn of the intrusion mixed with the fullness you craved, your body yielding to him despite the emotional storm raging inside.

“Who takes care of me when I’m sick and can’t even talk shit, huh?” He pushed in another inch, deliberate and slow, savoring the way your inner muscles fluttered around him.

The added pressure drew a sharp moan from you—“Beomgyu—!”—your voice breaking on his name, hands scrabbling against the marble for purchase.

He hummed in response, a smug vibration rumbling from his throat as he nuzzled into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “Hmm? Or who talked to my mom for hours on end, just because you wanted to keep me well-fed and happy on my birthdays?”

Without warning, he surged forward, slamming the rest of his length deep inside you in one brutal thrust. Every thick vein and rigid ridge dragged against your sensitive walls, seating him perfectly, filling you to the hilt until you felt him in your gut.

A broken “Hah—fuck!” tore from your throat, followed by a choked moan as tears pricked at your eyes from the overwhelming stretch.

Your body arched further under his hold, pussy clenching greedily around his cock, milking him as if begging for more despite the ache.

Beomgyu tugged your hair just the slightest bit more, tilting your head back so he could whisper directly into your ear, his hips grinding in a slow circle to emphasize his point.

“Not gonna fight back?” He smirked to himself when all he heard in return were your small moans and whimpers, no trace of the earlier defiance.

“Mhmm, because you know I’m right,” he purred, voice smug as he began to move—shallow thrusts at first, each one pulling a fresh gasp from your lips.

His hand on your hip dug in, bruising fingers guiding your body to meet him, while the one in your hair kept you arched and exposed, utterly at his mercy.

A low chuckle rumbled from Beomgyu’s chest, vibrating against your ear as his lips ghosted over the sensitive shell. His fingers twisted tighter in your strands, the pull sending fresh sparks of pain-laced pleasure shooting down your spine, keeping you locked in that vulnerable bow.

He peppered open-mouthed kisses along the expanse of your neck, teeth nipping at the tender skin just enough to mark without breaking, his breath hot and ragged as he maintained his relentless rhythm.

Each thrust into your soaked pussy was powerful—like he hadn’t downed at least twenty shots of soju alone earlier that night—his hips snapping forward with a force that jolted your entire body against the counter’s edge, the marble biting into your palms.

“You really are such a funny girl, baby,” he hissed through clenched teeth, the words laced with that mocking affection as his cock dragged deep inside you, stretching your walls with every plunge.

The slick sounds of skin slapping skin filled the kitchen, mingling with your shared gasps, the air thick with the musky scent of sex and spilled alcohol from the nearby bottles.

“Makes me want to knock you up—fill this greedy cunt until you’re leaking me for days.”

The crude promise twisted something deep in your core, heat flooding your veins as his tip battered against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“Gyu—fuck, right there!” you moaned, the plea spilling out unbidden, your voice hoarse and desperate, body betraying any lingering resistance as you pushed back to meet him.

He obliged without mercy, his pace quickening into a brutal one, hips pistoning faster as sweat beaded on his brow, dripping onto your shoulder. The friction built an inferno inside you, his thick shaft splitting you open with each drive, veins pulsing against your clenching heat.

Beomgyu hummed approvingly, the sound vibrating through his teeth as he latched onto your neck again, sucking a fresh bruise into the flesh. “Or maybe you are right, you know,” he murmured against your skin, voice dropping to a taunting drawl between grunts.

“All talk until you get dicked down. Maybe deep inside, you do know you’re just a little slut for me, aren’t you?”

Your response came as a breathless moan, hand flying to his arm where his fingers clamped like a vice around your waist, nails digging into his skin in a futile bid for leverage. The pressure coiled tighter in your belly, a familiar ache blooming hot and insistent as his words sank in, stoking the fire.

“Fuck—yes—” you cried out, the admission fracturing into a whine, your thighs trembling as you teetered on the edge, every nerve alight with the building ecstasy.

Beomgyu hummed again, a satisfied rumble as he bit down on your neck, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to make you arch further, the sharp sting blending seamlessly with the pleasure radiating from your core.

His grip on your hair eased just a fraction, loosening enough to let you crane your head to the side even more, offering him better access to your throat without the burn crossing into true pain.

The shift allowed a sliver of relief, your neck muscles sighing in gratitude even as he continued to pound into you, his balls slapping rhythmically against your clit with each forceful entry.

“Fuck, baby, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he muttered, voice strained and wrecked, his forehead dropping to rest heavily against your shoulder.

The warmth of his skin seeped into yours, his breaths coming in sharp bursts as he felt your walls flutter erratically around his length. “Are you close?”

You tried to nod, the tug on your hair limiting the motion to a jerky tilt, but the affirmation dissolved into another moan, high and keening, as his cock hit that devastating angle again.

The coil in your stomach wound unbearably tight, threatening to snap at any second, your vision blurring at the edges with the intensity.

Beomgyu hissed through his teeth, his thrusts growing erratic, hips stuttering as he chased his own release.

“Cum with me,” he commanded, the words a rough growl against your skin, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple sharply, twisting just enough to shove you over.

As if on command, your body obeyed, spasming wildly around his cock in a vice-like grip. Waves of pleasure crashed through you, your pussy gushing hot juices that flowed down his length, soaking his thighs and dripping onto the floor below.

The orgasm ripped a scream from your throat, muffled only by the way your face pressed into your arm, every muscle seizing as ecstasy pulsed through your veins. Beomgyu followed seconds later, a guttural groan tearing from him as he buried himself to the hilt one final time.

Thick ropes of cum painted the inside of your walls white and hot, flooding your depths until you felt deliciously full, the warmth spreading like liquid fire. He shuddered against you, cock twitching with aftershocks as he emptied himself completely, marking you from the inside out.

With a gentle push, he guided your head forward, releasing the last of his hold on your hair so you could support yourself fully on your arms against the cool marble.

Your elbows buckled slightly under the weight, but you managed, pants escaping in heavy waves as your chest heaved, lungs burning from the exertion. The counter’s chill seeped into your flushed skin, grounding you as the high ebbed, leaving you boneless and spent.

Beomgyu’s hand finally loosened completely from your hair, both palms now gripping your hips in a softer hold, thumbs stroking soothing circles over the bruises he’d left.

He panted against your back, his own breaths ragged and uneven, sweat-slicked chest rising and falling in time with yours. “Fuck, baby, you did so well,” he rasped, voice thick with lingering lust and a hint of genuine awe, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder blade.

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled out, the wet slide of his softening cock leaving you achingly empty once more.

He watched, transfixed, as your mixed juices spilled out from your abused pussy with ease—creamy white strands of his cum mingling with your clear arousal, trickling down your inner thighs in obscene rivulets.

The sight drew a low hum of approval from him, his fingers tracing lightly over the mess, smearing it further before he caught himself.

He leaned over you then, his body draping warmly as one arm wrapped around your waist to steady you, lips brushing your temple. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, the words tumbling out in a soft, exhausted whisper, guilt flickering through the post-orgasm haze as reality crept back in.

Beomgyu grinned from ear to ear, the expression quickly masking the soft contentment in his eyes with his usual shit-eating smirk, all cocky charm and zero remorse.

“I know,” he said simply, the two words dripping with smug satisfaction as he nuzzled into your hair, inhaling your scent like it was his favorite drug.

You rolled your eyes in annoyance, a weak huff escaping despite the way your body still hummed from him, too drained to muster real irritation. The audacity of him—turning your apology into his victory lap—made your lips twitch, even as affection warmed your chest.

Shifting slightly, Beomgyu reached past you to the drawer beside the sink, pulling out a clean towel with efficient movements. He unfolded it gently, kneeling a bit to carefully wipe over the wetness dripping down your thighs, the soft fabric absorbing the evidence of your union with tender strokes.

You hissed at the initial contact, oversensitive nerves firing in protest, your legs twitching involuntarily.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmured sheepishly, his smile turning boyish and apologetic as he lightened his touch, focusing on cleaning you up without causing more discomfort.

His free hand rubbed slow, soothing patterns on your lower back, easing the lingering tremors in your muscles. He stood up, his movements fluid as he pulled his own boxers up to hide his softening cock.

Then, with surprising gentleness, he tugged your shorts back up over your hips, the fabric feeling soft and familiar against your sensitive skin. He pressed a trail of soft kisses along your shoulder, a stark contrast to the possessive marks he’d left there just moments before.

“I’m gonna clean you up properly once we get to bed, okay?” he whispered, his voice warm and sincere.

You only grumbled in response, a small pout forming on your lips as you buried your face in your arms. “Gyu… the macarons…”

Beomgyu blinked at you, his expression shifting from apologetic to one of pure, incredulous disbelief. He slowly turned you around to face him, his hands resting on your hips as he stared down at you.

“I literally just fucked you stupid against the kitchen counter,” he said, his voice flat with astonishment. “And you’re worrying about some stupid macarons?”

You huffed, pushing his chest lightly. “You’re the one who wanted them!”

The sheer absurdity of it all broke the tension, and he laughed, a soft, genuine sound that made your heart flutter despite your annoyance. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll clean that up, and then we can finish them up tomorrow, okay?”

You tilted your head slightly, still pouting as you mumbled, “But you have a shoot tomorrow…”

Beomgyu just shrugged, placing a hand on your lower back as he urged you softly to get out of the kitchen, guiding you along with him. “I took the week off.”

You blinked up at him, truly surprised this time. “What—”

He pinched your nose lightly, making you squint your eyes at him in scrutiny. “That’s what I was about to say, until you closed the door on me and started nagging at me the second I walked in.”

You rolled your eyes, letting him guide you towards the stairs. “Who comes home drunk and uttering absolute nonsense—”

He placed a finger over your lips, effectively silencing your rant. “We’re already past this, baby. Now come on and let me pamper you.”

You grumbled in reluctant agreement, making him smile as he guided you up the stairs, his arm a steady, warm presence around your waist.

It was a really good idea, he thought, that he’d gone ring shopping before getting wasted with the rest of the members.

Otherwise, you’d probably kill him for proposing with a Ring Pop instead of the four-carat diamond he had tucked away in the pocket of his jacket, which was currently thrown haphazardly on the kitchen floor.

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