[mortaldreams]

shadows (m) — an echoes companion piece.

pairing: yang jungwon x f reader

genre: royalty au, soulmate au, fantasy elements, smut

word count: 8.4k

warnings: smut, swearing

note: Echoes girlies and prince jungwon enthusiasts, this one is for YOUUUUUU!! This is a follow-up to my story echoes, published on my main blog stllmnstr. Read that first! This takes place a few months after the events of the main story but before the events of the epilogue. It’s also the most intimate smut I think I’ve ever written in my life, so buckle in, friends! And as always, enjoy 🤍

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The weight of the crown is heavy, even for someone as dedicated as Jungwon. But in the sanctity of quiet moments between closed doors, even things as demanding as duty can be forgotten.

or, we could be in the shadows where nobody else could follow.

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Sprawled across the left side of your bed, the light from the candle burns low.

Gaze trained on the misshapen wax, your eyes start to glaze as the flame dips lower and lower.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Wax falls onto the table below, hardening as soon as it hits the surface. 

You sigh. On the sheets next to you, a thick novel lies open, its pages bared to the chill of the room. On the table beside your bed, a half-finished letter to your sister sits equally discarded. 

It’s not as if palace life has left you bored — quite the opposite, in fact. Your days are full of reports and meetings and appearances that leave you drained long before the sun sets. 

In the castle, perhaps the only person with a schedule more crammed than yours is the king.

Jungwon. 

Your eyes fall shut for a moment, as if imagination alone can conjure him. You almost wish it could. These days, the king is a difficult person to come across. Even for you, and you’re afforded far more privileges than most. 

Still, the last time you laid eyes on him was yesterday morning, and that was only for the brief moment your paths crossed in the dining hall at breakfast. 

The last time you actually spoke with him properly was… thoughts trailing, you sigh out loud to no one in particular. It must have been nearly two weeks ago now.

You have never been naive enough to think running a kingdom, especially one entrenched in the turmoil of transition, would be an easy task. But stolen moments underneath the branches of a weeping willow and the shadows of forgotten hallways have only made you crave his presence more. And, much to your disappointment, notice his absence that much more acutely.

Lying on your back, your fingers thread though your hair that splays over your pillow. The action is absentminded, a feeble attempt to distract your wandering thoughts.

The end of autumn is approaching. The air has a chill to it these days, one you recognize well. One you know the kingdom will need to prepare for. 

There is work to be done. Plenty of it. Food rations that need to be sorted. Preservation and storing that needs to be taken care of before the chill becomes deeper, before the ground starts to frost. 

The large inventory of winter coats, a new initiative you helped oversee, needs to be allocated for mass distribution among the people in the most vulnerable districts. 

You have things to do. Plenty of important tasks and work to keep you busy.

But at the end of yet another long day, it’s always this. You, a candle you’ve burned down to its bones, and a bed that’s entirely too large.

Your new chambers were a gift from your king himself. A gesture of goodwill, a thoughtful attempt to make the castle feel more like your home instead of a begrudged fulfillment of a prophecy. But it’s so much larger than the tiny bedroom you had before. With all the space, your thoughts have nothing to do but wander.

You should sleep. The sunrise always comes earlier than you think it will, and tomorrow is a busy day. Foreign dignitaries from the western kingdom will arrive sometime after breakfast, and you imagine discussions with them will take up most of your day.

Besides that, Jaeyun’s been begging you to visit. It’s been weeks, nearly a month, since you last took Nabi out to your once familiar hilltop.

You should pay him a visit in the evening, perhaps. Find out if there are any updates on the fire that broke out at the schoolhouse last month. If it was just an accident of chance or the work of the small band of dissenters that have been wreaking havoc since the transition in rulership. 

Your mind feels heavy with the weight of it all. Again, sleep calls to you. Lulling with that sense of promised comfort. A reprieve from the thoughts swirling around your brain like wind on a stormy day.

Your candle is nearly nothing now. It will be extinguished soon whether you blow out the flame or not.

Still, like every night, a part of you hesitates. 

Your graveyard of candles is growing at a rather alarming rate, but every night it’s the same thoughts that torment you. 

Perhaps tonight, hope and temptation and that feeble prayer of maybe whisper against your ear, perhaps tonight will be the night he comes. 

You can see it in your mind, all too clearly. The way it will sound, loud in the silence, as he raps his knuckles gently against the wood of your door. 

The way he’ll enter. Softly, slowly. But never unsurely. He’ll know what he’s here for, even if propriety makes it difficult to put a name to. 

Your candle, low but steady, will provide just enough light. His crown will be the first to go, and the rest will follow soon enough. 

In the secrecy of your imagination, Jungwon’s eyes never leave yours. 

The young king, consumed by duty and honor and the troubles of the kingdom he’s inherited, for at least a few moments longer, will only be thinking of you. 

It’s a thought so vivid, so terribly tempting, that you almost consider calling to him through your connection. 

You could. It would be so easy. Even in your half conscious state, reaching for him through the recesses of your mind would feel like second nature. 

But every time you think to tug at that tether between the two of you, something in you hesitates. Reconsiders. And ultimately, resigns. 

It’s not that you don’t want to. You do. Even apart from your more illicit thoughts, the truth is that you miss him. 

The man you once spent long nights with, trading secrets and unraveling misconceptions under the cover of moonlight.

Your prince and now your king. Something in you aches whenever you remember that night in the stables, the one where he insisted you drop all pretenses and propriety and just call him Jungwon. 

What you wouldn’t give to do it again now. To look in his eyes and let the castle and your duties fall away to dust as you whisper his name in the sanctity of your bedroom. 

Rolling suddenly, you press your face into your pillow, as if the pressure alone can stifle your errant thoughts. Then, after a long moment, you turn back around, sitting up to reach for your candle. Warring with your thoughts will only make your feet drag slower in the morning, after all. You need to sleep. 

Moving your half finished novel from your bedsheets to your bedside table, you let your lips hover just above the dying fire for a minute longer. 

Another night. Another smothered flame. It’s nothing new, but you hesitate yet again.

Lips parting, your breath has just begun to pass through them when the sound of your name stops you dead in your tracks.

You’re so startled you nearly lose your balance, hair coming dangerously close to the last remnants of your still burning candle. 

There’s no one else in your bedroom. Your name wasn’t spoken, at least not out loud. 

Immediately, a molten urgency begins to burn deep within you. It’s him. It has to be.

Half afraid you’ve imagined it, you’re hesitant to try reaching back out. You reach for the connection in your mind tentatively, as if the last months have meant nothing. As if this is little more than an illusion crafted from glass. As if one misstep will shatter it.

Jungwon. You’re holding your breath, terrified that the ripple effect from any of your actions will become a beast to contain.

But your connection is not an illusion. And your name was not a figment of your imagination. 

He’s quick to respond.

You’re awake. It’s not a question. Even though the bond, you can sense it, his conflicted mix of relief and disapproval. 

I am. You return immediately. A moment of silence passes then. Another. Finally, you venture back out, Do you… do you need something?

You can almost see it, the way he shakes his head. It has a small surge of panic rising in your throat. As if he’s suddenly become sand, and all you can do is watch helplessly as it slips through your fingers. 

No, I… I’m sorry. It’s late. 

But you won’t lose him now, and especially not to feeble excuses. He sought you out. He won’t break away so easily. The hour, you exhale, hardly daring to move, is the least of my concerns. 

To your immediate relief, Jungwon’s response comes quickly. 

Where are you? 

Less than a beat later, you tell him, My chambers. 

Again, he’s silent for a long moment. Afraid his responses will stop entirely, you fill the silence in his mind again by returning his question. Where are you?

It must be past midnight by now. He should be free of his meetings, although some particularly pedantic ones have been known to extend this late into the evening.

If you had to guess, though, he’s dropped his official duties for the night. You don’t think he’d run the risk of distracting himself if his attention were still required elsewhere. 

This time, nearly a minute of silence passes. Another handful of wax drops harden against your table. Your breath is shallow in your chest. 

Maybe he’s fallen asleep, you finally concede. You do your best to be relieved at the thought. Rest is a fleeting thing these days for the king. If he’s sleeping, you shouldn’t disturb him further.

Still, this is the most you’ve had in weeks. You aren’t quite ready to let it go. 

Quietly, as if your mind itself were whispering, you try one last time.

Jungwon.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breath and the silence of your bedroom. 

And then you hear it. This time, the sound doesn’t resonate inside your mind. No, it rings out into the space of your bedroom, coming from your right. 

It’s the unmistakable rap of three muted knocks against your bedroom door. 

Head turning so fast you’re afraid your neck will be sore in the morning, you scramble, standing up from your bed. 

It has to be him. He’s here. 

Come in, you send through your bond, still not thinking entirely straight. 

Your hair is a mess around your shoulders, you’re sure. The nightgown crafted from fabric meant to provide comfort more than structure is hardly proper attire in the presence of a king, but these realizations come too little, too late.

Before you can so much as smooth down the front of your crumpled night clothes, the door to your bedroom is opening. 

And in walks the king, pushing the latch closed quietly behind him. Then, he turns to you.

The ample size of your bedroom is something you curse again now. Even with him near, the distance between the two of you still feels like an abyss, an uncrossable thing. 

Jungwon stands at your door, candlelight flickering over his features. 

It never fails to strike you, especially in quiet moments like these, just how beautiful he is. Dark hair falls over his forehead, kissing the tips of long eyelashes. His cheekbones, sharp and defined, glow warm in the low light. 

And his eyes. By the gods, his eyes. Even from a distance, you can see the shadows beneath them. Born from long nights in the throne room and the duty that weighs heavy on his broad shoulders. 

Still, they're full of light, a keen sense of alertness where they meet yours across your bedroom. 

Jungwon wears no crown, no regalia. He’s come to you as himself, the barest version of it he can muster with so many responsibilities to his name.

You watch, breath rising shallow in your chest, as his eyes trace the planes of your face. As if he’s seeing how well memory has served him these past weeks. As if he’s been dreaming of this too. 

And then his eyes fall lower, ghosting over your neck. Your exposed collarbone, revealed by the neckline that sits just above your chest. They trace you, slowly, steadily, all the way to where the hem of your nightgown brushes against your ankles. 

His gaze returns to your face. You watch as his throat works through a swallow, jaw tightening. 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says to you out loud. “It’s late.”

You shake your head, repeating the same sentiment you told him earlier. “The hour matters little.”

“I just,” he continues, as if he’s under the incorrect assumption that his presence in your bedroom needs justifying. “I wanted to see you.”

You look at him again, then. Take in the shadows beneath his eyes. Just how deep they’ve become, even since you last saw him. The set of his shoulders. Still broad, still proud, but unmistakably weighed down by exhaustion. 

Your candlelit fantasies, then, whatever indistinct, sensation-driven form they’ve taken, start to shift. Into something softer, more delicate.

You nod, infused suddenly with a new sense of purpose. A stroke of bravery. 

“Come here,” you urge, motionting him closer.

Jungwon hesitates for only a moment. But the magnetism that tethers you pulls at him too. And eventually, even the king is bending to your requests. 

He approaches slowly, with the careful, even footsteps of a hunter trying not to startle its prey. But when he comes to stop, still an arm’s length away, you’re not sure which of you is truly in pursuit. 

Reaching, you let your fingers encircle his wrist. Then, you sit back down on your bed, pulling him along with you. 

You’re not sure if it’s the sleepiness or something else that makes him so pliant in your hold, but Jungwon offers no resistance. 

Moving backwards until your spine is pressed against the expanse of your headboard, you meet Jungwon’s gaze. He still sits with respectable distance between the two of you, hovering at the edge of your bed. 

Reaching out, you intertwine your fingers with his. 

Pulling gently, you search his eyes for any sign of hesitation. There’s none to be found. Just a wide-eyed, glassy reflection of desires that match your own. Your candle, bare flame that it may be, reflects in his gaze like starlight. 

“Come,” you urge, guiding him gently until his body is a mirror image of your earlier position, splayed across your bedsheets. His head, however, never reaches your pillow. Instead, you guide it into your lap.

He’s tense, you can tell. He won’t relax fully into you, even as he lets himself be pulled to a lying position, his head resting against your thighs. 

Tentatively, as if pressing at an invisible boundary, you thread your fingers through his hair. 

You can’t see his expression. His eyes face away from you now, but his sigh of relief is immediate. Audible. 

Your fingers press deeper into his hair and he sighs again, this time against your nightgown, as some of the tension begins to ease from his shoulders. As he relaxes further into your touch. 

Absentmindedly, you begin to trace patterns against his scalp, letting your fingertips ghost through his dark hair in soothing repetitions. His head is warm in your lap, a comfortable weight that settles over the tops of your thighs. You’re hyper aware of every shift in position, every miniscule movement he makes under your ministrations. 

You spend long moments like that, basking in the quiet, in the stillness. Your fingers continue to work through his hair, chasing the small sounds he makes whenever you come across a particularly sensitive spot. 

After long minutes, his breath becomes more even. You wonder if he’s fallen asleep. 

A sudden movement answers your question. Slowly, but absent of inhibition, his hand comes to rest on your thigh, just beneath his chin. 

It doesn’t remain motionless for long. Like you, Jungwon begins to trace patterns. He draws his with his thumb, pressing gently against you as he rubs small, even circles. 

Even through the thin layer of fabric, his touch sends a coil of heat pooling just under your skin. You’re suddenly grateful for your position. Thankful that he’s facing away from you so he can’t see the way color begins to bloom on your cheeks. 

Suddenly overcome with the need to fill the silence, you ask, “What’s on your mind?”

Jungwon’s touch continues as he thinks for a moment. Finally, he answers quietly, “At the moment? Very little.”

“I’m serious,” you urge, a frown pulling your lips down. “You seemed… tense earlier. Did something happen?”

“I was,” he admits. “A meeting with the royal advisors ran late and no one could be reasoned into agreeing with anything.” He pauses for a moment, swallowing once. “But I’m not thinking about them now.”

“You’re not?” you ask, fingers still in his hair, tracing his skin like you can soothe away any errant thoughts through touch alone.

“No,” he confirms. You feel his head shake gently against your lap. “I’m not.”

“Good,” you nod, voice so quiet it’s almost lost to the stillness of your bedroom. 

You’re both silent for a moment, breaths mingling as your candle dips impossibly lower, light flickering more erratically as it reaches its final moments. As if the wick itself isn't quite ready to let go. Can’t give into the finality of being extinguished. 

You’re whispering now, but he still hears you. He always does, whether your voice reaches his ears or his mind directly.

“Jungwon,” you breathe. 

“Mm,” he hums, vibrations sinking through your skin and settling near your bones. 

“I miss you.” It’s a strange thing to admit, perhaps, when you share a home. When he’s here now, lying in your lap, connected in more ways than one. 

When you agreed to live in the castle, now a handful of months ago, you thought it would be disarming, distracting, just how often you saw Jungwon. You never imagined you’d be spending sleepless nights aching for moments like this. That your time together would almost always have to be stolen. 

Back then, whatever was beginning to bloom between the two of you felt like hope, like possibility. But as summer gave way to autumn, reality began to root itself more firmly into the ground. As the leaves turned from green to golden and began to fall from the trees, so did the illusion that you and the newly crowned king would have nothing but time to explore the budding connection between you. 

You don’t blame him. You can’t resent him. You admire Jungwon’s dedication to bettering the world around him, to keeping his promises and seeing things through. And you know he feels the same towards you. Every solidified plan, every treaty and agreement you’ve helped draft into law has only made him more fond of you. 

But you’re long past pretending that admiration is the only feeling you harbor for your king. Here in your bedroom, the weight of it all sits heavy on your chest. 

You mean it. You want him in ways that extend beyond duty. You miss him, even when he’s right in front of you. 

For a moment, his fingers still. Their weight still presses against your skin, but his movement has stopped. You wish you could see his expression. You’re thanking every one of the ancient gods that you can’t. 

A million and one contradictions. But it always comes back to this. To him. 

“You miss me?” he echoes. There’s no accusation in his voice, nothing but a small sense of wonder. 

Still, it has a tendril of guilt blooming in your gut. He already has so much on his plate. Stretched so thin from the immense sense of duty that’s always pulling him in every direction. You can hardly be selfish enough to ask that he add something as frivolous as your feelings to his list of concerns. 

“I’m sorry,” you try to retract. “I know—”

Don’t apologize.

He whispers it into your mind this time. Mostly because his lips are occupied elsewhere. Turning slightly, he presses a long, gentle kiss against the top of your thigh, just above where his fingers have resumed their ministrations. 

It’s embarrassing, perhaps, how immediately it has heat pooling in your gut. His mouth isn’t even moving. It’s just pressed to your skin, warmth overwhelming even through the small barrier of fabric. 

You feel his lips part against you, jaw brushing your thigh as he moves higher, pressing another kiss against you. As if your nightgown is nothing to him, as if he’s imagining the taste of your skin beneath it.

“Jungwon,” you whisper, still using what’s left of your voice. In the quiet of your bedroom, with his mouth warm against your skin, it sounds scraped raw. Whether you’re urging him or begging for reprieve, you’re not entirely sure. 

He doesn’t respond out loud. His lips remain occupied with the taste of silk as his mouth begins to draw higher, carving out a trail of soft kisses. 

You’ve kissed him before, yes, but his mouth has always been on yours. Or perhaps the length of your throat, in particularly desperate moments. But those moments have become increasingly rare. And this is different. This is new. 

This has muscles tightening beneath his touch, your legs clenching, all the way down to your toes. Your fingers tangle tighter in his hair, and he exhales harshly against you, silk fluttering at the movement. 

Don’t tell me you’re sorry. He reaffirms in your mind, lips still working against you. You think I haven’t missed you too? Do you think that this hasn’t plagued every last one of my waking thoughts?

Jungwon. This time, you speak in your mind. You’re afraid of what your voice will sound like if you try to find it now.

He’s not done wreaking havoc on your last threads of coherence. 

I dream of you, you know. His mouth is on your hip now, leaving a trail of slow, deep kisses. The number of nights I’ve waited just outside your door like this… apologies are the last thing I want from you.

“Jungwon,” you urge. Somewhere in the haze, in the heat, you manage to find your voice. It’s raw, yes, but it’s there. You disentangle your hands from his hair, and he groans at the loss of contact. 

The sound is nearly your undoing. Vibrations, low and deep, spread from where he still has his mouth on you, reaching untouched places, parts of you that are beginning to ache. 

“Jungwon,” you try again, hands sliding to his jaw. Gently, you press a finger beneath his chin, urging him to look up at you. 

Pliant under your touch, his mouth leaves your skin. You mourn the loss of contact for only a moment before his eyes finally, finally meet yours. 

Wide and glassy in the low light, you can practically see your reflection in them. Forgetting your earlier embarrassment at just how easily he affected you, the sight beneath you proves that Jungwon is far worse for wear.

Pupils blown, he looks up at you like a man starved. Lips swollen and glossy from his ministrations, it’s as if he’s indulged in too much of the palace’s wine. A deep, violent flush dusts the top of his angular cheekbones, exhaustion in his eyes replaced by something entirely new. 

If the ache in your bones is beginning to sing, you imagine his must be screaming with the way he looks at you, gaze leaden with want. 

There’s a shiver of thrill that chases your spine, the same flicker you felt that afternoon in the moments just before you ducked beneath the willow tree. Only now, it’s intensified a thousand times over. 

You have his attention now, and you’ll use it well. 

Come here, you plead.

A ridiculous request given how entangled you already are, but he understands. And he doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Sitting up, Jungwon rises until it’s him who hovers above you, crowding you further into the solid expanse of your headboard. The sudden pressure against your spine makes you wince, an unintentional expression that doesn’t escape his notice. 

“Here,” he urges. His voice is low, gentle in its command even as it roughens around the edges. “Like this.”

He moves again, this time leaning back until he’s the one sat resting against your headboard. With a gentle grip that spares no urgency, he reaches for your wrists, pulling until you’re settled across his lap, legs splayed on either side of him. 

It’s a change in position, an adjustment from earlier, but it still puts your eyes above his. He looks up at you with that same glassy gaze, heavy with the weight of his desire. 

Hands against his chest, you feel the depth of his breath as it rises and falls slowly. Captivated by the way he seems almost inebriated from this, from you, you watch as the flush spreads further across his cheekbones. His gaze, locked on you, fills with a sudden intensity. Under the weight of his undivided attention, you feel a sudden flash of shyness. 

Alone in your bedroom, deep in the forgotten hours of night, there’s no one to admonish you for your actions, no one to scold you for your lack of propriety. 

It’s only you, Jungwon, and that ever-pulsing thread of desire that’s taken root deep within you, wrapping around your body, your mind, until you feel consumed by it. 

Between the deep, tightening waves of sensation and the heat simmering just under your skin, eye contact becomes a difficult thing to maintain. It’s too much. He’s only looking at you now, fingers still against the outsides of your thighs, but the combination of it all is overwhelming in ways you can’t entirely explain. 

A renewed flash of heat blooming across your features, you dip your chin, looking down at where your body rests on his. 

Immediately, one of his hands leaves the expanse of your thigh. Raising it, he gently soothes back hair that’s fallen over your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. His fingers go back to your temple, then. Retracing the same pattern even though your hair’s already been adjusted. He’s not trying to fix anything now. He’s just soothing you. 

You don’t have to say anything. Even though this breaches new barriers between the two of you, he can read every expression, every breath, like an open book. He recognizes how unmistakably overwhelmed you’re quickly becoming. 

Slowly, quietly, he lets his hand fall to the side of your neck. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs the length of your spine when it settles there. He feels it too, the way you shake, and his next exhale is a bit rougher, a bit more labored. 

With the reverence of a worshipper, his thumb begins to trace gentle lines, a repeated motion up and down the overly warm skin of your neck. 

He’s patient, even though the effort strains. Even though his own desires have started to near a boiling point. 

Still, he waits until you’ve adjusted to his touch. Until you’ve begun to relax into it.

Only then does his hand start to splay. Thumb still rubbing comforting strokes against one side of your neck, his fingers extend to the other. Until his hand covers the base of your throat.

His fingers wander, searching until they find what they’re looking for. Eventually, they come to rest in the dip above your collarbone, feeling the way your pulse hammers there. It quickens, then. Becomes impossibly more erratic. 

He’s doing it on purpose, you realize. Measuring your physical response to him. Surveying just how deeply his effect on you extends. 

Your heart skips a beat, then. A telltale sign of just how much his touch had already begun to unravel you. 

He sighs, brow creasing, breath catching like he’s in pain. 

But it’s not himself that he’s concerned with. Are you okay? he asks. Even in your mind, he’s whispering. As if you’re a skittish kitten he’s trying not to startle. As if that alone will be enough to calm your frayed nerves.

Searching for your voice, you come up hopelessly blank. His hand still sits around your throat like a promise. A reminder of his presence. 

All you can do is nod. You’re not sure you could even form your thoughts into something coherent now. 

Do you want me to stop? Stop what, you’re not entirely sure. He’s not really doing anything. Even his thumb has stilled now. His hand is wrapped loosely around the base of your throat, your thighs spilling on either side of his.

It’s not as if you’re entirely clueless, but you’ve never been here before either. None of your inexperienced fumbling or horribly awkward explanations from the castle midwives of what womanly flowering entails prepared you for the sensations you’re feeling now. They made it sound so… clinical. Detached. A simple repetition of motion. A clear start, middle, and end. 

Never once did they mention the intensity of it all. The way your nerves are all flowing into one another and you can’t quite tell where things begin and end anymore. The way having Jungwon in front of you, beneath you, makes you feel like a torch light filled with too much oil, on the verge of exploding at any given moment. 

You don’t know exactly what comes next. But you know the answer to his question. 

Silently, resolutely, you shake your head. 

But Jungwon isn’t willing to take his chances on your silence. He wants, needs to be sure. 

Tell me, he pleads. 

So you do. 

No, you assure him, finding your last train of sensible thought. No, I don’t want you to stop.

His fingers flex against your throat. Not tightening, just… there. 

Will you look at me? Even in your mind, something in his words sings with desperation. Like he needs it. Like he’ll fall apart without it.  

So slowly, gathering every last ounce of bravery, you let your eyes trace the band of his belt, the planes of his chest, the set of his jaw, before you acquiesce to his request. Taking one final, steadying breath, you bring your gaze to his. 

You don’t think any amount of time or preparation or damn breathing would make you feel ready for what you find. 

His eyes are wide, full of longing so poignant you imagine it must be painful. His fingers twitch against your neck again, and you realize then just how much restraint he holds you with. You can see it now, the rippling threads of tension evident in his shoulder, his brow, the swallow he forces down. 

Eyes on yours, he asks, somewhat hesitantly, Do you… Your mind is silent for a moment. Have you ever…

You understand what he means now. Deciding pride is a better sacrifice than honesty, you shake your head. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, eyelids tightening like the idea affects him more than he thinks it should. More than he wants you to know.

Subtly, almost as if involuntary, he shifts beneath you, hips moving slightly. Even the miniscule adjustment sends a fresh wave of heat plummeting through your veins. His gaze finds yours again. You do your best to maintain it, even as your eyelids start to flutter. 

Looking at you as if everything he has hinges on your response, he parts his lips. And then he asks slowly, almost as if he’s afraid of your answer, Does it feel good?

It takes you a moment to respond.

Good is an insufficient word for the way warmth is spreading through your body so quickly you can’t contain it. For the way you can feel your heartbeat everywhere. In your chest, against his fingers at your throat. Pulsing, low and deep, in the place beneath you where your bodies connect. 

It’s almost terrifying, the way you can’t predict what sensations you’ll be assuaged with next, the way you don’t know how your body will react to his ministrations. 

But this is Jungwon. Your Jungwon. You trust him in a way that makes your fears feel small. You want him in a way that has you desperate to chase the unknown instead of hiding from it.

Your spinning, spiraling thoughts are surely too much to tell him. You’re not even sure how to put most of them into words that he’ll understand. 

So instead, you say, Yes. Eyes locked on his, you nod. It feels good. A bit more shyly, you add, You feel good.

His eyelids shutter at that. His exhale is shaky, barely holding on by a thread. 

Opening his eyes again, he nods. Good. You don’t… you don’t have to think so hard. Just let it feel good. Do what feels good.

He’ll follow your lead, is what he means. Part of you wants to protest. You feel unsteady, unsure. You don’t know what to do. Wouldn’t it be better if he just showed you?

But his words play in your mind again. It’s exactly what he told you, isn’t it? Don’t think so hard. Just… do. 

Closing your eyes for a moment, you let your mind run a full scan of your body, all the way from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, searching for the most prominent sensations to follow. 

With all of your attention on them, they’re easy to pinpoint. Most of all, your focus snaps to that deep, pulsing ache in your gut that seems to start and end between your splayed thighs. 

Brow creasing, you adjust your weight slightly. The effect is almost instantaneous. Friction, pressure. You identify them immediately, effortlessly, as the things to chase. The shaky breath that spills from your parted lips breaks into a tiny, audible whimper. 

Jungwon’s fingers nearly spasm against your throat at the sound. 

“Yeah,” he whispers aloud, more breath than sound. “Like that.”

Your hips move slowly at first, trying to commit every angle, every new sensation to memory. 

Beneath you, Jungwon is true to his word. For long minutes, he only watches, thumb resuming its soothing patterns against the side of your neck as you chase sensations. As he lets you use his body as you please, following the pathways of your own pleasure. 

You feel him lean forward, your eyes still closed tight, as he puts his mouth on your throat, lips pressing softly just under your jaw. The added sensation has a high, helpless sound rising in your throat. It spills through your lips, without your permission, and Jungwon’s loosening grip on restraint slips further. You feel his tongue hot against your skin in response. 

So beautiful. You can’t tell if he means to send the thought to you or not. So fucking pretty.

Either way, his praise has another whimper falling through your lips. This time, Jungwon moves his mouth to yours the second it begins, as if he wants to swallow it whole. 

It’s the first time tonight he’s had his mouth on yours, but it can hardly be called a kiss, with the way your lips are practically slack against his, still a slave to the sensations unfurling beneath you. 

Jungwon doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he works at you like a man starved, as if he wants to count just how many more of those sounds he can swallow straight from your lips.

Your hips chase relief on his thigh for minutes longer, but eventually, the sensation starts to lose its edge. The friction you feel from your movements alone is no match for the ache still building deep within you.

“Jungwon,” you whisper, lips moving against his as he presses his forehead to yours. You’re both so warm. The heat of proximity is almost as unbearable as the thought of breaking it. 

You don’t know how to tell him, the way it still feels good, but you can’t quite seem to get it just right. The way you're practically falling over yourself in search of the right angle, the right pressure, the perfect movement, but you can’t seem to find it no matter how hard you try. 

It’s so frustrating — like you’re nothing but an endless jumble of nerves. With too much energy, sensations that still ebb but you can’t maneuver into flowing. 

“Jungwon, I can’t—” your voice breaks. “It’s not—”

Even in your incoherence, even without you finishing the thought, he understands.

“Sh,” he soothes, “I have you.”

And he does. Immediately, his hand leaves the dip in your neck, breaking contact with your pulse point. Jungwon lets it wrap around your body, settling at the base of your spine instead. He uses his new leverage to pull you further onto his lap. Closer into his burning heat. Up, up, up, all the way until you feel him, feel a man, for the first time. 

Immediately, every stalled sensation begins to flow again. 

And Jungwon isn’t so still anymore either. His own body, once a tool for your pleasure, begins to take some of its own, too. He moves with you now, hands at your waist as he guides you over his lap. Angles his hips in well-timed motions that have you seeing stars. Whimpering his name until your voice sounds like sobs.

Your hands fall to his shoulders now, trying to erase any last fragment of space that still exists between the two of you as he works you over his body. 

His lips return to your throat, this time trailing further downwards. You feel his tongue press against your collarbone, following the dip of your neckline, teasing just beneath it. The air sings cooly over the path of damp kisses he leaves on your skin, a welcome reprieve from the fire burning everywhere else in your body. 

Jungwon’s breath becomes more labored, more erratic as you continue. The groan he releases on a particularly sharp uptake sends your mind spinning, a sound of your own breaking through your lips to join it. 

Jungwon, you send to his mind this time. You don’t know what to ask for, don’t know how to explain it, but you just need— more, Jungwon. Please. I can’t— 

Again, he reads your thoughts like they’re his own. 

“Okay,” he nods. Your hips still move with his, but the frantic pace he’s helped you build begins to subside. The two of you are moving slower than before, with more intent. “Okay, baby, just—” He presses a small, delicate kiss to the center of your chest, like he needs one more touch before leaning back.

Eyes meeting yours, his fingers come to rest on the ties that line the front of your nightgown. Looking up at you, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, he asks for permission, “Can I?”

“Yes,” you nod immediately, mind already spinning at the idea of his skin against yours, no barrier or fabric between you. “Please.”

His long fingers are slow, deliberate, as they begin to unravel the ties holding your bodice together. You watch him as he works, sighing as he leans in, covering every inch of newly exposed skin with his mouth, as if there’s no part of you he’s willing to leave untouched. 

Finally, when the last of his work is done, your nightgown pools at your waist. Bare before him, you feel exposed in the low light. Shy as his gaze travels from your eyes to your navel and then back again. 

You try not to let the discomfort take root, but it makes you fidget. “Jungwon, I—”

“You’re beautiful,” he repeats his earlier words. This time, he says them out loud, his eyes never leaving yours. In the dying light of your bedroom, he decides that your bodies aren’t the only thing worth baring. 

There’s a distinct touch of vulnerability, of pure, raw truth, when he tells you, “You cannot begin to understand the number of times I’ve imagined this. How soft you’d be.” His fingertip traces the curve of your cheek as you lean into his touch, chasing his warmth. “The way you’d look at me while I touch you.” His eyes meet yours, a new kind of heat burning in them. “The sounds you’d make while I’m inside you.”

Your eyes widen on his last admission, and he misreads it for panic, for trepidation, for uncertainty. 

“We don’t have to,” he assures you. “As I said, we’ll do whatever feels good.”

But you don’t feel any panic or trepidation. There’s no trace of uncertainty left anywhere in your bones. You’re too far down this path to not see it through until the end. Besides, you’re starting to find that the tendrils of your own pleasure are wonderful to chase, but his…

Something about knowing that it’s your body, your voice, your mind that Jungwon takes his pleasure from is satisfying in an entirely different way. If it’s something he’s imagined, you’re sure it must be worth living. 

Eyes low, you take his hand in yours. Playing with his fingers, the momentary distraction fuels your bravery. Makes what you’re about tell him a bit easier to work through your mouth. 

“I want to,” you whisper. “I want you…” your voice trails off, heat blooming anew against your cheeks as you slowly admit, “I want you inside of me.”

And you do. After all, it feels only right. He’s already carved a space for himself inside your mind and within your heart. Your body only feels like a natural progression. A final affirmation of the feelings you already have, of the declarations you’ve already made. 

Gently, he slides his fingers beneath your jaw, turning your face until you have nowhere to look but him. 

His breath falters as he takes you in again. Assesses the mess he’s already made of you. His eyes are wide as he searches your expression for any hint of hesitation. 

“Are you sure?” he whispers. “There are other ways I could—”

You shake your head. “I’m sure. Please. I want—” you admit to him what you couldn’t before. “I want you to make me feel good.”

Then Jungwon’s the one closing his eyes, forcing an exhale through his lips like your admission physically pains him. 

“Okay,” he finally says, opening his eyes to look at you again.

“Okay?”

“Gods, yes,” he affirms, already moving. “I’ll give you anything. Anything you ask for, it’s yours.”

Despite the urgency, despite the still aching heat between the two of you, Jungwon vows to take his time. To commit every expression, every miniscule movement to memory. To savor sensations instead of just chasing them to completion.

His movements are gentle, as measured as they can be as he helps you rid your nightgown entirely. There’s reverence in his gaze as it traces the expanse of your body. Silent prayers he says as he takes in every uncovered inch of skin. 

Jungwon follows suit, his hands covering yours as you help rid him of his clothes. Dark and simple, they provide just enough warmth for the light chill of the turning seasons. Now, they lie scattered across the floor near your bed. Forgotten, unnecessary. 

This time, Jungwon guides you onto your back, hair fanning over your pillow. It’s a mirror image of your earlier position. Only this time, you aren’t alone in your room anymore, wallowing in your loneliness. 

Now, he cages you in, pressing impossibly closer until your breaths are mingled, heartbeats intertwined.

Your bed doesn’t feel so terribly big now, not as he covers your body with his own, skin against skin everywhere you can reach. 

You’re so warm. Overwhelmed in a new way even as the pace begins to quiet. 

He’s gentle. Intentional. Slow as he presses his fingers against you. Inside you.

Jungwon takes his time with you. Alternates between covering every inch of you with his lips and watching the expressions that play out across your features every time he discovers a new way to touch you. 

It’s quiet. Full of breathy whispers, long sighs. And then, it’s anything but. 

Hushed whimpers, heady groans. The broken gasp that falls from his mouth to yours when he finally, finally presses his way inside of you. 

The way he soothes your hair back from your face as you wince at the unfamiliar intrusion. 

Shhh, he whispers into your mind as he holds his body still, letting you adjust. Giving you time to relax around him. You’re okay. Doing so well, aren’t you? So full and still taking it all.   

Then your hands are back in his hair, and his are back on your thighs, this time pulling them upwards as he gently encourages you to wrap them around his waist.

He starts to move, and it’s so much, so fucking overwhelming, that you think you might die.

It’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt, beyond anything you’ve ever imagined. You can feel him everywhere. 

From your fingers to the tips of your toes to the inside of your mind, and it all converges back to that place deep inside of you that he presses against every time he moves. 

Your mind is filled with him. With the two of you tangled in one another, your connection sings. He doesn’t have to send his thoughts to you. You can feel them, as if they were a part of you already. 

Look at you, he insists, reveling in the way you tug against his hair, something surging in his chest at the way your eyes screw shut in another wave of pleasure so deep you’re nearly drowning. 

Perfect, he insists when another breathy whimper spills from your lips.  

Mine, he decides when he hopes you’re too wrapped up in sensation to remember. 

Before long, something starts to build inside of you, slow at first and then impossibly fast. A new feeling, one that starts deep in your gut, imbued with a renowned sense of urgency. You chase it, running blindly even if you don’t yet know what waits on the other side. 

It’s as if you’re climbing. Higher, higher, higher. And then you’re falling. Suspended in midair. Falling. Floating. Flying. 

Jungwon is there, working you through it, talking you through it. Whispering sweet nothings in your ear and in your mind. Words blend into one another, and you can only half understand him through the way your body still trembles slightly. You can feel yourself pulsing around where he still sits inside you, stronger than anything you felt before. 

It must have the same effect on him. Only seconds later, Jungwon buries his face in your shoulder, releasing one final groan before warmth fills your body. 

For long moments after, the two of you lie motionless, still connected as his weight settles over you, either unwilling or unable to move. You suppose it doesn’t really matter which of the two it is. 

And even later still, long after the urgency has transformed into something sweeter, the two of you are awake. 

Now, your head rests against Jungwon’s still bare chest, his fingers threading through your hair. Your body feels heavy with satiation, a kind of deep, physical contentment foreign to you until now. The ghost of his touch lingers. You can still feel everywhere he was inside of you. 

Eventually, Jungwon is the one to finally break the silence. His voice is small, but it rings clearly in the quiet of your bedroom. “I don’t want you to miss me.” 

You sigh, sleepy as you curl further into his warmth. “It’s inevitable.” You’re not angry. Even if the loneliness stings on occasion, you’ll continue finding ways to make your peace with it. Although it might prove more difficult now that you know what it is to have him like this. “A king will always be bound by duty. And duty will always find a way to call at the most inopportune of times.”

You can feel the way he shakes his head. “Duty calls to everyone. We all just have different names for it.”

“Perhaps,” you agree, fighting a yawn, “but your responsibilities will always look a bit different than everyone else’s. It’s okay,” you add, sensing his lingering unease. “I understand. I don’t know what it feels like to wear a crown, but I can’t imagine it would be easy.”

For a moment, he’s silent. His fingers go still in your hair. And then— “Would you ever?”

You frown. “Would I ever what?”

There’s a tremor of hesitation in his voice now, a betrayal of his nerves. “Wear a crown.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I’m asking you.”

“I know what you’re implying,” you agree. “But don’t ask me now.” Pushing yourself up, you turn until your hand is splayed across his chest, your chin resting on top. From this angle, you can look him in the eye. “Don’t ask me when you’re afraid I’ll say no.”

Jungwon holds your gaze. Exhaling slowly, he admits, “I think I’ll always be at least a little afraid you’ll say no.”

“No,” you shake your head, a glimmer in your eye. “I promise that you won’t be.” Leaning up, you press a chaste kiss to the skin just below his chin. “Sleep,” you urge, settling back into your original position. Bare skin still pressed to his, you pull your blanket up over both of your bodies. “We’ll both need our strength for tomorrow.”

So Jungwon doesn’t ask you, not tonight. Not the next night. Not until nights have begun to bleed into one another, the frequency with which he greets you with a voice in your head and a knock against your door only growing. 

He waits, until he knows every inch of your mind. Until he understands your dreams, your hopes, your fears just as intimately as if they were his own. Until the time he’s spent learning you in the privacy of your bedroom means he knows your body just as well. 

For tonight, he does his best to follow your instructions, to put his wandering thoughts to rest and just sleep. 

Only once more does he work his way into your mind with the gentle presence of someone who’s been invited, of someone who’s grown to be welcome. 

Good night, he sends to you, and you shudder as if he’s whispered it against the shell of your ear. 

Good night, Jungwon, you return before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.

[mortaldreams]

Hello, I have a request and I did send the same request to another account, but after reading hesitation, I had to run to your asks. But can you please write smut for younger boyfriend Jungwon.

Essentially, he's dating somebody who is two years older than him and she's never had a partner before so JW essentially is her first and he teaches/directs her on how to do everything. He loves it. He's very, very dominant and commanding in bed and she's very, very submissive and obedient. He loves, loves, loves that despite the fact that she's older than him, she's still a good girl, so obedient, submissive, always looking for his attention, to please him, to do what she's told, to obey him, and be on his good side.

During sex, he tends to use the fact that she's older than him as powerplay a lot, often very cocky and he tends to shame her. Something like "Look at you. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, noona? You're older than me and you're here completely naked, on your knees, whining and crying, and begging me to fuck you? You'd really let a guy who's younger than you get to you like this???"

Thanks for thinking of me!! I’m going to respectfully decline because I don’t think my style of writing smut really suits this concept and I don’t feel super comfortable writing requests that have been sent to multiple people. Thank you for understanding!

[mortaldreams]

Also, another ask for younger bf JW 🥹 same premise as my previous, as in, he's dating somebody who's never dated anybody before and so she doesn't really know how to be in a relationship and often acts a little immature & sensitive & gets super avoidant & doesn't let him into her world esp her emotional world esp when it comes to disagreement. So, can you please write a fic where he's just very cute as a bf? And sweet and mature and understanding? I lowkey think he's just such a grounded person, I definitely think this is exactly how he'll be in a relationship.

I think you’d like hesitation! It has a lot of similar elements/vibes

[mortaldreams]

hesitation……… dunno how i didn’t find this earlier holy hell it’s amazing…………. younger boyfriend jungwon……….. so many thoughts……….. #needthatbadddddd

Exactly why that one little drabble turned into three parts and full blown smut like younger boyfriend Jungwon is just toooooooo good 😖😖😖😖😖

[mortaldreams]

Haiii, is there gonna be a part three of hesitation? 🫣 i swear we need more of younger jungwon on enhablr 😫🙏 i need him so baddd

Probably not 🫠 but I do love younger Jungwon so it’s very possible he’ll show up again in another story!

[mortaldreams]

the number of times I reread hesitation - both part 1 and part 2 has become uncountable!! younger jungwon x reader is always so good

yayyy I’m glad you’re enjoying it!!! truly an unbeatable dynamic

[mortaldreams]

trying to be sooooooo normal about hestitation jungwon but im foaming in the mouth rn the fic is just too good jungwon is tew fine i want him so bad

#needthatlikecrazy

[mortaldreams]

when i tell you that hesitation part 2 is genuinely one of the best jungwon pieces i've read on here. the way you portrayed both characters and the internal turmoil of mc in such a realistic yet romantic (?) way if you get what I mean. Just overall a very beautiful piece that I know I will reread again and again. I'm really rooting for the two of them to end up together but not before they suffer through the weight of their feelings for a bit.

Omg 🥹🥹🥹🥹 thank you so much

[mortaldreams]

younger bf jungwon is such a good tropeee, I LOVEEE

I agree it’s toooooo good

[mortaldreams]

hesitation – part 2 (m)

pairing: yang jungwon x f reader

genre: university au, smut

word count: 3.1k

warnings: smut, swearing, jungwon continues to be a menace

note: this is a follow up to my fic hesitation on stllmnstr. read that first!!!! a lot of this was previously posted a long time ago for a different story but has been heavily edited and reworked. enjoy!

hesitation masterlist | part 1 | part 2 | part 3

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

It really wasn’t your fault. 

And, of course, you’re no stranger to the saying that hindsight is twenty-twenty, but you’d always assumed that it referred to things like a bad haircut or the extra glass of wine you convince yourself will help with your thesis. Temporary things. Things you could remedy in the morning with an extra Advil or laugh off with an easy sort of flippancy. Things that don’t have any terrible, long-term consequences for you and your poor little naive heart. 

And in your defense, when Karina had told you in a too loud half whisper over lunch three days ago that Yang Jungwon was “bad news,” you’d assumed she meant it in all of the regular ways. And as such, were not deterred in the slightest. 

Because you already knew that he was three year your junior and had the maturity level to match. You also knew that despite his rather insistent pursuit of you, he wasn’t exactly a saint of virtue when it came to the opposite sex. You were already well aware that he probably spent more time day drinking than studying and owned five pairs of the same gray sweatpants just so he could pretend that it was a coincidence that rumors of him being rather… well endowed started to spread like wildfire by the time winter quarter rolled around. 

You already knew that he thrived on the whispers and sighs that followed him everywhere he went. He came from some small suburb outside of your university town and was enjoying the newfound attention a little too much. He’d only been out of his parent’s house for a few years, and the freedom still felt like wings. 

But even that was starting to matter to you less and less. Jungwon, despite all his faults and flaws, liked you. He wasn’t shy about it either. He loved to bother you and take up space and time and fragments of your life just to watch you roll your eyes at him. 

He was easy to shoot down at first. You weren’t interested in teaching anyone how to be a boyfriend, and you had the distinct feeling Jungwon would need lots of training on that front. He was sweet, you supposed, when he wanted to be. But consideration, maturity, those things come with time. With experience. With age. 

His persistence was cute, but you were over it. Or, at least, you thought you were. 

It was one of those nights, the ones with a little too much wine, when you found yourself reaching for that dumb little note he slipped you a few weeks ago. The one with his phone number on it. The one he gave you in the parking lot at the end of another god forsaken Tuesday. 

Brain pleasantly muddled, you started to fold the note between your fingers. Your phone was out of reach, but just barely. You could lean over, if you wanted to. You could scroll down to the J section in your contacts. It would be easy. Too easy. 

Shaking your head to an empty room, you tried to send the stray thoughts spinning. But no matter how hard you tried to push them out of mind, they just kept coming back. 

Grad school, after all, had been nothing but brutal. And at this point, you were pretty sure if you let things just run their natural course, all the stress was going to have you shriveling up in more ways than one. 

Heeseung was the last time you let someone else touch you, and that had been short lived. Not to mention nearly six months ago. 

The more you thought about it, the more it started to make sense. In your mind, undergrad Yang Jungwon could be a simple solution to a simple problem. It didn’t matter that he was younger than you and probably had an allergic reaction as soon as a hint of actual commitment entered the conversation. It didn’t matter that all of his waxing poetic about cuddling and treating you right and taking care of you was probably nothing more than empty words. Regurgitated nonsense he heard somewhere else and thought would trick you into his twin size bed. 

Maybe, you thought, just maybe, it could actually work. You’d call it a win-win situation. You would have a dependable way of blowing off grad school steam and be able to save some money by taking the AA batteries that kept your trusty bullet vibrator off of your monthly shopping list, and Jungwon could finally say he got with an older girl. 

It would be easy. Uncomplicated. Maybe even fun. 

But bad news, as it would seem, can mean a lot of different things. It explains why Karina had only responded to your very logical reasoning with an apprehensive shake of her head. Why she insisted that regret, in all of its messy, complicated, heart-shattering glory, would be an inevitable outcome of your proposed arrangement. 

But you’ve never been one to heed advice when you should, and despite all of her protests, you decided to move forward with your original plan. Even after taking an extra Advil the next morning. 

Because you already knew what you were getting yourself into, and despite what Karina thought, you could handle it. After all, Jungwon was harmless. 

You were more than prepared for the 3 AM you up? texts and the very real possibility that Jungwon would only call you baby because he couldn’t remember which one of the girls he loved to bother you were and hadn’t actually bothered to save your phone number as anything other than a string of numbers. 

Because you already knew how this was going to work, and Jungwon didn’t need to maintain his perfect gentlemen facade for it to be a success. In fact, you were already planning to encourage him to just drop it already. 

It was a foolproof plan, a stroke of genius, really. You were prepared for anything and everything related to the ins and outs of the undergraduate fuckboy code of conduct. 

But hindsight, as it turns out, is indeed twenty-twenty. And you certainly hadn’t been prepared for this.

“You doing alright?” There’s gentleness in his voice and care in his touch as he smooths back a strand of hair away from your unbearably warm forehead. It’s a stark contrast to the way he has you feeling so completely and utterly full that you think you might actually die. 

Blinking through the hint of tears forming at the corner of your eyes—you weren’t hurt, just fucking overwhelmed—you manage a small nod, cheek aflame where he lets his palm rest against it. 

“Yeah?” He reassures, the barest hint of a laugh escaping parted lips. He brushes his thumb over your cheekbone and you do your best not to combust. “Then look at me.” The gentleness is still there, but the command leaves no room for negotiation. Not when the next time he moves, he finds that spot that has you seeing stars with an uncanny accuracy you really shouldn’t find surprising anymore. Not when he lets his touch leave the planes of your cheekbone to let it rest against the swell of your hips instead, encouraging them to move in tandem in a way that only has him hitting deeper, easily uncovering parts of you that you thought would always remain untouched. 

Because you thought you knew Jungwon like the back of your hand just from the way he pursued you. Purely based on the difference in your ages. Because you’d been prepared for the read receipts and unanswered phone calls and eventual avoidance of eye-contact when your paths crossed on campus, and you thought that would be enough. 

But you weren’t sure if you could have ever prepared for this. For the way Yang Jungwon fucks like he’s in love and scatters sweet nothings along your neck to match. For the way he asks about your day while he’s deep in your guts and remembers even the smallest of details. For the way he’d told you to choose which side of the bed you’d prefer to sleep on and convinced you to let the small box of condoms in your bedside drawer gather dust all the while.

Another stupid mistake, probably, but you couldn’t imagine a single context in which Jungwon was anything but persuasive. This particular development had occurred over coffee—yet another thing you hadn’t prepared for—the possibility of spending time with him outside of the confines of a bedroom. 

“I wanna ask you something,” he’d grinned over a latte a handful of weeks ago, gaze fluttering like he was nervous. “But you have to promise to hear me out first.” 

And this is it, you’d thought. I’ve run through my trial period and he’s deemed me unworthy of a regular spot on the roster. And you couldn’t blame him, really. Rumor had it that at the last party he’d been spotted at, he’d been chatting up some freshman whose parents founded a chain of hot yoga studios and put the free membership to good use. Turns out he wasn’t only into older girls. You understood. You really did. With a sigh, you’d mentally added a new box of batteries to your grocery list. 

“I—” And just like that, the self-assuredness was back. If anything, you must have imagined the nervous tremor you thought you detected earlier. “How do you feel about not using condoms?” 

It had taken everything in you and some stroke of divine intervention to not spew the mouthful of coffee you had all over the table. “I…” You blinked at him, losing your train of thought. Because who the fuck just asks that in the same way you might talk about the weather? “What?”

And he must have mistaken your confusion for outrage, because he’d been quick to backtrack. “I mean, we don’t have to. It’s not a big deal if you’re uncomfortable. I just…” He’d been the one avoiding eye contact then. You still think that you must have imagined the flush that you could have swore rose on his cheeks. “I’ve just been thinking about it. Like, a lot.”

“Jungwon—”

“But you can totally say no!” His cheeks are flaming now. “I just… I just thought I’d ask.”

“Jungwon,” you had tried again, still trying to wrap your mind around the fact that he wasn’t dropping you. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The way your legs had involuntarily crossed beneath the table said otherwise, but this was thankfully a rare instance in which the logical parts of your brain were able to overrule the baser ones. “It’s nothing against you. I just… I wanna be safe, y’know, and getting chlamydia isn’t exactly on my grad school bucket list—”

“What?” It was Jungwon’s turn to be confused, something akin to shock flashing across his features. “I’m clean. You know that, right? I wouldn’t… God, I wouldn’t sleep with you if I wasn’t.”

Right, you’d thought. But hot yoga certainly seems like an environment conducive to bacteria growth. 

“No, I know,” you’d reassured him and you meant it even then. Because despite all of the reasons you shouldn’t, trust was beginning to come easy between you and Jungwon. “There’s just no way to be sure that everyone else you’re sleeping with is.” You’d shrugged, looking down at your cup. 

At that, the furrow in Jungwon’s brow had only deepened. “I’m not—” But he stopped himself, shaking his head before some sort of realization dawned on his features. For all you knew, he was reconsidering the practicality of fucking in a yoga studio heated to nearly a hundred degrees. 

He’d paused for a moment then, as if weighing his next words very carefully. 

“And if you were the only one I was sleeping with?”

You’d laughed at that, actually full on, out loud laughed. But Jungwon’s expression remained unchanged. It was enough to give you pause once you caught your breath again. 

“You’d do that?” You challenged, doubt coloring your words. 

“Like I said,” Jungwon returned, his words and his gaze and him suddenly feeling much too intimate for the crowded cafe. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” His voice had been impossibly lower when he added, “I don’t think there’s much I wouldn’t do.”

And you’d naively assumed then that it had been a physical thing, the age-old excuse of it just doesn’t feel as good falling from Jungwon’s lips in a more roundabout way. There wasn’t much else to be expected from an undergrad, after all. You had to give him points for creativity, at least.

But now, tangled in his sheets, feeling every ridge and curve and breath of every miniscule movement, your foolish heart can’t help but wonder if it was something else. 

“That’s it,” he whispers, smile softening into something fond when your gaze rises to match his own. “Look at me when I’m inside you, noona. Just like that.”

The way his words have you clenching involuntarily sends a shudder down the length of his spine, air escaping through his lips in a labored huff as he watches you beneath him. 

That had been another shock, yet another thing you had never prepared for. 

Because the first time you and Jungwon had hooked up, you’d assumed it would be mostly comparable to your limited experience with so-called fuckboys. It was a misguided assumption, probably, considering he was insistent on taking you on six actual dates before he let fooling around on your couch turn into actual sex. That had been unexpected, but you chalked it up to some kind of complex he must have had. Some need to prove himself to you. 

Still, when the time finally did come, you prepared for the inevitable and after the obligatory five minutes of foreplay, had turned to let your cheek rest against his surprisingly soft pillows that smelled like fresh laundry and almost made you forget you were on a twin size bed in a dorm room. You readied yourself for a standard, if not lackluster, experience and arched your back at an angle that was already uncomfortable from the get go. 

And if the small, warm kisses you’d felt pressed against the length of your spine had been surprising, what happened next was nothing short of shocking. You still remember it, the way Jungwon had leaned in close to whisper a request against the shell of your ear, to all but beg that you turn over onto your back. 

Confused and blinded by a sudden haze of lust, you’d done as he asked, only to be met with a soft smile and even softer hands. Because what you’d thought would be a frenzied race to the finish line was quickly turning into something you’d only ever read about in the racy romance books your slightly off-kilter aunt kept stashed at the back of her bookshelf. 

You’d written it off as a singular oddity, an unusual preference in an otherwise standard encounter. But it hadn’t stopped there.

Because as you quickly found out, Jungwon liked it slow. And loved it gentle, pleading, and soft. Liked to turn his touch into something electric and look in your eyes as he drew orgasms from your sated body like it was easy, like your pleasure fed his own. 

Even now, head propped up against those damningly soft pillows and body molded for his touch, when his hands move again, you already know what he’s hoping for. It’s with a pleasure-loosened resolve and a slipping sense of self-preservation that you let him intertwine his fingers with your own, never letting the slow, deep rhythm he’s built falter. 

“Jungwon,” you breathe, and he swallows up the sound of his name with a kiss that’s as consuming as it is sweet. 

“I have you,” he assures, a whisper meant only for you and you hate it as much as you yearn for it. Cling to it despite the warning bells ringing loud in your pleasure-clouded haze.

“I’m gonna—” you try, but he already knows. Can already feel how close you are from the way you squeeze him for all he’s worth, from the way your eyes widen, just slightly, in his moonlit room, from the way your heartbeat races against his own. 

“You’re so good, you know that?” He’s desperate to get you there, and for better or worse, he’s learned all of your pleasure too. The shiver that runs the length of your spine is nothing but affirmation that his praise hits home. “Feel so fucking good like this.” Bringing his lips to the shell of your ear, he lets one final declaration land true. “Wanna be inside you forever.”

And when you come, it’s with his name on your lips and something dangerous in your heart. Something fluttering and promising and all too reminiscent of what you might have called love under any other circumstance. 

And once minutes pass and you’ve regained your sense of rational thought, the only thing your mind is infused with is a sinking sense of dread. Because Karina was right. Yang Jungwon was bad news, and it wasn’t because he could smooth talk his way out of one too many missed chemistry lectures and had the damn dimples to match. 

No, it was because he was the kind of person that would press a soft kiss to your temple and mumble something under his breath about washing up when all is said and done. Because he would turn the water to the exact temperature that you preferred before ushering you both into the shower. Because the fancy, expensive shampoo that just so happened to be your brand of choice had mysteriously shown up in his dorm room last week and he’d use it to wash your hair while he let you lean against him under the stream of water, humming a soft tune just under his breath.

Because he’d offer you an oversized t-shirt afterwards and let you choose the side of the bed you want to sleep on. In the end, it was a moot point anyway. You always somehow ended up pulled tight against his chest regardless. 

And you never would have known, all those weeks ago, that this is what she meant.

That Jungwon was bad news, because with just a little prompting, just a few more easily miscalculated steps, his touch could turn into something that felt all too much like home. Someone that felt a lot more important than just a distraction from the uglier parts of grad school. Because he was the kind of guy you just might be in danger of actually starting to like. 

Because part of you is already certain that you already have. 

“Sleep,” he whispers into the darkness of his room, pressing a final kiss against your shoulder like he can sense the war in your mind, the turmoil in your heart. 

The gentle persuasion of his voice and the heaviness in your eyelids are easy to give into. Just one last time, you think, relaxing impossibly further into his hold as exhaustion pulls you into a dreamless sleep. Just this one last time.

.....

like I said on stllmnstr I think my new calling is to spread the younger college bf jungwon agenda on enhablr and I hope you enjoyed this contribution ♡

read part three here!

[mortaldreams]

trying to get back into the flow of writing smut send drabble prompts (hyung line only pleaseeeeee) if you'd like!

[mortaldreams]

me posting this 4 days ago and only realizing now that my ask box was closed the whole time 😭😭😭 anyway it’s open now and the offer still stands!

[mortaldreams]

trying to get back into the flow of writing smut send drabble prompts (hyung line only pleaseeeeee) if you'd like!

[mortaldreams]

breathing room (m ver.)

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

genre: smut, enemies to lovers, rivals to lovers

word count: 5.9k

warnings: sexually explicit content (MDNI), swearing, arguing, non-explicit descriptions/depictions of violence, tension of both the general and sexual sort, heeseung is a Talker

note: this is an extended (and explicit) version of my sfw story breathing room, which can still be found on my main blog stllmnstr. but this one has, you know, smut. enjoy!

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

In your mind, Lee Heeseung is nothing but a thorn in your side and an obstacle in your path as you struggle to fight your way way up the ranks in combat training. But even with your knife against his neck and flames in your eyes, he finds a way to catch you off guard.

or,

heeseung doesn't need a knockout. he just needs an in.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Lee Heeseung is having a hard time breathing. 

Partly because he’s pretty sure he just got the wind knocked out of him. A little bit because of the year-old rib injury he had neither the time nor patience to let heal completely. 

And mostly because there’s a blade being held to his throat. 

Yours, to be exact. 

It’s a nice one, all things considered. Despite its lethality, it’s small, delicate almost. From this angle, he can just make out the detailing on the hilt. A series of vines wrap around each other intricately, forming kaleidoscopic patterns that extend all the way from the blade to where your fingers are wrapped around the hilt, knuckles white from the way your hand is straining. 

Jesus, he thinks. If it takes that much concentrated effort for you to not let the knife press any harder against his skin, draw any blood, then maybe he should start taking the threats you throw his way like extra change a little more seriously. 

Lazily, he lets his eyes trace a line from your fingers to your face. Skipping over the rather boring details of the plain black training shirt you wear, he directs his attention to the way your brow furrows in concentration instead. 

Under usual circumstances, a knife to the throat would encourage all of his senses to narrow in on the sensation of metal against his pulse point. Would spur his brain to work a bit faster through all the biological fight or flight mechanisms in a last ditch attempt at survival. 

But these are not usual circumstances. In fact, ever since the two of you were split into separate training cohorts a handful of months ago, this has become a rarity. And the only thing Heeseung wants to do is enjoy it a little more. 

Without his self-preservation instincts kicking in, his brain has plenty of room for other things. The forgiving surface of a training mat beneath him, slightly soft where he lets his body relax into it. The unusually warm air of the training room, courtesy of a busted air conditioner that no one has gotten around to fixing just yet. 

The way your hair falls around your face as you lean over him, chest still heaving from your recent bout of exertion. Your eyes are pure fire, embers and ashes and every stage in between as you sit atop his ribcage, knees on either side of his torso where you pin him to the mat. 

But even as the lead trainer adds another tally underneath your name for another sparring match won, your gaze doesn’t soften. Doesn’t brighten in the afterglow of victory. 

After all, victory only tastes sweet when it’s earned. Judging by the way your lips twist above him, Heeseung thinks the victory he just handed you on a silver platter must be horribly bitter. 

Slowly, he raises his hands in mock surrender. There’s a half smile that looks a little too much like a smirk tugging at his lips when he says, “I concede.”

“No fucking shit.” You flick a strand of hair out of your face. Your knife presses a little tighter against his throat. “Did you even try?”

Heeseung maintains eye contact. “I think I’m doing us both a favor by not answering that one.”

Narrowing your eyes, annoyance makes itself the most prominent of your visible emotions. “Interesting choice of words from someone with a knife to his throat.”

Heeseung all but rolls his eyes. “What are you gonna do? Kill me in front of everyone?” The way he wraps sarcasm up in every syllable is almost as infuriating as the way he just let you win without putting up any semblance of a fight. “You’ve got a mean streak, princess, but that’s a bit much, even for you.”

The pressure on your blade increases, and Heeseung fights a wince as he feels it break the barrier between his skin and blood. It’s a miniscule cut, surface level at most, but he hears the threat all the same. “It’s like you want to die,” you marvel. 

Heeseung’s eyes betray nothing, other than the fact that they can’t quite seem to stray from your own. Does he? No matter how deep inside himself he searches, the answer is always a resounding no. Despite the effort he put into this particular spar, or rather lack thereof, his survival instincts are still kicking. His pursuit of life is still alive and well. 

So no, he doesn’t want to die. Quite the opposite in fact. But if he were to explain in plain terms that he never feels quite as alive as he does in the moments when you’ve got a knife on his throat and hatred in your eyes, he has the distinct feeling you might well and truly make good on your frequent promise to send him to an early grave. 

And it’s not like he means to do it, not really. Heeseung might be a glutton for punishment these days, but there was a time when he tried to get your attention in all the regular ways. As he quickly found out, sweet words did nothing but make you roll your eyes, and his skills on a sparring mat were only as impressive as they could be used to hone your own. 

He was a tool in your eyes. A means to an end as you did your best to work your way up the ranks. 

You never looked at him, the person behind all the hand-to-hand combat training and advanced levels of weapon artistry. 

At least not until he started annoying the ever-living shit out of you. 

Back then, it had been easy. As new recruits, you were in the same training cohort, which meant you had the same daily schedules. As long as Heeseung had the chance to beat you to the last piece of toast in the dining hall at breakfast or tie the laces of your training boots together the night before an early morning, he was guaranteed at least one of your signature glares and a few choice words that would make his grandmother blush. 

Granted, he knows that one-sided hatred is not a very stable foundation to build anything solid on, but he thinks of it in the same way he thinks of sparring. 

He doesn’t need a knockout. He just needs an in. 

A little bit of breathing room. Something that will have his partner lowering their guard, weakening their defenses just enough for him to strike. Once. Twice. Again. Over and over until the match is won and victory rests on his square shoulders. 

Heeseung’s in this for the long haul, and he’s come to find that he doesn’t really care how many bruises he picks up along the way. 

Across the room, the lead trainer heaves a long sigh. 

“Alright, ___, that’s enough. You’ve earned your tally.” The most of anyone in today’s group. But you’re still glaring at him, and he knows it isn’t enough, not for you. “Heeseung, get it together. I expect better from you next time.”

You scoff. “Don’t hold your breath.” 

Expectations are only met when people are held to them, and you doubt Lee Heeseung has even become acquainted with the concept of a consequence. 

Releasing one final, sharp exhale, you pull your knife away from his throat, tucking it back into the sheath on your upper thigh in one fluid motion. Swinging your leg over his torso, you remove your body from his own, give your anger some space to breathe. Without looking back, you let your strides eat up the distance between you and the exit. 

Someone – you think it must be Jay, or maybe Jungwon – tries to catch your attention on the way out, asking about a maneuver you pulled in the middle of the match. A tricky bit of knife work you’ve been perfecting over the last few weeks. 

Something that looked stupid as Heeseung did nothing but stand there, as if your blade was nothing but decorative. Made you look stupid as he stood and watched with nothing but a mildly amused expression on his face. 

You hate him for it. Want to show him just how pretty your knife can be stained with the deep crimson he must bleed as surely as anyone else. 

Lips pulled in a taut line, you unsheath the blade at your thigh once again, this time sending it spinning with deadly accuracy towards the line of trees that skirt the outside of the training facility. 

You don’t miss. You never do. 

It still feels like defeat. 

…..

Heeseung notices when you’re not at dinner later that evening. Despite the fact that you no longer train together, the inter-cohort spars have shifted this week's schedule. You should be here, sitting next to Jay and Jungwon, probably, pointedly avoiding his gaze. 

But you’re not. And he can only think of one other place to find you. 

The training hall is dark when he arrives, but Heeseung is no fool. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but he sees you soon enough. Silhouette dark against the empty expanse, he has half a mind to intervene before you shred yet another punching bag to irreparable pieces. Instead, he just watches for a moment longer. 

He doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that start to simmer, that always linger. Doesn’t know if it’s admiration or longing or something far worse. 

But he wants to. Wants to examine them until he knows them as intimately as the back of his own hand, until he can recite them by name and express them in ways that don’t make you want to press a knife against his neck. 

And he wants to keep watching, keep looking, keep noticing. 

Even from a distance, even in the dark, he can read the frustration in the set of your shoulders, sense the exhaustion in the way your legs move just behind the rest of your body. 

You need a break. 

He needs an in. 

Across the room from you, Heeseung clears his throat. 

Startled, you nearly fall on your ass mid-kick before you turn to the source. It’s dark, but you know it’s him. Who else would it be? 

Chest rising and falling rapidly with exertion, you finally catch your breath well enough to tell him, “If you’re not here for a rematch, then you have exactly ten seconds to get out of this building.”

A beat passes. 

Another. 

Heeseung exhales. “And if I am?”

Bathed in the dying glow of moonlight, you go still. “Then you better put in your best fucking effort.”

Heeseung is across the room before you can release another breath. It’s ridiculous how quickly he disarms you. And you’re caught off guard, yes, but it doesn’t matter, not really. Your knife in his hands, he throws it to the corner of the room. And then it’s just the two of you. 

Heeseung spares neither time nor effort knocking your legs out from under you, sending you careening towards the mat. Screwing your eyes shut, you brace for the impact of a training mat that never comes, the back of your head cradled in a hand that serves as a barrier between you and the ground below. 

It’s a complete reversal of your earlier roles as he lets his legs fall to either side of you, face inches from your own. There’s no knife on your neck, and he was gracious enough to break your fall. 

But suddenly, you find your breath a difficult thing to catch regardless. 

Above you, his eyes are dark. Your noses nearly touch. “This is what you wanted?” he breathes, and you feel his words as much as you hear them. They dance across your cheekbone, your lips. Have your bones feeling molten, all your hard edges malleable. “You want me to fight you like I mean it? To really fucking spar with you?”

You’ve rehearsed your answer too long to deviate, even as your mind screams with sudden uncertainties. “Yes.”

Heeseung doesn’t spare it a second thought. “Too bad.”

“Why? You have no problem f–”

“I was there, you know.” Unbidden, the hand that doesn’t hold your head falls to the bottom edge of your black training shirt. Heeseung pauses there for a moment, lets his fingers trace the seam. Something in the air shifts, tightens, waits. 

Despite the way he has you caged, your hands are unbound. You could stop this, if you wanted to. Stop him. 

You don’t. 

Slowly, his hand begins to track an upward journey, taking your hem with it. The air of the room is warm, choked with summer heat and the odd sensations that simmer just beneath your skin, but you suppress a shiver anyway as a sliver of skin is revealed. 

You know what he’s after, where his eyes fall to. It’s his fingers that hesitate. Dangle with uncertainty a hair's breadth from the scar that sits just above your hip bone. 

Heeseung inhales, eyes returning to your own for a moment. They’re searching for permission you won’t give and boundaries you won’t set. If he wants to walk this tightrope, he’ll have to navigate on his own. 

It’s a challenge he rises to. On his breath out, Heeseung lets his fingers find a home on the bare skin of your stomach, trace the jagged line that’s a shade paler than the surrounding area. 

It’s a scar you hardly think of, one you can’t believe he remembers. Gifted to you in your early days of training, when a fellow recruit thought the best way to better his ranking was to discard the strict sparring rules set by your superiors and draw blood as a last ditch attempt at victory.

You’d still won, even with a fresh stab wound on your lower abdomen. And he’d been shown the door, like all recruits that break protocol. 

“So what?” Your voice doesn’t come out nearly as biting as you intend it to. You curse the waver in your words. “I get one scar and suddenly I’m delicate?” 

Heeseung glances up, something sincere in his eyes when he matches your gaze. His hand is still on your skin. “We’re all delicate. And we all have the scars to prove it. I’ve just developed a particular… aversion to seeing evidence of it when it comes to you.”

You’re quick to school your features into neutrality. At least on the outside, you won’t give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Apparently not,” Heeseung counters. “Since I’m not the one begging for a fight.” He holds your gaze when he adds, “And I have to say, princess, if you wanted me to put you on your back, there are much easier ways to ask.”

It’s as if you’ve been submerged in hot water, as if you’ve been burned, when you push him off of you with a speed that’s almost comical. And from the way heat rises in your cheeks, you just might have been. 

Your voice is dangerously low when you tell him, “You have three seconds.”

“Until what?” Heeseung knows better than to be hopeful. 

“Until I find my knife and put it to good use.”

He knows better, yes. But what are limits for, if not to be pushed? 

Heeseung looks up at you from where he still lies on the mat. Propping himself up on one hand, he lets his gaze trace you from head to toe. Lazily, like he has all the time in the world and none of his inhibitions. “Is that a promise?”

You do your best not to squirm underneath his wandering gaze. But evidence of your embarrassment still stains your flushed skin. And from the way his lips start to quirk upwards, you can tell that he’s enjoying this. 

You’re flustered, and he loves it. Loves that when you stutter a bit, start to trip over your words, it’s by his doing. 

Standing above him, your scowl is unconvincing. A stark contrast to the heat that still lingers in your cheeks and the way you can’t quite match his eye. “What is wrong with you?”

“Several things.” Below you, Heeseung bites back a smile. “Would you like an itemized list? Or would you prefer the details of my depravity in essay format? Or I could–”

“Stop it.” Your face is still flaming, but your voice has changed. It’s not shy or breathy or even biting. It’s just… frustrated. A little bit pathetic. Pleading in a way Heeseung wasn’t prepared for. 

“Just stop it.” On the training mat, Heeseung goes still. “God, you do this every time. I come here and I work my fucking ass off every day, and all you do is sit there and mock me for it.” The fire is draining from your eyes. The fight is draining from your shoulders. It’s wrong. It’s not what he meant. But it’s spiraling and he doesn’t know how to stop it. “Is this…” you trail off. Deciding your pride is already torn to shreds, you ask, “Am I some kind of joke to you?”

Heeseung is standing again before you can catch your breath. Crowding your space. Or at least, he tries to. The backwards step you take maintains a steady distance. 

“No.” Now he’s the one that’s scrambling, lost for words. “No,” he repeats. “Fuck, ___” he cards a hand through his hard, pushing it away from his face. “You have to know that’s not what I think of you.”

You scoff in exasperation, but your eyes are starting to shine. Reflect the unshed tears of frustration that have begun to gather in your lash line. Heeseung’s fingertips twitch with the urge to wipe them away. “How would I know that? You always do this.” Your words are coming out too fast, spilling from parted lips in the most painful river of honesty he’s ever gotten from you. 

“You don’t take me seriously. You won’t fight me. You won’t do anything but lay there with that stupid fucking smile.” You’re angry. Clearly. But you’re not getting in his face, not forcing your words down his throat by invading his space. 

No, instead, you’re closing in on yourself. Eyes trained on the ground, you won’t even look at him. Arms wrapping around your torso, it’s as if you want as many barriers between the two of you as possible. “All you do is tease me, because you know it makes me…” Shaking your head, your words die on your lips. 

Heeseung can’t let it go so easily. “Makes you what?”

Slowly, you drag your gaze back to his. There’s no sound here, in the expanse of a barren training room. Just the mingling of your breath with his. The quiet remnants of your anger. You won’t answer his question. You can’t.

Instead, you whisper “I hate you.”

Heeseung takes a step closer. This time, you don’t retreat. He shakes his head. “You don’t.”

Feet planted, you have to tilt your chin to look up at him now. “I do–”

“You don’t,” he interrupts. “You don’t hate me, and you have no idea what to do about it.”

A spark flickers through your eyes again/ This is the kind of sparring match you’ve become familiar with when it comes to him. “Typical,” you bite, voice low. “And so fucking presumptuous, to assume that you know me better than I do.”

Heeseung presses into your space further. You can feel the heat that radiates off of his skin, that threatens to consume you whole. “I tease you, yes,” he admits. “But you’ve never been a joke to me. I take you as seriously as death, princess.”

“Don’t call me that–”

“And don’t act like you’re any better.” Features slackening, your eyes widen as he doubles down. “You want to talk about taking people seriously? Fine.” There are flames in his eyes now, raging through his dark irises. “You never looked at me twice. Never thought of me as anything but a stepping stone to make yourself better. You want me to fight you? You want to use me to test out all your fancy little tricks and improve until you’re the only one at the top?”

He’s close. He’s so fucking close. 

“Fine. I’ll give you what you want.” Fingers sliding beneath your jaw, he cups your chin with a light, but demanding grip. Forcing your gaze upwards, you have nowhere to look but his eyes when he demands, “But look at me while I do it.”

In the span of seconds, you’re on your back again. Trapped beneath him as he pins your hands above your head, both of your wrists entrapped in the grasp of a single hand. Knees on either side of your torso, you’re effectively trapped. 

Frantically, without any of your usual finesse, you begin to thrash, desperately trying to free yourself. His only response is to close his knees tighter, restricting your movement further. 

Fuming, nearly immobile, you bring one knee up in a well-aimed jab. But Heeseung hasn’t been fighting all these months. Not really. 

He predicts your movement with a practiced ease and stops the blow in its tracks. Spare hand wrapping around the back of your thigh, he shakes his head at you. 

“Ah, ah,” he scolds, voice dangerously low. “I thought I told you to look at me.”

Beneath him, your chest heaves. “As if I’d ever listen to you.” But your eyes lock on his anyway. As if you can win this sparring match through sheer will alone. 

Heeseung doesn’t say anything. Hardly so much as blinks as his hand wraps around your thigh a little more firmly. And then, he’s adjusting it. 

Dragging it upwards with a scalding touch until he guides it to wrap around the base of his hips. Again, his touch is light. Something you could break free from if you really wanted to. All of his command lies in his eyes, his gaze that still burns into yours. 

The space just above your cheekbones is flaming again. But this time, for a different reason. 

You feel it more pointedly than you ever have, a sharp, pulsing tug that snakes down your spine and settles just beneath your navel. 

You’re warm there, too. Too warm.

The clothed expanse of your inner thigh, just above your knee, rests against the outside of his hip. But it’s not enough. Does nothing to soothe the building ache, nothing to ease your mounting desperation for friction, for something.  

It’s too much. It’s almost involuntary, the way you start to squirm again,. But this time, it’s not freedom you seek. 

Overwhelmed with sensations you have no idea what to do with, you screw your eyes shut. 

Your body feels like one big muscle, drawn taut, fraught with tension. And it’s so warm, so unbearably hot. 

Shrouded in darkness of your own making, it’s almost worse. You can feel everything. Every desperate pulse that throbs in time with your heartbeat. Every shallow breath that scatters across your overly warm skin. 

The gentle, light pair of lips that ghost over the space between your brows. That brush against the side of your tightly shut eyelid. That comes to rest along the shell of your ear, inspiring a fresh round of shivers down the length of your spine. 

He feels it too. You can tell by the way his breath shudders against you. 

His lips part against your earlobe, touch as light as a butterfly’s wing. “Please,” he begs, and you think you might actually die. If this is what defeat feels like, you’ll hand him his rightful victory. “Look at me.”

You’re still sparring. You’re sure of it. Giving into his demands would feel like defeat. But so does hiding, lying immobile and shying away from sensation as if you’re afraid. 

You are. Afraid, that is. But you’ll die before you let him see that. 

So you obey his command. Eyelids fluttering open slowly, you’re met with the sight of him. Hair falling over his forehead, his nose nearly touches yours. There’s heat in his cheeks and his gaze and his skin. 

Something in him sings with desperation, too. 

Still, there’s a hint of something else. Something softer. Something that almost sounds like fondness when he matches your eye and whispers, “There she is.”

You feel molten, pliant beneath his touch. Again, your hips shift of their own volition as you swallow down the whimper that threatens to escape. 

Heeseung is so intricately attuned to it. Every miniscule movement. Every shallow breath. He notices, feels it too. 

And he’s always held a certain love for this. For the chase. For the build up. 

But his patience can only stretch so far, and he won’t leave you hanging for long. 

You expect it to be bruising, desperate, angry. Everything that’s it’s always been between the two of you when he finally brings his lips to yours. 

It’s not. 

Heeseung’s lips drip with desperation, but they’re slow where they begin to move against your own. Slow and deep and searching, like he’s looking for something he never thought he’d find. 

Late summer heat washes over your skin, and this time, you can’t hide the whimper that drips from your tongue. That he swallows with a renewed vigor. 

It’s as if a light has been ignited. The hand, the one that still cradles your thigh, doubles down in its grip. Drags your leg up further. 

Until he’s just as trapped within it as you are beneath his body. The action brings him closer to you, touching in places that send a fresh wave of shudders radiating from the cradle of your hips. 

“God,” he pants, the syllable sliding past your open lips. “Fuck, ___.” 

He moves his hips again, this time in a more deliberate way. A repeated motion that has you seeing stars. That quells the rising ache in your core just as much as it expands it. 

“You feel that?” he breathes. “Feel what you do to me?”

You shudder beneath him, body slack to sensation. A live wire under his touch. “Please.”

But patience, restraint, are old friends of Heeseung’s. He wants to hear you say it. “Please, what? Use your words, princess.”

You’ll give it to him, whatever he wants. But words are difficult to come by. You can’t form them with your tongue, can’t push them past your lips. You can’t think. “I don’t… It hurts–”

Heeseung might have patience, but the sound of you begging erases what’s left of his self-control in one fell swoop. He’ll finish the words you can’t quite work out. “Yeah? Need me to make it better? Need me to make you feel good?”

But he does want at least one thing from you. With his hand on your jaw, he forces your gaze to his again. “I’ll do it. I’ll give you whatever you want.” It’s a promise. One that bleeds with sincerity. One that’s just as evident in his eyes as it is in his words. “Just need you to tell me.”

In the scant inches that separate your lips, you whisper, “I want it.”

Heeseung is hanging on by a thread. “Want what?”

You unwind it just as quickly. With starlight dancing over your features, half shadowed by his body over yours, you tell him, “Want you.”

And you can feel it, the way his facade of composure starts to slip. The way desperation starts to become his only driving force. 

Even still, you’ve always been something he chooses to treat with care, and this will be no different. 

Slowly, he releases his grip on your hands above your head. 

With movements that soothe as much as they ache, and gestures that feel a little too much like love, he pushes a stray strand of hair away from your heated forehead. 

And then, once again, his hand falls to the hem of your shirt. There’s less hesitation, even if his fingers still shake slightly, as he begins to drag it upwards. Inch by agonizing inch, the expanse of your stomach is laid bare to night air and the wandering intensity of his gaze. 

Your ribcage follows. It’s not cold, but you shudder all the same. 

He stops, fingers suddenly immobile as they trace the top of your ribs. Uncharted territory. A final barrier between the two of you. 

But you’re getting better at this, too. With a firm grip, you bring one hand to grasp his wrist. Looking him right in the eye, you tell him in a heated whisper, “Touch me.”

It’s all he needs. 

Hesitation sizzles against the open air everywhere it bleeds from his fervent touch. 

His hands are on your skin, and his mouth is back on yours. It burns in a way that’s distinct from hatred. There’s no bitter aftertaste, no sharp sting, even as his teeth catch on your bottom lip. 

There’s little grace here, even as he takes his time with you. 

Here on the training mat, it’s a far cry from romance, even if your head swims with dangerous thoughts all the same. 

His breath, his body, his touch are all tangled in yours. As his hips find a home in the space against yours, it feels less like sparring and more like a dance. Careful choreography that your bodies already know. 

Again, he moves against you. The sounds that crawl from your throat and drip through his open lips are obscene. Would be hopelessly embarrassing in any other context, but his touch soothes your anxieties as much as it stokes them. 

Lying beneath him, skin bare to his gaze and his touch and his intentions, you suddenly feel like a novice. An easy opponent. The nervous holder of the lower hand.

But Heeseung never wanted to best you, and this is no exception. Gentle fingers dance across the band of your training trousers. Plain. Utilitarian. Designed for function. 

Your sudden insecurities aside, he doesn’t want to best you. He doesn’t want to win. 

He tells you as much. “Relax,” he coos against your feverish temple. “Just gonna make you feel good.” It’s an iteration of an already established claim. A promise he’s already made. 

But here, trapped beneath his body, consumed by a touch that soothes as much as it burns, you decide that would feel like losing, too. 

“You, too,” you insist, finding the fragmented remnants of your voice. It’s a whisper that lands on his collarbone. He shudders with the insinuation. “I want you to feel good, too.”

Pulling back slightly, he pauses his ministrations. Looks you right in the eye and asks, “Are you sure?”

He might have spurred this, might have brought you here, but you’re burning with it now, too. The desire to see him come undone. Fall apart by your doing. 

You bring one hand to his temple, and he relaxes into your touch like he’s familiar with it. His head cradled in your palm, you say for the third time, “I want to make you feel good.”

He shudders, and for a moment, everything is still. The room around you holds its breath, his gaze locked on yours. 

And then, without breaking eye contact, he rolls his hips again. Slowly. Surely. 

Watches as you struggle to keep your eyes open against the sudden onslaught of sensations. Marvels at the small, desperate sounds he’s dying to swallow. 

It’s still, until it’s not. Until his fingers find their mobility again and the rest of you is laid just as bare as your torso. Until long moments later, your hands are the one to make him follow suit. 

Sweat sticks to your skin, makes every movement, every motion, feel all the more sordid. 

But when he guides your other leg around him and whispers against the shell of your ear, “You feel so good,” something between the two of you feels sacred, too. 

There’s little finesse to the way he finally guides himself inside of you. Little grace to be found in the way your bodies connect, breath and body and soul combining and colliding into one. 

There’s too much sensation, too many months and weeks and hidden dreams for it to be perfect. Too much care and pleasure and feelings for it to be anything but. 

And Heeseung…

Heeseung is seeing fucking stars. 

He’s always found you beautiful, but this is new. This is different. This is just for him. 

Every desperate sound he drags from your throat, every involuntary movement of your hips as you beg for relief only he can give you. It all belongs to him. 

His own pleasure is lost somewhere behind clouded eyes as he watches you struggle to keep your eyes open under the intensity of his touch. He chases something bigger, something far more dangerous than the pathways of his own baser desires. 

He needs it. Burns with the urge to watch you drowning in pleasure for him. Because of him. 

The only thing you’ve ever shown interest in him for is his prowess on a training mat, and he’s desperate to show you that he’s worth more than that. That he can serve you what you need on a silver platter and predict what you want without you having to say a word. 

He’s a quick study. He watches, observes the way your skin flushes with every filthy, adoring, sweet nothing he whispers against your ear. With every inch of pleasure he forces you to swallow. 

You’re shaking beneath him, practically vibrating with the intensity of it all, and Heeseung wants nothing more than for it all to last just a little longer. Stretch into a slighter bigger pocket of infinity that only the two of you are privy to. 

But even slivers of forever have their inevitable ends, and Heeseung senses this one in the way your whimper drags out, in the way the last remaining bits of tension drain from your shoulders while you clench around him. 

He’s no better. In the moments that follow, he crowds himself impossibly further into the heat of your body while he follows suit. Makes good on your wish that he finds his pleasure, too. 

And when it’s done, and the only thing left in the afterglow is exhaustion, he hears you whisper, “Heeseung?” 

It takes him a moment to find his voice. He’s never heard you say his name like that before. All hesitation, no trace of venom. His throat feels scraped raw when he hums against your collarbone, “Mm?”

Your hands are in his hair, a gentle repeated motion that soothes. That has hope surging in his chest. 

“I don’t…” you sigh, fighting against the urge to swallow your less combative words, even now. “I don’t hate you,” you finally admit. Like it’s still a secret. Like he can’t read the truth in the way you wrap strands of his hair around your fingers, in the way you let him rest against your skin. 

But it’s not easy for you to admit, even if it’s obvious, evident in everything that’s passed between the two of you. It still takes no small amount of bravery for you to whisper it to him in the dead of night in an abandoned training room. 

Bathed in the fading remnants of deep seated pleasure and the dying glow of distant moonlight, it almost makes him want to smile. 

“I know,” he whispers. Leaning a little further into your touch, he repeats, “I know.”

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: this was for YOU heeseung girlies ♡♡♡ it's been a hot minute since I wrote anything with actual smut, so I hope this reads alright! let me know what you thought, and as always, I hope you enjoyed ♡

[mortaldreams]

breathing room enjoyers that also like smut it’s almost your time to shine :D

[mortaldreams]

*taps mic* is this thing on